The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  Malcolm had directed Debbie to meet him at Glen Prairie’s restaurant and bar, which was within a ten-minute walking distance of the Knight’s neighborhood. He avoided going down the street toward the target’s house and tried his best to look as non-suspicious as possible. Luckily, the house he had come out of was off of a busy street with a warehouse of some sort across the road. Wherever cops had been sent was most likely back at the target’s place, taking a statement, anxiously thinking about breakfast. As predicted, he got to the restaurant in a little over ten minutes. The restaurant opened early and was close to the Tri-State Tollway, what the locals called Interstate 294.

  He had looked at some properties out in Lombard a few years ago, thinking of buying a second property and expanding his business in the area, but he’d backed out. He’d found this little gem tucked away in the Crown Plaza Hotel by accident because his realtor had invited him out for breakfast claiming an addiction to their pancakes. While she’d eaten, he’d sipped coffee.

  He slipped inside the door and made his way to the new and elegant restaurant with dark wooden walls, matching tables, with soft green-lined fabric chairs. Malcolm approached the bar and sat on the highly glossed wooden stool with the industrial hanging lights hanging above his head.

  The barman approached. He was an older black gentleman with a pleasant face that left the impression he spent most of his time smiling. Malcolm ordered a double shot of tequila. As a master of his trade, the bartender didn’t flinch at the early morning request for such a strong drink, nor when Malcolm downed it in two swallows and asked for a second and then a third. At the fourth, the barman asked, “Which room would you liked this billed under?”

  Malcolm pulled out a stack of bills and dropped them on the counter. “Leave the bottle.” The bills more than covered the price of the bottle. The barman complied, setting the bottle in front of Malcolm and moved onto two businessmen who walked in and sat at a table in the far back corner. A headache that had been slowly building since he’d been at the target’s house singed through his brain like a torch. The alcohol took the edge off that pain and his putrid mood. It also was a natural instinct to free his mind so he could get the images out. He signaled to the barman. “You wouldn’t have a notebook and a pen?”

  The barman shook his head. “Sorry man. There’s a drug store nearby.”

  “That’s okay.” The pain eased as the effects of the alcohol now soared through him. He’d been alive long enough to know it wouldn’t last long, but he’d gladly take the brief buzz.

  The two businessmen talked loudly amongst themselves. With the alcohol raging through Malcolm’s system, his usual restraint on his super human abilities dampened because he heard every word as if he sat beside them.

  “Some days I wonder why I chose this business.” Malcolm couldn’t see any more of the man than the back of his head, his glossy black hair, and his expensive suit. His leather shoes tapped on the bottom of the chair he perched on.

  The other man only nodded. This one had a round face with graying hair, gelled back from his forehead with fat round glasses covering weak eyes. Malcolm envisioned this man as an overweight teenager with a face littered with pimples.

  “Every year,” the man with his back to Malcolm said, “the market grows more unstable. I thought going in that I would help people build up their retirements.”

  Bullshit, Malcolm thought. You chose the stock market so you could build up your own retirement. He scoffed and downed another shot.

  “I feel so guilty.”

  Malcolm barked a laugh. He thought, you think you have a hard job? Try being a dream thief. Try stealing humanity’s dreams and unborn ideas that would lead to an untold number of catastrophes if they remembered. He remembered Hitler, Stalin, and Bin Laden. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, “that’s what happens when one of us is late.” He’d missed half a target. I missed half the target. “Today could be the beginning of the end of the world, and it’s all my fault.”

  The businessmen stared at him as if he had escaped from a local looney bin.

  The dark-headed one’s eyes widened, and then he maneuvered his body as if readying to get to his feet in a hurry. “Hey buddy, think you’ve had enough?” He shot a look to the barman who nodded and picked up a telephone.

  Malcolm downed the rest of the bottle, trying desperately to fight the images bombarding his senses: glimpses of Latin names and mathematical formulas.

  The old barkeep shuffled around the bar and patted Malcolm on the back. “Okay, sir. I think it’s time to head on up to your room.”

