by Fran Friel
"Come on, dad,” Donovan heard him say, just like in the dream. “You promised if I came this time there wouldn't be any trouble."
The man in the jacket wrenched his arm free. His face was full of fury at the SPs. “Support me, son, or leave me be. Sometimes you've just got to stand up."
The son stayed behind, head down in apparent resignation, as his father and the mob of protestors charged the line of shore police. As they surged forward, Donovan was pushed through the line of SPs. He stumbled forward and was spun around into a scene from his dream. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears.
A shot was fired and then another, followed by a screaming, scattering mob. Suddenly, there was an ominous silence. When Donovan opened his eyes he was frozen in place like the rest of the crowd around him. He watched helplessly as the man in the tattered fatigue jacket kneeled beside his dead son. Another man from the crowd was frozen in a crouch clutching his bloody shoulder, still holding a gun in his hand. The SP he had missed returned fire, while the gunman's bullet struck the son of the now weeping man.
"Oh my god, what have I done? Oh, Tod,” he said, stroking his son's hair. “I should have listened. Oh, my boy. Oh my sweet boy.” Tears fell heavy from his eyes, dark splotches lost on the boy's blood-soaked T-shirt. “God, help me,” he wept, his shoulders heaving.
"God doesn't seem to be here at the moment, Mister Clark, but I am,” said the well-dressed man in the sunglasses. “I can assure you that this tragedy will never occur and your son will live a long and healthy life.” He held out a pen and a fresh contract. “All you need to do is sign here and we'll be done."
"Who the hell are you?” said the man through his tears. He noticed the frozen scene around him.
"Today, you could call me your guardian angel ... or at least, Tod's. I'm also looking out for Seaman Urbancik over there.” He nodded toward a fresh-faced young man in his starched white uniform and sailor's cap. He was frozen in place, shielding his mother from the gunfire. Their likeness was unmistakable. “You see, Urbancik over there will be killed shortly after he's deployed. He'll be critically burned in a chemical accident aboard ship, but he'll remain conscious for hours, suffering unspeakable pain while waiting for the decontamination crew to do its job.
"But together you and I can save him from that horrible fate and give your son a second chance. It's up to you,” said the man in the sunglasses. “You have thirty seconds to decide."
He checked his watch and held the pen and contract out for the man to sign.
"How could you ask such a thing?"
"Just doing my job. Twenty seconds to save your only son,” he said, tapping his watch with the pen. “You know he only came today because he was worried about you. How will you live with yourself knowing he died because of you ... and how will you explain it to his mother?"
"Fuck you,” mumbled the man in the jacket, but he reached for the pen and scribbled his name on the contract. Mister Sunglasses added his signature and the young man on the ground took a breath, coughing and gasping as his heart began pumping once again. The sound of another gunshot split the air, and the crowd screamed as Seaman Urbancik collapsed to the ground, red blood blossoming across his uniform, his mother screaming, “Scotty! No!” She clutched at her dying son in a frenzy, with no regard for her own safety in the midst of the mayhem.
The Contractor tucked the document into his breast pocket and walked toward a shaken Donovan. As he passed, he made a pretend finger gun and shot at Donovan with a wink.
"Good show, huh, Mister Hunter?"
Donovan felt sick. More dazed than when he arrived, he somehow managed to escape the chaos without being stopped by the shore police. Angry and confused why Dreamcatcher never arrived to assist him, he was relieved to see Easy waiting in the idling SUV not far from the scene of the exchange. He climbed in, laid his head back against the headrest, and the realization hit him.
"Oh my god, you knew why I came here, didn't you?"
Easy nodded and pulled away from the curb. Donovan turned his head away. It was a long silent ride back to Eastville.
* * * *
Instead of the punishment he expected after his appearance at the Norfolk ship yard, he was moved into a sprawling beach house on the Chesapeake Bay and told by his liaison, Sienna, that his spending account would now be unlimited, within reason, of course. He was confused by this development, but he intended to use it to his advantage. Remembering the name of the slain seaman in Norfolk, his change of status inspired him. He scoured the Internet for information and soon tested the financial waters of his new spending account with success.
