Hope stretched, rose from the bed, and marched into her bathroom. She glanced at her reflection, deciding that she presently met the definition of frumpy: jeans, an over-sized sweatshirt, and her golden hair pulled back in a ponytail. She splashed cold water on her face, both in an effort to fully wake up from her nap, and to shake the dream and the ongoing sense of dread from her mind. Though a success in terms of waking her up, the cold water had no impact on her tense mood. Why would someone want to kill her, her husband, or her son?
She re-entered the bedroom and walked to a large wall painting. She pulled on one side, and the painting swung open on its hinge, revealing a hidden wall safe. Her hands were trembling; the sensation of dread, and the feeling that she was somehow being watched, was increasing. She finally got the combination entered correctly, opened the safe, and pulled out the gun. Guns were illegal in 2030 for anyone not granted a license as a militia member; most States had passed laws stating that their official militias were exclusively formed of the members of local police departments and the National Guard. Somehow, Will had convinced someone that an exception should be made for him, and the gun and several clips of ammunition appeared in the safe one day. Hope knew that somewhere, a family was living much more comfortably today than they might otherwise, courtesy of a large cash contribution from her husband. She didn’t mind. They had more money than they could ever spend in many lifetimes, and the peace of mind that came from owning the weapon was worth any price.
Whatever that price was, however, it wasn’t enough to eliminate the sense she now had that she was being watched, a sensation so powerful that she believed someone unwelcome was in the house.
She heard a thump from down the hall. Josh’s room. She heard the dog, Smokey, growl, and then bark. No. She would not let them hurt her son. Gun in hand, Hope sprinted for the boy’s room. Drawing a deep breath, she flung the door open, dreading what she’d find inside, expecting to find a scene of horror.
What she found was a miracle.
Josh, her six-year-old son, was not lying down on his bed with his dog Smokey at his side, mortally wounded by the hand of the unseen intruder. Rather, he was sitting on the side of his bed, a baseball in his hand. Smokey, his four-year-old black Labrador retriever, stood several feet away, tail wagging furiously, eyes watching the baseball with great intensity. As Hope watched, the dog began to growl, and then barked twice at Josh. The boy smiled and tossed the baseball over the dog’s head. The ball thudded into the wall and bounced to the ground, with Smokey following in hot pursuit. The dog finally retrieved the ball, tail high and wagging, and she trotted back to Josh with the treasure in her mouth. The boy held out his hand, and Smokey deposited the slobbery baseball in Josh’s hand.
“Josh?” Hope’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The boy and his dog both turned, having just then realized she was there. “I couldn’t sleep, Mommy,” he said. Josh spoke in a slow, measured pace, as if English were a second language he was learning and he had to first translate from his native tongue.
Hope put the gun on a shelf near the door and raced to her son, smothering him in a fierce hug, smoothing down his sandy-blond hair. Smokey, irritated at the temporary loss of her playmate, barked, and Josh dropped the ball on the ground, his throwing arm pinned to his side by his affectionate mother. “It’s a miracle,” Hope whispered, her eyes full of tears of joy. “A miracle.” For the four words Josh had said as his mother entered his room were the first words the six-year-old had ever spoken.
She finally broke the embrace, moving back enough to see her son as he was now. The boy looked back at her, making eye contact, his deep blue eyes sparkling with an internal light, full of warmth and wisdom. Will had always said he could see that in the boy’s eyes, even while most of the light had been deadened over the previous six years. Hope could see it, too. She’d always known her little boy was special, even without the miracle she’d just witnessed.
“I need to call Daddy,” she said. She ran down the hall to get her phone, dialing it as she ran back to Josh’s room, where the boy had resumed the game of fetch with Smokey, his face full of concentration and concern all at once. She was reminded that Josh’s words spoke of having trouble sleeping, something he’d never struggled with before. He couldn’t have had the same nightmare I did, could he? Or sensed that I was fearful?
“I just left the office and I’m on my way home,” Will said by way of greeting. She could hear the sound of the engine as he drove the car, which, quite sadly, featured armored exterior panels and bullet-proof glass. I guess we have to be afraid that those militia members will start shooting at us again, she thought, a humorless smile on her face. “Did Josh say where he wanted to go to dinner?” The words, though spoken in a humorous cadence, carried with them the tone of a father saddened at the cruel hand life had dealt his beloved son.
“No, but if you ask him when you get home, you will get an answer.” She wondered if Will would catch her hidden meaning.
There was a pause. “Are you trying to tell me something?” Will asked, his voice trembling with emotion.
“Four words. Full sentence.” The tears were welling in her eyes once again, but the triumph in her voice was unmistakable.
She could hear Will breaking down as well. “My little boy is talking,” he whispered. Then: “My little boy is talking!” he shouted. “Whoa!” She heard the sound of tires squealing. “Sorry, lost control of the car for a second.” Now she could hear the smile in his face. “Can you put him on the phone? By the way, what in the world is the sound in the background?”
Hope laughed. “After you almost crashed the car by merely being told he’s talking, I dare say you’ll end up crashing into a tree if I let you talk to him right now. The sound you hear is your son playing fetch with Smokey, and they’re both having grand time.”