  He shrugged the man away. “I’m going.” Was that his words slurring?

  A large man, likely the hotel manager, stood in the entryway wearing a cheap leather suit with leather patches at the elbows. “Sir. It’s time to leave. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Malcolm wiped at tears clinging to his lashes. “I’m sorry I failed you.” He waved at the businessmen, thinking of possible children they had. “I failed all of you.”

  As he left and the door closed behind him, one of the businessmen laughed and said. “What planet did he escape from?”

  Outside in the bright sun, he brought his hand to his lips for another drink, but the bottle had disappeared. He plopped on his ass, or at least what should be an ass, if he was a real man. The pieces of the woman’s dream swam inside his head, trying to piece itself together, wiggling like worms in the dirt, punching holes through his mind. He had no idea how long he sat there ignoring the intrusive thoughts until Debbie pulled up in her green sedan. The engine squealed as she pulled into the parking lot. She threw the car in park, cut the engine, and stood over him before he could move. She pulled him to his feet. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

  He could only grunt a response. He got to his feet and headed toward the driver’s side. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me, right? You’re drunk as hell, and if you weren’t, this is my car, boss man. Move!”

  He stumbled around the car, fell getting into the passenger’s seat, and slumped back. Debbie stuck her head in the car. “Have you checked out?”

  “Not staying here,” he muttered.

  “Okay, well, where are you staying because I don’t see your bags?”

  “They’re in Rapa Nui.” Caelieus’s face on his death bed flashed in his mind, cutting half the alcohol.

  “Where?”

  “Easter Island.” From inside the borrowed carpenter pants, his cell phone felt heavy. He extracted it, but then remembered it had gotten ruined from falling in the creek. Desperate, he hit the power button anyway, but nothing happened.

  “You mean the place with like, the big stone faces?”

  He nodded, still messing with the cell phone. The movement sent a spear of pain in between his eyes.

  She huffed and slammed the door. She crossed in front of the car and got in, snapping her seatbelt on. She eyed him. He felt her gaze and gave her a sideways glance. “Seatbelt.”

  He never bothered wearing a seatbelt, except during speed traps the cops had every so often. It’s not like he would really die if he crashed. Perhaps he would have some explaining to do if he crashed and no body was found, but he’d never had to deal with that before. Extremely fast reflexes made him one of the safest drivers. He didn’t feel like arguing, so he fumbled with the latch. Debbie grew impatient and did it for him. He’d never consumed this much alcohol, except after his beloved died of old age. No matter how many centuries passed, he still missed her, missed their easy way together. He kept expecting the feeling to leave him, for the ache of not being with her to lessen, but it never did. Thoughts of her would creep up on him in quiet times and when he’d venture out to liquor stores to drown out the memories of how she’d grown to hate him.

  The numb feeling of the buzz still stayed with him but burned through his system much too fast for his liking. His head was already clearing, and the internal alarm still hummed. Not the call of a new target, but the persistent tug th
at something had gone very, very wrong in his world, and now that he’d missed half of the woman’s dream, it hummed stronger.

  What the hell could he do about missing half a target? As far as he could remember, nothing like that had ever happened. If so, it wasn’t in any recent times. Records of it might be in the oldest archives, deep in the Cave of Scrolls. Only the Librarian dared go there since the scrolls might disintegrate if handled incorrectly, or hell, if someone just sneezed in the room. He had to get in touch with Stephanie to find out what had happened with Caelieus. Had he regenerated undamaged and with the knowledge to find a phone to call in?

  The anxiety only sped his heart rate, burning off the whiskey like wildfire.

  “Well?” Debbie asked, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her lips were set in a thin line, and her forehead furrowed, leaving deep lines.

  He asked, “Can I use your phone?”

  She huffed, like an angry dragon, blowing hot air fast out of her nostrils. He imagined smoke or flames wafting from them. She dug in her jeans pocket and tossed her phone to him without looking. He couldn’t help but notice the curve of her breast against the fabric of her shirt. Today, a jade pendant swung from her neck and sank in her bosom. Lust swirled in his belly with nothing to respond to it, further clawing at his nerves.

