Summoned Dreams

by Hadena James

  “Just some friends over for a game of cards,” Charles Deacon answered.

  “I guess some of them got tired of waiting on you,” the old guy said. “A girl and five guys went in earlier, but they left. Big, black SUV with real dark tinted windows, like drug dealers.” The older guy thought for a moment. “Except the girl. She was dressed all in black, while the others had on normal clothes. Not sexy black either, but the ‘I mean business’ kind of black. She looked important and mean.”

  “When was this?” Deacon asked.

  “A few minutes after you left,” the old man answered. “They were in the house for a few minutes. I went to get some coffee and when I came back, they and the SUV were just gone. I didn’t hear gunshots, so I didn’t call the police. What you do is your business. I just thought you might want to know that drug dealers were here.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Our cover blown by a senile man who couldn’t read the bright yellow words on the backs of our jackets. Although, Charles Deacon might believe we were in fact drug dealers searching for him for another reason. Maybe he thought we were here for the auction.

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” Deacon said to him and turned around. He was going back to his car.

  “Move now,” I said into the coms.

  “US Marshals Service,” I shouted, rounding the corner. “Charles Deacon, get down on your knees. Lace your hands behind your head or I will Taser you,” I instructed.

  “Hey, Chuck, that’s the scary girl!” The old man said. “I guess she didn’t leave.” I didn’t turn around to gawk at the guy, but I wanted to.

  “One last warning, Deacon. Stop moving, get down on your knees and lace your fingers behind your head. Do it now,” I repeated the instructions.

  “Bitch, please,” he turned to face me. I wasn’t in the mood for combat, so I fired the Taser. He stiffened, his entire body going rigid from the electrical shock. For a long moment, he seemed suspended in time, and then he crashed forward. His face hit the concrete walkway. The short burst kept his muscles from making him flop like a fish. I grabbed a pair of zip cuffs and walked over to him.

  He was in custody when he woke up, still face down on the ground. The other two men were outside with him. They were both telling us a very long, very convoluted story that made little to no sense about a poker game. However, both had gone directly into the basement and no one in their right mind would want to play poker at this house.

  Green and Hunter helped him sit up. Most people couldn’t maneuver well in handcuffs. They needed their arms for balance and things. Deacon wasn’t an exception. He glared at me.

  Lucas, Gabriel, and Malachi showed up a few minutes later. They looked at the suspect and the other two men. Malachi raised an eyebrow. I smiled at him.

  “I can’t figure this one out,” I told Gabriel. “They say they were here for a card game now, but the first guy said they were here to buy the victim. If they were buying the victim, then Deacon wasn’t going to kill her and he isn’t the serial we were looking for, despite matching the description.” I paused. “However, he may be the delivery boy for the real serial.”

  “Well, let me see if I can help.” Gabriel walked over to the men and started talking to them. I couldn’t hear most of the conversation. I stood back and stared. Surely, we hadn’t made two mistakes in one day.

  “The victim is a seventeen year old girl who went missing today before school,” Lucas told me. “Doesn’t fit the victimology.”

  The pieces clicked into place. This one was very clever. He used his skills as a predator to abduct young girls to sell to others, while taking prostitutes to kill. We could mark this one a win for the almost good guys.

  I motioned for Malachi to join me in the SUV. He complied, walking at a snail’s pace to stay with me. He opened the door and I climbed in. He climbed in behind me.

  “Five in one day,” I gloated as soon as the door was shut. “And I saved a living victim. Beat that,” I smiled at him again and got out of the SUV. It was petty to be sure, but I felt better.

  Twenty-Two

  My head was pounding, not just a rhythmic beat that kept time with my heart, but worse. My brain was aware of the circulation of my very blood.

  The world danced around me. Vivid colors seared my eyes, shooting daggers into my brain. Explosive noises echoed through my ears, tearing at my brain matter. I wanted to crack open my own skull, take out my brain, and squeeze until the pressure equalized and the pain stopped. Even death wouldn’t be enough.

