by Fran Friel
"I apologize for restraining you, Mister Hunter, but if you had left the grounds without an escort, the penalty would have been death for you ... and for your family. I was protecting you from a tragic mistake.” The big man extended his hand to help him to his feet, but Donovan ignored it and stood on his own.
"Who the hell are you?” he asked, rubbing his aching shoulder.
"I'm Easy, your personal assistant. It's time to return to your room, Mister Hunter, so I can order your breakfast."
* * * *
In protest, Donovan refused to touch Easy's offering of fried eggs, thick crispy bacon, and plump pancakes topped with a dollop of sweet melting butter. His mouth watered at the smell of the food and he almost succumbed to a taste from the basket of fresh strawberries, but he was a prisoner. Although he knew in his heart it was futile, he felt the need to show his defiance.
At midmorning Easy knocked on the door, but Donovan didn't answer. He lay on his bed with his back to the door, his head still pounding from alcohol withdrawal. After a minute, the big man entered to remove the breakfast dishes.
"Hmm ... Mister Hunter, you're just lucky G ... uh, my mama isn't here. You'd get her starving children lecture for sure.” He picked up a piece of the thick cold bacon and had a bite. “Mmm ... shame to let such fine food go to waste. Anything else I can get you?"
Donovan didn't answer, but on his way out Easy pulled a bottle of Excedrin from his coat pocket and left it on the table along with the basket of strawberries.
Lunchtime passed with no sign of Easy. And as the dinner hour approached, Donovan tried hard to ignore his ache for alcohol and his hunger pains, but the sweet scent of the strawberries drifted around the room, intensifying the gnawing in his empty stomach. His hands shook as he snatched the Excedrin off the table, downing three with a handful of water from the bathroom sink.
Wiping his hand on his jeans, he felt the crinkle of paper in his pocket. He pulled out the note that had fallen on the floor during his attempt to escape. He sat on the bed and unfolded the paper, trying to steady his hands.
Donovan,
I'm sorry they found you. I'm doing what I can to help, but for now your fate is to do as they say. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. When the time is right, your destiny will be fulfilled.
They're called the Order of the Red Angel or the ORA. They've enslaved the dreamers for millennia. Utilizing the dreamers’ gifts, the Contractors use coercion to force the exchange of the soul energy of innocents as payment to their master for eternal life and power in the earthly realm. You're from what they call the Bloodline, Donovan—a harvester of dreams—a dreamer. You and your kin have the special gift that the ORA both fear and covet. You can guide them to their prey, but you also have the power to destroy them. As with all things to do with heaven and hell, there is a balancing force.
After the death of your parents, they carelessly lost track of you. We've been watching and hoping they'd never track you down, but with the conception of your child your combined energy was exponential and you were quickly identified even before her birth.
I wish we could protect you from what lies ahead, but you must endure the dreaming for as long as it takes and learn everything you can about the process. You'll witness the suffering of many, but you need to remain strong. You're the key that could end this cycle of misery. The contract is the final link and one we don't have access to, but we believe, in time, you will. There is always a hidden balancing clause in dealings with the Order—it's the rules—and this is what we must discover.
They have your child, and she is already exhibiting signs of the special abilities of the Bloodline, so her fate too is in your hands. Signing the contract helped keep her alive not only for you, but for the ORA. It was a well-orchestrated trap.
I've risked a great deal in this communication. My identity must remain secret or we'll have no way of assisting you when the time comes. Destroy this message immediately after reading it. It may be a long time before I can contact you again, but rest assured I'm watching and doing all I can to help.
Stay strong,
Dreamcatcher
A knock sounded at the door and Donovan crammed the note back into his pocket. After his usual minute delay, the big man entered the room.
"A package has arrived for you, Mister Hunter.” He put a large box on the table, and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “Inside, you'll find your equipment and instructions for tonight's session. I'm to make sure you follow through with your work. If you have any questions, you're to call your liaison, Sienna.” He turned to leave and looked back over his shoulder.
"Supper?"
Donovan felt the presence of the note in his pocket like a hot piece of iron. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. He sighed through his nose.
"Yes, supper ... please."
The big man smiled; not smug, but seemingly relieved. “What do you feel like eating?"
"Anything."
And Donovan noticed the pain in his head had begun to subside, but at the thought of food his stomach growled loud enough for the big man to hear it.
"I'll make it something quick,” he said with the hint of a smile as he left the room, locking the door behind him.
Donovan dug the note out of his pocket and rushed to the bathroom. Taking one last quick read of the contents, he tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. He kept flushing until all traces of the note were gone. At the sink, he washed his face in cold water and realized that Dreamcatcher was right. For the sake of his family, this was his fate. He dried his face and crossed the room to open the package the big man had left behind.
Inside was a new laptop, Bose headphones and a small binder of instructions. After a quick skim of the instructions, it seemed simple. Use the headphones and listen to the recorded music which contained embedded brain pattern coding to assist in detailed dreaming. Record every element of his dreams in an encrypted email and send it to his liaison. Eventually he wouldn't need the encoded music to reach the dream state, it said, and from the vivid state of his café dream early that morning, Donovan suspected they were right.