* * * *
"Hello, Missus Urbancik?” said Donovan over the phone. “This is Steve Montoya of the Sid P. Cobain Foundation."
"Yes?"
"We recently heard about your son's passing, and we'd like to offer our sincere condolences for your terrible loss."
"Thank you ... Mister Montoya, was it? But this isn't a good time..."
"I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I won't keep you long, ma'am. I just wanted you to know that we'll be offering a scholarship in your son's name to a needy student. We understand that your son Scott joined the Navy mainly as a way to pay for his college education. With your approval, each year we would like to provide an alternative that Scott didn't have to a deserving student in your hometown. We've created a trust for this purpose, and if you and your family would like to be part of the selection committee, you can let me know when the time is right for you."
There was silence of the other end of the line.
"Again, our deepest condolences, ma'am. You'll be receiving some additional information in the mail. Thank you for your time."
Donovan heard the woman sniffing back tears, then clearing her throat before she spoke.
"Mister Montoya, I don't know what to say. But the thought that some other child will benefit from this ... this nightmare ... gives me a sense of peace that I can't begin to explain. And I know that my Scotty would be so proud."
"It's an honor, Missus Urbancik."
* * * *
Donovan used all his experience as a corporate attorney to find ways to assist the victims of the ORA, both those of the families who had been killed and those who signed the contracts. From his own experience, signing was a sentence to a life of intense guilt and self-recrimination. Whether felt or buried deep, it would torment the signers for all of their days. Donovan suspected that somehow the ORA was benefiting from the energy of the suffering signers as well as the immediate pain of the souls taken in the exchange.
4.
Donovan had no immediate way to stop the Order, but he was trying to help, and it was the first time in his life he wanted to help others—needed to help others. Besides his worry for his family, it was the only thing that sustained him. Years passed in this way—Donovan dreaming the dreams that created the victims, then trying his best to pick up the pieces of the shattered lives left over. The ORA never interfered with his philanthropic ventures, with Easy always available to assist, but this cycle wore on him and ate away at his own desire to go on living. He became solitary, seldom leaving the beach house except when necessary to assist with victims’ issues. He contemplated suicide on many occasions, continuing on only for the sake of his family. Photographs were rare, but the letters from Ally continued, one of the few things that he looked forward to. They were short and filled with perfunctory information, a requirement of the maintenance agreement she had been told that Donovan demanded. But then the letters stopped, and by the end of the second month Donovan worried that something was wrong.
He called Sienna, but she was evasive and said the problem was likely an issue with the mail service. Donovan hoped that Easy would be more helpful.
* * * *
Easy put a bowl of homemade gumbo in front of Donovan for lunch.
"My letters have stopped coming,” said Donovan.
"Yeah, I noticed that myself. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.” The
re was an odd tone to Easy's voice. As his only companion for nearly a decade, even the big man's well-honed cool couldn't hide the undercurrent of a lie from Donovan.
"What's happened?” he said, standing up suddenly.
"I don't know, Hunter."
"You don't know or you won't tell me?” shouted Donovan. “I've been your goddamn prisoner for how many years now, Easy? Don't you freakin’ owe me something? It's my wife and my kid, goddamn it."
Easy dropped his gaze.
Donovan swiped the bowl off the table, china and hot gumbo exploding into a mess across the kitchen floor. “Fuck you to hell,” he screamed as he stormed out.
Doing the only thing he knew to do, he went to his computer and started to search. Over the years, he knew the ORA did a thorough job of scrubbing any information concerning his family from the Internet, but in the meantime, Donovan had learned a thing or two himself. And before long he found an obituary in an obscure Native American newsletter, under Ally's maiden name, Dinan.
When he saw her death notice he felt cold and weak, as if his life's blood had drained away in an instant. His chest was tight like a steel band, and he could hardly breathe. He forced himself to read on for any explanation of Ally's death and the fate of his daughter. He rubbed his forearm across his face to clear his wet eyes.