“All right, all right, I can take a hint,” he said, trying to sound offended. “Guess I’ll need to risk a few speeding tickets to get home more quickly.”
“No, drive safely. We’re not going anywhere until you get here.”
“I love you, Hope,” he said, his voice serious. “It’s all the time you spent with him that’s enabled him to finally break free. You’re amazing.”
“I love you, too,” she replied. “And don’t shortchange yourself. We both know you’d have spent as much time with him as I did if you’d been able. But it does take a bit of time and a singularly qualified individual to resurrect an economy of three hundred and fifty million people. Don’t forget that you’re setting a wonderful example for your son to follow. That’s just as critical as reading and math and history. Besides, without you, how would he know how to throw the baseball so that Smokey can’t catch it on the fly and break her teeth?”
He laughed. “And on that note, I must focus on my driving. See you in about a half hour.”
“See you then.”
They both hung up.
Hope watched the boy and his dog playing for a few more minutes, and then addressed her son. “Josh?”
He turned toward her. That was unusual. Typically, Josh showed no reaction to spoken words. He looked at her, expectation on his face. He still wouldn’t be accustomed to social customs, and would not necessarily recognize when he needed to respond to a spoken statement. That would come with time. “Do you know why you’re able to talk with me now?”
“The voice said it was time,” the boy replied.
That was...confusing. “What voice?”
“I do not know who. The voice said it was time for me to talk and be a little boy. And to protect you, Mommy.”
Now she was disturbed. “Did the voice say what you needed to protect me from?”
“The bad men.”
“What bad men?”
His face clouded with concern. “The men I saw in my sleep. They were hurting people. I woke up.”
Her hands went to her face. “I had a bad dream too. Maybe the story I read before our naps was a bit too scary.
For both of us.” She tried to smile.
He shook his head. “They are real, Mommy. I know that they want to hurt you.”
Now it was her turn to shake her head. “It was just a dream, sweetie. A very realistic dream, but just a dream.”
“Why would two people have the same dream if it was not real, Mommy?”
She had no answer for that. Still, she felt the need to comfort him, as much as herself. “Look, I’ll call the guards and they’ll tell us that everything is fine. Will that help?” Without waiting for a reply, she searched through her contact list and found the number to the Guard Station. A crisp voice answered after the first ring. “De Gray Estates Guard Station. My name is Mark. How may I assist you, Mrs. Stark?”
How does he know it’s me? Oh. Caller ID. She was too spooked to think clearly at the moment. “Hi, Mark. I just had a question for you.”
“Let me guess. You’re holding a small costume party and need to add three or four people to the access list?” He gave a short laugh.
She laughed too. “Nothing quite so exciting, I’m afraid. It’s somewhat embarrassing, actually.”
“Mrs. Stark, even if it kills me, I will help you ease your concern.”
Rather dramatic, wasn’t he? “I don’t think it will come to that, Mark, but I do appreciate the sentiment. You see, my son and I both just woke up from realistic nightmares, and we both thought there might have been a break-in to the neighborhood.”
“I totally understand, Mrs. Stark. I’ve had bad dreams before like that, where in your dream someone wants to kill you, and when you wake up you feel like the killer is sitting right there in the room with you.”
Why was he talking like that? It was almost as if...
Oh, no.
She suddenly realized that the dream was real, and Mark was speaking under duress, bravely trying to give her information. There were three or four people involved, in some type of costume, and one of them was in the room with Mark. Probably forcing Mark to make sure she had no idea what was happening.
She needed to help him.
“That’s exactly what this dream was like. Bad guys hurting people to come after me. It’s almost as if I should call the police and ask them to come and take a look around.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, Mrs. Stark. We’d just be wasting their time.”
She wondered about weapons. “It’s at times like this I really wish I had a gun. Even if a bunch of armed men charged into my house, I could shoot them.”
“Yep, you could cut them down, all right. That would be much more enjoyable than them cutting you down, of course.”
So it was too late to call the police now; they wouldn’t be able to get here in time to make a difference. Additionally, she knew that those coming for her would have some kind of knife for weapons, but probably no guns. “Thanks so much for talking to me, Mark. My husband should be home soon, and he can tell me how silly I’m being.”
“Not silly at all, Mrs. Stark. Take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Mark. Goodbye.” She knew, somehow, that it was a literal goodbye. Regardless of what happened to her today, she wouldn’t be talking to Mark again in this lifetime.
She did a mental recap. There were three or four people coming her way, armed with knives of some type, but no guns. They had killed or would kill both guards at the entrance. She could call the police, but they wouldn’t be here in time. She could call Will and warn him, but he couldn’t get here any faster, and she’d simply try to talk him out of coming. It wouldn’t work; he’d come no matter what. She could try to run, but the men who had entered the community earlier in the dream would undoubtedly be making sure she couldn’t run far, and having a six-year-old boy with her would slow her progress.
She was on her own. She needed to protect Josh at all costs, and defend herself as best she could.
One woman. One six-year-old boy. A dog. One semi-automatic pistol. Against four psychotic professional killers armed with knives. Or swords, if her dream were as accurate as it now seemed.