  Why would a god or gods be so cruel that they would make him live forever, give him incredible speed, impossible strength, wound healing, and the ability to transport to avoid horrible fates, but also give him human desires without any way to fulfill them? If he was truly not human, he could accept his reality. Wanting to make love to a woman or, Christ, eat a slice of pizza, but never being able to was just fucking mean. “Bastards,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Noffin.” His words slurred as he hiccupped.

  Again Stephanie came to his mind. He should leave this town and soon. Even though being with other dream thieves reminded him of their immortality, at least they shared his fate. Thinking of her, he hit the on button on Debbie’s phone, slid his finger across, hit the little telephone symbol, and then paused to stare at the phone. The numbers loomed before him, mocking.

  His finger hovered over the screen, and he laughed, dropping the phone in his lap. The laughter wouldn’t stop. He doubled over, holding his stomach. He might’ve snorted.

  Debbie said, “I don't see what’s so funny.”

  He only laughed harder. “I don’t know her number. I’ve grown so relaxed in this new age. Comfortable with this technology, with you, that I don’t know her number.” He lost himself in laughter again, then said, “Pull in here for a minute.”

  She didn’t say anything but jerked the car into the parking lot and into a spot. She put the car in park, and he opened the door. He hauled himself out of the car and some sort of rope slammed him back inside the car. He looked down at his chest and laughed again before unclicking the damned seatbelt.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  He waved her off, still cackling, and stepped inside the store. Minutes later, he returned with a large brown paper bag. Back inside the car, he put the bag in between his legs, glass clinking inside, and snapped the seatbelt into place. Her cell had fallen on the floor when he got out. He bent over and retrieved it, along with one of his newly purchased bottles, and handed the phone to her.

  She stared at the whiskey bottle. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Opening the bottle, he took a large swig. “Let’s go home.”

  “You can’t drink that in here! That’s an open bottle!”

  He twisted the knob on the side of the seat so his chair flattened out. He lay back, hidden from outside view. “Problem solved.” He took another swig, liquor sloshed down his stolen shirt.

  She said nothing but put the car in reverse and backed out. He must’ve spilled more than he’d realized because he swore the bottle hadn’t been half empty a moment ago. No matter though, he had three other bottles. He sat up, vision spinning, as they merged onto the Tri-State Tollway. He chugged the rest of the bottle and tossed the empty bottle inside the bag and took out another bottle, bag rustling. Debbie sucked in a breath. He focused on her, noticing the wet cheeks. It took him a few moments to realize the tears. He reached to wipe them away, but she smacked his hand. “Don’t.”

  “What is it?” he slurred, slumping back into the seat, hugging the bottle like a child would a teddy bear. He stared at her profile, thinking of how he’d failed her as well. She’d deserved better. She deserved the future he’d failed to secure for her. He wanted her forgiveness. He wanted her to understand.

  She laughed, no humor in her tone. “Oh, you know. I’m stupid, that’s all.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Please Malcolm. You go off for like, some romantic thing with some woman. Obviously, you two had some nasty falling out, so you call me to come fetch you. Then you try to call her, and I kiss…” She shook her head, as her voice broke. “You told me you were going to Rome because your aunt was sick. You lied to me. If you wanted to take a few days off, you should’ve told me. You texted me that you were okay and going on another flight, when what you were really doing was spending time with her. I’m such an idiot.”

  The liquor loosened his tongue. “I did lie to you, but not like that.” The idea that he snuck off for a secret love affair was absurd. “I couldn’t have a romantic fling if I wanted to.” He shoved the thoughts away of what he wanted to do with Debbie, but couldn’t, and opened the new bottle.

  “Couldn’t do what?”

  “Never mind. I didn’t go off with some woman. I really did go to Rome.”

  She flung up a hand. “So, what? You didn't fly to Chile? You came home?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He tipped the bottle upside down, pouring the hot liquid down his throat, “You wouldn’t believe me anyway. You’d think I’m crazy.”

  “Try me.” Her tone held the hint of challenge.