3.
Donovan's new life began that night, if it could be called a life. He did as he was told: he dreamed; he recorded; he reported, night after night, knowing that he sealed the fate of innocents by providing the Order of the Red Angels with the location and details of their prey. He wondered how often the contracts were signed, hoping they resisted often ... unlike he did.
For months, he never left his room. Easy offered field trips to the sea, dinner at the local crab house, a matinee at the little cinema downtown, but Donovan sank into a stupor of depression. The only thing he wanted was a drink.
When his mood started to interfere with the quality of his dream reports, Easy stepped in.
The knock on the door came early one morning, before his normal breakfast wake-up interruption. As usual, Donovan had fought sleep because he always dreamed when he slept, but his depression left him unable to do much else. He never reported his private dreams, sticking only to the deal of his nightly obligation.
"Rise and shine, Mister Hunter,” said Easy, his tone not a request, but an order.
As the big man pulled the drapes back and let in the bright morning sun, Donovan moaned.
"Go away, man. I've done my part, so leave me alone."
"Apparently there's some concern about the quality of your work. Besides, you're rotting away in this room. By the stink in here, that's not far from the truth.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Have you had a look at yourself lately?"
"Fuck off."
The big man raised his eyebrows, and without further conversation he ripped the covers off of Donovan and proceeded to pull the sheet off the bed with his reluctant charge still on top of it. Donovan fell like a lump to the floor, wearing only his boxers. He didn't move, so Easy strode into the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and witho
ut hesitation poured it over Donovan's head. He spit and cursed at the big man, then grabbed the sopping covers and pulled them tight around his body.
"I know you don't want me to wash and dress you, Mister Hunter, so please shower and get dressed. I'll be back in twenty minutes. We're going for a walk."
He turned and left the room as Donovan flipped him a classic third finger bird. The anger felt good. Defiant, he lay on the floor in the tangle of covers and fell back to sleep.
A warning knock woke him.
"Five minutes ... and if necessary, the Easy grooming method will begin."
After another bird aimed at the door, he got to his feet and shuffled to the closet. From his first encounter with Easy, Donovan knew he meant business, so he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and slipped his feet into his sneakers. He shuffled back to the bed and waited for the next knock.
"I guess that will have to do ... for today,” said Easy, inspecting Donovan's disheveled appearance. He opened the door, and for the first time in months Donovan went outside. The weather was warm and he could smell the moist sea air. As he staggered along the walkway behind the big man, he felt the warm sun on his face, and as much as he hated to admit it, it felt good.
"Come along,” said Easy. “First stop: a walk on the beach. And then breakfast at Liaguno's. Vince will whip us up something memorable ... that is if they don't throw us out because of the stink. Tomorrow, Mister Hunter, you shower."
* * * *
The slog along the beach showed Donovan just how out of shape he'd become, but it felt good to move his body. The depression still hung around him like a fog, but after breakfast he went back to his room and showered off the stink. He toweled himself dry, feeling better than he had for sometime. He opened the bathroom cabinet for his toothbrush, and there, taped to the inside of the door, was a note.
Donovan checked outside the bathroom to make sure no one was in the room, then he locked the bathroom door and grabbed the note.
D.
I understand the burden of the dreams, and I've been concerned about your state of mind. It's important that you got out of your room today. Please take every opportunity you can to get out. Maintaining your strength and sanity is imperative to your survival and the success of your destiny. And remember, they'll ultimately replace you with your daughter if you should fail to effectively do their bidding.
Now is the time to take notice of the details of your dreams, Donovan, not just the work you do for the ORA, but for yourself. Notice the patterns in common in the dreams, locations, names, time of day, etc., and consider that perhaps there's more you can do than simply observe helplessly. As you know, the aftermath of signing the contract is devastating. Use your life and your talent to help in any way you can. You might not be able to stop the outcome, but you can ease the suffering.
They won't let you interfere with their work, but the ORA has one agenda only—maintaining their power and satisfying their greed. Do your part to help them succeed, and if you're smart about it, the rest of your activities will seem unimportant to them. And remember, all the experience you gain will ultimately serve you when the opportunity to destroy the ORA arises.
When it's time, I'll be there to assist you.
Dispose of this message immediately.
d.
Donovan felt resentful of the burden of this new expectation—to do something more with his life—but the message rang true. Being more than a prisoner controlled by the ORA was the only way he could see to survive long-term. But the realization that shocked him most was the fact that Becka could be trapped into the same prison. No matter how long it took, he had to do whatever was necessary to bring down the Order of the Red Angel to save his child from this fate.
* * * *
The daily walk soon became a routine for Donovan and Easy, and as winter approached, they decided on a local park to avoid the cold wind of the beach. As they rounded the far end of the duck pond, Easy spoke casually in his rumbling bass.