It just didn’t seem fair.
Mark hung up the phone. “She’s convinced everything is fine.”
“I disagree.” The words reminded Mark of the fear the man instilled in him, fear multiplied by the mangled body of his friend and coworker lying only a few feet away.
“What are you talking about? I told her she was imagining things, that calling the police wasn’t necessary...”
“You told her exactly the situation. She knows.”
Thank God. “You have no way of knowing that.”
“I know quite a lot. Mrs. Stark has a gun which she is retrieving now, and which she will attempt to fire at me. I thank you for uncovering that detail with your coded conversation.”
Mark’s head bowed. He’d tried. He prayed that somehow, Hope Stark could survive these monsters, perhaps even kill them first in self-defense. The killers’ demise would certainly bode well for Gena. He had done the best he could for Mrs. Stark. He hoped he’d done all he could for his fiancée.
“I will not be the one to inflict Gena’s punishment for your lack of cooperation.”
Mark’s head snapped back up. Was he actually saying...?
“I will leave that detail to one of my colleagues. They are far less skilled than I. She will suffer more for it. Your lack of cooperation has made her suffering a necessity.”
Sanity lost, Mark sprang to his feet to charge the man, but the killer moved his arm, and Mark felt something sting him. He glanced down, his anger replaced once again by terror. Somehow, his skin was on fire, literal flames burning through him. He opened his mouth to scream, but the killer’s sword flashed. “I tire of your noise,” he said. Mark fell to the ground, and the race was on to see whether the gaping wound in his neck or the flames would kill him first.
The Assassin sheathed his weapon without cleaning it, and he walked with supreme calm through the guard door on the inside of the property. He then turned and began his march to the Stark’s home.
The death toll for the day was nearly complete. Two down. One to go.
It was time to visit Hope Stark.
III
Discovery
Myra VanderPoole felt fatigued.
She’d spent the entire day shopping, interrupted only by an early lunch and a light dinner. Years earlier, she’d spent time enjoying the night life as well, but that was before Jim had died twenty years ago. She still retained her old spending habits, though, enjoying the finer things in life with the money she’d received from the sale of the business she and Jim had built. Let the young Starks spread their wealth around like fools. She had earned hers, and she intended to spend every penny of it before she died, all on her own interests and pleasure.
The Starks, despite their propensity to lavish prosperity upon the unworthy, had proved useful. The plan they’d devised for this private, gated community was brilliant. It provided isolation from the general public and total privacy from neighbors. And they had an exterior security system for the community that was so advanced that even an elderly woman like her could walk about in the evening without concern for her well-being. It was as it should be. The annual dues for the community were excessive, used to pay for upkeep of the fortress walls, security systems, and guards. Myra thought it was money well spent. After all, only the wealthiest members of society could dream of living here.
Myra felt vulnerable leaving these walls. Her driver made sure she stayed out of undesirable neighborhoods. He drove her only to the nicest shopping locations and restaurants in and around Pleasanton. She avoided the Dome, convinced that the structure would collapse one day, and she had no interest being inside when it did. Still, she’d grown accustomed to not worrying about anything while at home, and it was difficult to give up that sense of peace and venture out into society, exposed to the depravity of the mass of humanity. Tonight, after the day of shopping and dining, the driver would ensure that she returned home to the security found on
ly within those massive walls, before he returned to his own home and family for the evening. He would get her inside, where a half-dozen covered golf carts were available for usage by residents. She’d drive herself home tonight; usually, she had one of the two guards on duty assist her. Her shopping haul for the day was far smaller than usual.
Though it was barely early evening on the clock, the calendar dictated the early loss of daylight on this early winter day. Frank, the driver, pulled up to the De Gray Estates and off to the side of the entry driveway, near the Guard Tower. He stepped out and opened her door. Myra exited with her usual grace, holding the lone bag of purchases in her hand. Frank made as if to take her bag or arm to assist her across the driveway to the Guard Station for her brief security check-in. But she shooed him away. “Wait there, Frank, until the guard sees me inside.” Frank sighed. He wished the old woman would let him drop her off closer to the scanner, but she insisted he keep the main driveway area clear in the event someone else wanted in or out. “Manners, Frank,” she’d snapped at him more than once.
So Frank watched the old woman shuffle over to the outer man-trap door and enter the enclosed space, crouching slightly for the retinal scanner. After the outer door closed behind her, the light turned green, indicating that there was a match, and Myra tried to open interior door. It didn’t move. She shook the door, but no luck. “Confound it!” she snapped. “Guard, please open the door for me!” Of course, Frank thought. The guard has to buzz them in after the retinal scan is a success. However, there was a problem.
“Mrs. VanderPoole? I don’t see a guard inside the Station. Perhaps he’s escorting a resident home?”
“An extended visit to the lavatory is more likely the case,” Myra VanderPoole snorted, her tone biting as usual. She frowned. “And it appears that someone has left ice chunks all over the driveway. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall and kill myself. The neighbors will hear of this. Confound it, where is that guard?”
A Question of Will (The Aliomenti Saga - Book 1) Page 3