  I rolled over in bed. The room spun on its axis and fell askew. Fiona danced haphazardly next to me. A bundle of sage burned in her hands as her voice pierced through me like shards of broken glass.

  I didn’t have many migraines this bad. It was only the third time that I could remember. It was specifically caused by her stupidity.

  I pulled the gun from the holster on the nightstand. It swung up to her face as I climbed from the bed, steadying myself with one hand on the wall. I pressed the barrel against her forehead. She screamed. I closed my eyes against the pain it induced.

  “Stop screaming,” I whispered at her. “And stop burning that fucking shit. It is literally killing me.” I pressed harder, my finger moving across the trigger.

  The door to the room splintered as it gave. The sound made me lower my gun, too exhausted from the pain to hold my arm up anymore. My knees gave out. My stomach lurched and I vomited onto the floor. The vomiting hurt more than the sound of the door being forced open. My stomach knotted again. I put the gun to my own head. One pull and it would all go away.

  Someone grabbed my hand, squishing my fingers along the barrel of the gun. It hurt, but not enough to make the pain in my head stop. Tears rolled down my cheeks. My body shivered, my head felt like it was on fire.

  A burning sensation raced up my arm. After a few moments, I felt myself lifted off the ground. The sensation made me even more nauseous. The arms that cradled me were as hot as molten lava through my clothing, and I waited, expectantly and hopeful, that I would burst into flames. The jarring walk made my skull feel like it was cracking. There was a mewling sound, like a dying animal, and it issued forth from my lips with no control from me.

  When I was set down, I was clothed, but submerged in water. It was lukewarm at best and felt blissful. I tried to let my head sink down below the cool warmth, but found someone still had hold of me. The room was dark. The figure was invisible in the pitch black room. The room was silent except for their breathing. I was grateful for the darkness and silence.

  The pain eased some. My face felt cooler. My body shook less violently. The pitiful sounds I was making stopped. I felt sleepy, sleepier than I had ever felt before. New sensations were crawling through me. The destructive rage I had felt with the pain was gone, replaced by something else, something I had never felt before. It was a feeling of joy, but unlike any joy I had ever experienced.

  “I’ll stop trying to drown myself,” I told the hands.

  “That would be great,” Xavier’s voice came through the darkness.

  “I must be hallucinating,” I told the voice.

  “Maybe,” Xavier’s voice said. “It happens once in a while with epinephrine and oxymorphine. You should feel sleepy and...” He stopped. “Most people talk about feeling euphoric, but I’m not sure about you.”

  “Euphoric,” I rolled the word across my tongue. “That would be a good way to describe how I feel. It is something greater than joy and calm. It is without comparison. I have never felt this way.”

  “I gave you a massive dose of epinephrine, more than I would give a normal person,” Xavier’s voice continued to speak. “However, you were in the middle of a full break, so we really had nothing to lose. You could have flown into an all-out rage, but even that might have been an improvement. Lucas is going to help you out of the tub and into dry clothing.”

  “Why am I sitting in a bath?” I asked.

  “It makes you hot and you were already running a fever from the mi
graine. I’m going to call Lucas. I trust you not to drown yourself on purpose at the moment, to a degree,” Xavier’s voice told me.

  “Why do you sound like Xavier?” I asked. “That seems like a strange hallucination.”

  “Because I am Xavier, Ace,” his voice responded. “I got out a couple of hours ago. Can’t keep you away from your favorite doctor for very long. We need to do some more research on your head when we get back home. I think that concussion may have jarred something loose. You’ve never attempted homicide or suicide with a migraine before.”

  “But I’ve wanted too,” I admitted. “And this one wasn’t my standard, oh my God, my head really hurts kind of migraine. I was hallucinating when I woke up. Color explosions and sounds that I don’t think were really there. Maybe I still am.”

  “You aren’t,” he answered.

  “That’s what a hallucination would say, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

  “Have you ever spoken to a hallucination before?” He asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Did it talk back?”