"I probably shouldn't tell you yet, but in a few months they'll be moving you into a beach house. No more motel for you, pal. And it'll be big enough that you won't even know I'm there.” He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Donovan.
"And besides that, the head office is pleased with your progress and thought a reward was in order. Keep it up and they'll forward the letters to you, as well."
News of the house was enough to shock him, but the contents of the envelope left him speechless. Inside he found a small stack of photographs—pictures of his family. His eyes watered. Easy walked ahead on the path and sat down on a bench to wait, his big hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
Donovan shuffled through the photos, proud and amazed at how Becka had grown. She was smiling and tall, nearly nine years old now. His spirit lifted at the sight of her. She was going to be a beauty, just like her mother. But looking at Ally's photos made his heart ache. Though she was smiling, the pain and sadness in her eyes was devastating. She had the look of a woman lost and nearly broken but still doing her best for the sake of her child. Donovan understood that feeling too well, and a quiet rage rose up inside him for what Ally must be enduring.
Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Donovan knew he had to redouble his efforts to discover everything he could about the contract and the Order of the Red Angel. He had to stop them, but he knew there was little he could do for Ally and Becka immediately. He could, however, at least hold them in his heart as he sought a way to ease the suffering of others whose lives were devastated by the ORA.
* * * *
Donovan began his new focus by keeping detailed records of his non-working dreams. At first he wrote them on random slips of paper, stashing them around his room, but eventually he asked for a notebook. Easy complied with his request and brought him a pocket-sized journal. To be sure that no one could access his records, Donovan kept the little journal with him at all times, stashed in a pocket or under his pillow when he slept.
In the months that followed, he noticed a pattern to his dreams, and with practice he developed a small amount of lucid control. Until the Contractor arrived on the scene, he could move around more freely in his dreams. This allowed him to quickly assess the times, dates and the locations involved. Although he had no control to stop the events from occurring-he had tried many times—he learned to quickly identify the likely targets for harvesting and brace himself for the horror of the exchange. The contract was always completed in his dreams; he only hoped that in real life at least some were unsuccessful.
He waited patiently for a local exchange to occur in his dreams, and he felt particularly drawn to the first one that surfaced. He soon enlisted the help of an unsuspecting Easy.
"How about a road trip, Easy?” he said between sips of coffee. “We've been cooped up in this town too long."
Easy looked up from his breakfast and raised an eyebrow.
"Can't go too far without approval."
"How about we take a ride down to Norfolk to see if any of the big ships are docked at the naval yard. I've always wanted to see one up close."
With a mouth full of food, Easy chewed slowly, staring at him. His unreadable expression made Donovan nervous. Maybe Easy knew what he was up to, but finally he took a long swallow of orange juice, then nodded.
"Let's go."
Without another word, he tossed some cash on the table for their meal and headed for the door. Relieved and a little bewildered by the sudden departure, Donovan grabbed a piece of toast and followed Easy out to the car.
* * * *
It had been so long since Donovan left the town of Eastville that the trip down the coast to the ship yard felt like a great adventure. As their black SUV cruised from the blue skies above down into the depths of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, Donovan reminded himself to stay focused. Since Easy had been so quick to leave for their trip, they'd arrive at the ship yard earlier than planned. He needed to stall.
Easy's deep voice broke into
his concentration. “How about we check out Virginia Beach first?"
A little surprised at his good fortune, Donovan replied, “Hell yeah."
* * * *
Virginia Beach was a nice diversion. Unlike the sleepy village of Eastville, there were lots of people and places to visit. After a pit stop at a little seafood hut and a cup of local crab soup—Easy was a bottomless pit—they were on their way to neighboring Norfolk. Their timing couldn't have been better, but as they approached the naval yard, Donovan began to feel anxious. When he saw the battleship, the memory of his dream was visceral, steeped in pain. The silent hulking mass cast an ominous shadow over the people waiting on the docks. Two distinct crowds had gathered: families embracing and saying their goodbyes, and others waving signs protesting the war. A contingent of armed Navy shore police stood between the families and the protestors. The SPs held a line not to be crossed.
Easy stopped the car and stepped out, his arms folded. Leaning against the driver's side door, he surveyed the scene. Donovan hesitated, then climbed out in a daze. He hoped that Dreamcatcher would be there to assist him, as promised. As he wandered into the crowd toward the clutch of families, an SP stepped up and put his hand on Donovan's chest.
"That'll be far enough, sir. Unless you have a military ID or you're accompanied by a family member who does, you'll need to step back."
"But I have to speak with—"
"You heard him, sir,” said another SP as the entire line of arm-banded sailors turned their attention toward Donovan.
A shout came from a protestor wearing a tattered green fatigue jacket. “Hey, it's still a free country, last time I read the Constitution. Let the man through."
"Yeah,” shouted others as the protestors moved toward the line of SPs.
Donovan looked around, bewildered by the scene. In his dream he was on the other side of the shore police line when the chaos started.
The man in the tattered fatigue jacket pushed forward, holding his American flag high. A young man at his side grabbed at his arm, trying to pull him back from the crowd of protestors.