  “You couldn’t handle the truth.” He gave his best impression of Jack Nicholson.

  “Stop being cliché and tell me.”

  He closed his eyes, growing sleepy, and said, “I’m not a man. I’m immortal. I’ve been on Earth since forever. We call ourselves dream thieves.”

  “Dream thieves?” she said, sounding far away. “Great, now he’s on drugs too.”

  “Mmmm.” He hiccupped. “Yup, dream thieves.”

  “What does a dream thief do?”

  He felt himself slipping away, deep into sleep, or maybe he passed out, but said, “Dream thieves, ironically, don’t dream ourselves.”

  “Why is that?”

  He wasn’t sure where the question had come from. “Because sometimes dreams lead to ideas that can change the world, sometimes for the better, but others for the worse. We aren’t special enough to have that ability. We can only prevent the idea, not have any of our own.”

  “Why steal a dream?”

  “If you knew that a child would grow up to be a serial killer would you kill the child to prevent the deaths of all those people?”

  “I guess.”

  “Dream thieves are there so the child doesn't have to die. The idea that leads to his downfall dies.”

  It was the strangest sleep he’d ever had. So many of his long-held secrets trickled through his mind. He blinked and found Debbie’s sedan parked outside of Eye of the Beholder. Debbie opened his door, pulled him to his feet, and led him inside. Greta popped her head out of the Chai Life. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Debbie said. “He ate something that didn't agree with him. Had to go to the ER for food poisoning. They gave him something for nausea that's making him a little woozy.”

  She lied for him, covered for him, even when she knew he’d lied to her. Minutes later, he fell into his bed. She pulled his shoes and shirt off. She unbuttoned the carpenter's pants, and they slipped from his hips. Her fingertips grazed his hips and legs as the pants slid off. His skin burned where she touched him, a
nd he wanted nothing more than to slip his fingers into her curly brown hair and pull her in for a kiss.

  “I need those.” He hugged the pants close to him. “Have to always be ready for a target.” She dropped the pants and pushed him with a gentle hand onto the bed. He fell sideways.

  “You’re not going anywhere for quite a while.” He thought he heard her say.

  “My whiskey…”

  “I’ll get it, boss man.” Through squinted eyes, he watched her shake her head, but unless he was mistaken, the look was kind, almost loving.

  He didn't deserve her. “I love you too, Debbie,” he said before slipping into the blackness of a dreamless sleep.

  9

  Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open. His head swam at the slight turn of the head toward the open window. Dusk settled over the city like a warm blanket. The desire to roll over and fall back into the deep slumber hit him hard. The combination of continuous days of travel, alcohol, and interrupted sleep had caught up with Malcolm. He’d just had the deepest sleep that he could remember in a long time. He had a blissful five seconds before reality crashed in on him.

  He shoved himself upright, slung his legs over the side of the bed, jumped to his feet, and bolted to the closet. Memories of Debbie stripping off the borrowed clothes returned as he redressed in jeans and a woolen blackish gray t-shirt before he returned to the bedroom for socks and tennis shoes. He slipped on one of his homemade, hold-all-my-stuff jackets, the one that hung beside his bed, and unloaded everything from the carpenter pants. He went down the stairs two at a time, but he skidded to a stop as he saw a note with a new cell phone on the kitchen table.

  It read…

  I have your whiskey, but you can’t have it back. There’s food in the fridge. Tomorrow we go grocery shopping and begin fixing your life. I replaced your phone, linking it to the same account.

  Debbie signed it with a heart and a D.

  He swiped the phone, hitting the on button, and noticed that his first instinct had been wrong. It was not, in fact, dusk on the same day. No, an entire day had passed. The last rays of sun streamed inside his living room like guilt personified in small narrow shafts of light slicing his already feeble psyche into pieces. The phone chimed as it blazed to life followed by several beeps blasting through the little machine like an alarm. He had thirty-seven missed phone calls, seventy-two new texts, and thirteen emails. He hit the return call button and opened the fridge. Ignoring the food, he drank all six bottles of the simple syrup solution.