  “No, actually, it didn’t.” I frowned in the darkness. “I am very sleepy.”

  “Okay,” he moved his hands to cover my ears and shouted for Lucas. Even through the hands, I could hear him, but my head didn’t explode or implode with pain. The door opened, letting in a little bit of light as the big man moved into the room. “She’s better. Help her get dressed for bed. The oxymorphine is kicking in. I think the migraine is gone, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “My head doesn’t hurt,” I told them.

  “Good,” Lucas gently reached into the water and unplugged the drain. The water swirled around me as it emptied, setting my nerve endings on fire. I could feel the cling of my wet clothing, even in my bad leg.

  “Does epi stimulate the nerves?” I asked.

  “It can, it’s adrenaline,” Xavier answered.

  “I can feel my leg, the bad one with poor circulation,” I told him.

  “That is probably the epi. It stimulates blood flow as well as causing nerves to fire.” Lucas wrapped his arms around me as Xavier spoke.

  “No more talking,” he told us. His voice was gruff. He was mad, probably at me.

  I gave him a thumb’s up as he took me into the main part of the hotel room. There were no weird smells. No incense or sage residue left lingering in the air. It was obviously not my room. My hands fumbled with the wet clothing, my fingers unable to grasp the material or obey simple commands. Lucas was gentle as he stripped my wet shirt off. I flopped backwards, unable to stand, and let him pull the pajama pants and socks off.

  “I will need a little help,” he told me.

  “Then I might have to sleep naked.” My eyes were closed and I didn’t remember them closing. The fog called to me, whispered sweet nothings to me, tried to make me fall away from this world. I fought it as best I could as I wrestled into the clothing that Lucas was attempting to put on me. “You dress me when I’m unconscious.”

  “It’s easier to do when you are unconscious,” he answered. “You don’t flop around like an electrocuted frog when you’re out of it.”

  “I’m not moving now,” I told him.

  “Yeah, you are,” he answered. “You may not realize it, but you are. That epinephrine is some powerful stuff. I don’t know anyone that would mix it with oxymorphine, but we were desperate. I think I broke your hand.”

  “That’s okay,” I answered. “I have two of them. Lucas, I’m really sleepy. I don’t think I have ever been so sleepy in my entire life.”

  “One more reason not to mix strong narcotics with synthetic adrenaline,” he finally stopped dressing me. “I’m going to lie here with you.”

  “Watching to make sure I don’t stop breathing?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Okay, Mountain Man, but it’s going to be boring watching me sleep.” I yawned.

  “You really are high,” he chuckled lightly. His voice softened.

  “That doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I answered. “Did I kill her?”

  “No, scared her,” Lucas said. “Scared her really bad. Xavier gave her a sedative to calm her down. She was pretty hysterical when I left the room with you.”

  “If I wake up, I’ll apologize,” I whispered, still fighting the fog.

  “When you wake up, Ace, not if,” he corrected.

  “Same difference.” I snuggled into the pillow that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and laundry detergent. This I could handle. The fog that beckoned descended upon me and I gave up fighting. My last thoughts as sleep overtook me were that I had set a nearly impossible record for Malachi to beat. This migraine had been coming on for a while, long before I was conked on the skull.

  The Church

  Bell Schneider’s days were numbered. He knew that. It was only a matter of time before someone put together that only gang bangers were dying. Once they made that connection with Sister Elizabeth Marie, it would all come crashing down on him.

  Of course, they were getting what they deserved. It was the chance of a lifetime, meeting their Creator and being judged accordingly. He was surprised the gangs hadn’t already figured it out. Although, he hadn’t met a member yet that would have passed as a Rhodes Scholar.

  Their brains were fried. It wasn’t just the drugs. It was the lifestyle as a whole. They didn’t get proper amounts of sleep. They didn’t eat properly. They didn’t get much exercise, unless they were in prison. On top of that, they did use their own products. They mixed their drugs and alcohol. It was a terrible lifestyle, one with a short life span.