In a local tragedy, a dear friend of the Nansemond tribe, Ms. Ally Marie Dinan, was found dead in her Virginia Beach home after what has been determined an accidental overdose of pain medication. She is survived by her daughter, Rebecca Ann Dinan, but according to friends close to the family, the daughter has been missing since the day of her mother's death. Local authorities are investigating her disappearance. Funeral services will be held on Friday at the Angel Brothers Funeral Home on Seaboard Road in Virginia Beach, Virginia. For further details, contact Ezekiel Dreamcatcher, Funeral Director, at 555-8181. Please leave a message.
Donovan's mind swam with shock and confusion. Dreamcatcher had no doubt left the message just for him. In the last few years, contacts with him had been few and brief—notes somehow stashed in unusual locations that only Donovan would discover. But had Ally been so close all this time—a spike of anger drove through his heart—and had Dreamcatcher known all along? For now he pushed back his anger and his grief. He had to move ... he had to do something. Becka was still out there.
Unable to risk a call from the beach house, Donovan hunted for Easy. As always, dressed in a custom-tailored suit, he was sitting in the living room in silence, staring through the wall of windows looking out across the bay. He appeared to be waiting.
Too rattled to think straight, Donovan said, “I need to go out for ... something."
Easy stood up and walked across the living room to the front door. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he waited for Donovan to follow.
* * * *
Donovan left Easy behind in the air conditioning of the SUV as he ran into the convenience store in desperate need of a Slushie. He got five dollars in quarters from the clerk and headed directly to the pay phone in the rear of the store.
With a shaky hand he deposited two quarters and punched in the phone number.
"Hello,” said a tinny electronic voice. “You have reached 555-8181. We're unable to take your call, but the funeral for Ms. Ally Marie Dinan will be held on Friday. Services begin at noon. Arrive promptly at 777 Seaboard Road. It's time, and everything else will be clear once you arrive. We'll be there to assist you. Thank you. Please RSVP by leaving your name at the beep."
After the tone, Donovan spoke his name. Another beep followed, then a final “Thank you for calling.” He was disappointed to hear a recording. He had thought at last he would be able to speak directly with Dreamcatcher. He had so many questions to ask. With his mind racing, he pulled his notebook from his back pocket and jotted down the time and location from the recording. The address sounded familiar, perhaps one of his previous dream locations. Then the words, it's time, rang in his mind. Did he hear that right? He put in another two quarters and dialed again.
"I'm sorry, the number you have reached, 555-8181, is no longer in service.” He slammed the receiver down against the cradle. “Damn it!"
With the rest of his change, he went back to the cashier and ordered a large cherry Slushie. He grabbed a handful of candy bars and tossed them on the counter. He figured he needed to make it look like a binge when he got back in the SUV with Easy. He paid for his purchase and rushed out into the wilting summer humidity.
"I want to go back to Virginia Beach,” he said, his anger still biting from the conversation over lunch.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?"
"Yep. Friday. We leave at 11 a.m. Wear a suit,” he added sarcastically.
* * * *
Donovan had 24 hours to wait before the Friday service, and he was going mad. He knew he had to make it appear as if everything were normal, so he carefully continued his routine, uploading his dream reports from the previous night and sending the encrypted files to Sienna. But he avoided Easy, not venturing into the rest of the house. They'd become friends over the years simply by default, and although Easy's well-honed exterior was nearly opaque, they'd spent everyday together and Donovan knew him well; he was sure that Easy had information about his wife's death. Something must have been happening for months, since the letters stopped. His mind wandered to horrible scenarios of his wife being tortured and tormented by the sunglass-wearing demons of the ORA, their searing touches burning her tender skin. When he started to think about Becka, he finally forced his mind to stop. That line of thinking would paralyze him, and he needed to be ready for whatever was to come on Friday. If it was truly his destiny to destroy the ORA, he doubted if he would have a second chance.