  And it wasn’t just their terrible lifestyle. Like prostitutes, runaways, and the homeless, they were anonymous. Normally, they didn’t keep ties with their families. Their only friends were members of the gang, and they were known, but were not cared about by society in general. They were good targets for serial killers. Bell knew he wasn’t the first to prey on the less civilized part of society. He wouldn’t be the last. Of course, serial killers that did choose gang members as their preferred targets were usually the cream of the crop. They were strong men who were absolutely out of their minds.

  Bell had targeted the weaker members. He was good, but it was because he was a priest and priests weren’t considered dangerous or violent. His victims were the young men who didn’t know better and the females that helped run the drugs.

  No, Bell wasn’t surprised the gangs hadn’t figured it out. He was surprised Marshal Cain hadn’t turned her piercing gaze on him and seen the sins that resided in his soul. She was old beyond her years. It showed in her cold, hard stare. She had dismissed him almost upon sight. However, she was bright, and it wasn’t just her. All the members of the SCTU could have been Rhodes Scholars. At most, he had three days.

  He wasn’t sure how it would end. He had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory. He also had no desire to go to prison. He wasn’t sure how well priests fared in prison and he didn’t want to find out. If he killed members of the SCTU, his entire mission would be for nothing. They were doing what he wanted, what Detroit needed. He could go on the run, but that was no life for a priest. It didn’t set a very good example. Suicide was out of the question. That left very few options for him.

  Bell got up and refreshed his cup of coffee. One of the ladies had dropped off meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and apple pie earlier for his supper. He had eaten the pie and pitched everything else. She wasn’t a very good cook, even by his standards, which were low. It explained why her husband was a beanpole. Who put nutmeg in green beans? Onions, bacon, ham, butter, even garlic were all acceptable green bean flavorings. Nutmeg was absolutely not on the list. The pie had come from a store, so it had been safe. He had eaten it, and then headed to the nearest fast food place for his dinner. His last few days were not going to be spent eating crappy food.

  He had considered going through his bookshelves earlier and removing the more scandalous reading materials, but he’d been too lazy. They
were welcome to find his books by Aleister Crowley and the Marquis De Sade. How was he expected to administer to deviants, if he knew nothing about them? And his congregation was full of deviants and degenerates. Husbands and wives who couldn’t keep their pants on. Men that beat their women and children, and women who wouldn’t leave their abusive men and save their beautiful children. Teenagers that were convinced that if they only had sexual experiences with their own gender, it wasn’t sex. Teens who stole from their parents, did drugs, and drank alcohol. Then there were the family men who hired out their needs. Whether they were looking for sex or something more interesting, Bell had heard it all. It made him nauseous to sit in the confessional booth anymore. They would judge him as being a “bad man,” but their sins were plentiful and just as bad.

  Soon, he’d be defrocked. He had just one more thing to do. He wrote a letter to child services about all the “good, church going citizens” that beat their children. When he finished, he wrote one to the Detroit Police Department, outlining the crimes of many of his parishioners. It was his last act of defiance; against the “good folks” of Detroit as well as his Diocese, which had abandoned the city when it needed them most.

  It helped renew his faith. The Church could crumble and burn for all he cared. His mission was complete. He had helped the city and its wretched occupants to find some peace, some joy, some respite. And some hope.

  He would face his Judge with a clear conscious. The Lord had tested his faith and he had passed. He couldn’t say the same for most of his congregation or his superiors. He smiled and wondered what excuses they would make when they stood to be judged. Would they claim it was out of their hands? That there was nothing they could do? The pleas of the weak, lazy, and unwilling. If one priest could make a difference, imagine what the support of the Catholic Church could have done.

  The Church deserved much of the blame for the current situation. When panic and crisis happens, the Church is supposed to provide leadership, support, and courage. They are supposed to protect their members. They are supposed to provide refuge. They are supposed to be strong. They had failed entirely. The Church was one of the richest non-profits in the world and yet, it had taken the money and run. If there were a way to hold them accountable, Bell would do just that.