In the meantime, he needed to keep himself busy. He took a walk on the beach in the heat of the afternoon with Easy in tow, suit coat draped across his arm. Donovan enjoyed seeing Easy suffer, with wide dark circles of sweat ringing the armpits of his tailored shirt. He realized that staying angry at his jailor helped to ease his grief about Ally. Smug in his breezy shirt and shorts, Donovan strolled off the beach and out of the humid Virginia heat, deciding that in addition to finding ways to aggravate Easy, he could keep his mind busy by returning to his research. He figured if one message had slipped through to him, maybe the ORA had become complacent and there were more to find. Besides, he needed to see Ally's obituary in the Nansemond tribal newsletter again, in case there was something he missed.
Leaving his sweaty companion behind in the wide foyer of the beach house, Donovan went directly to his computer and found the bookmark for the newsletter. When he clicked it, the link was no longer valid. In his haste he hadn't saved the text. He searched for the newsletter and found a new edition dated that day.
He paged through what looked like local tribal news of births and celebrations, potluck dinners and fund raisers for the new community center, but nothing of help to him. At that point he assumed that Dreamcatcher's use of the newsletter must have been a one-time deal, but a heading on the last page caught Donovan's attention: Trials from the Bloodline of Donny Red Feather, Review by Zeke Dreamcatcher
Bloodline? Red Feather had to be a reference to the Order of the Red Angels. His heart pounded as he read on.
For a great summer read, you might consider Trials from the Bloodline of Donny Red Feather. This historical account plays out like a modern day thriller with a brotherhood of monks secretly preying on the powerful bloodline of native seers to provide prophesies that would allow the monks to accumulate earthly wealth and influence in the world. For centuries, the monks used the bloodline sparingly, but a new breed infiltrated their ranks, their greed for power and money insatiable.
Tragically orphaned from his family, Donny Red Feather had disappeared from the monk's registry. Many years later, they uncovered clues to his whereabouts, and in an elaborate trap, his aunt who was running from the brotherhood with her granddaughter unknowingly led them directly to Donny. Thi
s is the story of his enslavement by the brotherhood and how, with the help of a rogue monk, he was able to find the document that was key to ending the tyranny of the brotherhood.
Donovan sat staring at the screen. The woman at the accident when Ally was hit by the old man's car—was she his aunt? It all made tragic sense—the family he'd longed for growing up had stayed away to protect him. And the child with the blue-haired doll was his cousin. Donovan shook his head. His body filled with rage at the deception used by the ORA. They had staged the whole thing: the accident, the aunt and child, even the old man. "No, no ... it should have been me," the old man had sobbed. “The dream ... they promised to take me ... “ He had never understood what the man had been trying to say—in all the chaos he could only focus on Ally—but the words had stuck in his memory for all those years. No doubt the man was a dreamer, too. Perhaps his age, like the sickly child, made him less valuable to the ORA, so both were expendable in the elaborate trap. Expendable? The thought made him sick. His whole life had been expendable to the Order, costing him everyone he ever loved.
He tried to continue his research, looking for more clues to the activities of the ORA, but as he sat in front of the computer, he felt the weight of what he had uncovered bearing down on him. Along with his grief for Ally, he tried to hold it all at a distance, but his heart and his body were weary. The hint of the old longing for a drink surprised him as he lay down on the bed. His eyes closed with the thought of a warming sip from a two-finger tumbler of J.D.
* * * *
Donovan dreamed, but it was more a memory of one he had already reported—with that familiar Seaboard Road address. And with his skills of dream lucidity, he took note of every detail he could gather. When he woke from the dream, he was shocked to find it was morning. For the first time in ten years, he had missed his dream cycle for the ORA, but he was not due to file a report to Sienna until the afternoon, and he hoped in his heart by that time he'd never have to report to anyone ever again.
After making quick notes of his dream, he showered and dressed. As he looked in the mirror, tying his tie, the reality of where he was going hit him. He was going to attend his wife's funeral. He had failed her. And after a decade, his first sight of Ally would be in a casket. He wiped at his eyes and shrugged into his suit coat. At least there was still a chance for Becka. He would give his life without hesitation if it would free her from the ORA.
