Dreamlander

by K.M. Weiland

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A telephone yowled in Chris’s ear, and he scrabbled at his side for a sword that wasn’t there. His eyes came open to the white glare of sheets and pillowcases. Lo mein noodles snaked from the upended Chinese carton beside him. On the nightstand, a digital clock blinked to 3:08, and, beside the clock, the phone shrilled. Only a second ago, he’d fallen asleep on a cold bed of leaves. He groaned. This whole world-shift thing wasn’t getting any easier.

  He snagged the phone mid-ring and scooted up against the headboard. “Hello?”

  “Chris . . .” The voice trailed into a cough.

  His heart seized. He had gotten used to hearing that voice without the cough. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  He sat up straighter and cursed his heart for pounding. “How’d you get this number?”

  He’d been dreading this phone call ever since he’d met Worick Bowen. As long as Paul didn’t talk to him, Paul didn’t have to exist, and he could pretend at least one part of his life was whole. That was the excuse anyway.

  His dad cleared his throat. “I—uh, called around. Mike Andreola told me where you are.”

  If his dad was in jail again, Chris was going to have a hard time getting him out without showing his face. He kicked the comforter aside and swung his legs to the floor. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “I’m home. I’m still home. I been trying to reach you all day. I can’t get a signal or nothing from your cell phone. How come you didn’t give me your hotel number?”

  Because he’d thought he never wanted to see Paul again. For the last few weeks, he’d been trying to come to grips with the idea that these two completely different fathers were really the same man. Even now, he couldn’t make himself believe it.

  “Um, I didn’t know where I would be staying.” A trickle of gray light marked the incision where the curtains met in the center of the window. He frowned. The 3:08 on the clock probably meant p.m. instead of a.m. “What time is it?”

  “Um, I don’t know . . . three o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “Yeah.”

  He had to stretch the phone cord to gather his clothes from where he had dumped them on the loveseat the night before. Mashing the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he tugged on his pants and wrestled his T-shirt right side out. One of his socks had fallen between the end of the loveseat and the wall, and he had to yank open the floor-length drapes to get to it.

  Outside, the sky was the color of a soiled eggshell. Frozen rain wormed across the window, and fresh rivulets slid down the glass and swerved to follow the old tracks.

  “Chris—” His dad hesitated. “Are you all right?”

  He stopped short. The rain tinkled against the window. How long had it been since his dad—his real dad, his hopelessly unsalvageable alcoholic father—had asked him that?

  “What?” he asked.

  Paul coughed, and Chris recognized it as a stalling tactic. He could hear shuffling footsteps and the sucking noise of the fridge door opening.

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I just . . . had a dream last night. Never mind. I shouldn’t have called you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Sorry.”

  Chris’s heart thudded against his ribs. Chris sank onto the bed. “What kind of a dream?”

  “Oh, nothing much. But in the dream I was—I was worried. About you.” A glass clinked on the other end of the line.

  Worick was the one who worried about him, not Paul. Paul didn’t even think about him. Wasn’t that what he’d made himself believe all these years? He closed his eyes. “In the dream, you worried about me.”

  “Yeah.” Paul filled the silence with another self-conscious cough. “Well, you know how dreams are sometimes. Right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Boy, did he ever know. “Um, was Lisa there?”

  “No, but—”

  But Mom and Jenifer were. He stared at the window. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Yeah?” His dad’s voice perked up just a bit.

  How many times had he promised himself he’d stop interfering? It never made any difference. Never.

  He took a breath and let it out. “Whatever you’ve got in your hand right now, will you dump it down the sink?”

  His dad’s breathing huffed for a long moment. Chris heard a faint clack, as if Paul had pulled the phone away from his ear. Then, one after another, three ice cubes clanged against the stainless steel of the sink, followed by the gurgle of liquid—vodka and orange juice probably—sliding down the drain.

  The phone scratched against his dad’s ear once more. “There you go.”

  As soon as he hung up, Paul would be pouring another round. But somehow the moment still felt like a victory, for his own sake as much as his father’s. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Yeah, well. I’ll let you go now. I’m glad you’re okay. You are okay, right? Mike—he kinda sounded like maybe something wasn’t quite right.”

  “No, everything’s fine. Thanks for calling.” This was the first time in years his dad had called without an ulterior motive.

  He hung up and imagined his father pouring that second screwdriver. How many years since he had let himself feel anything about his father? He opened that long-closed door in his soul, just a crack. A crack was more than enough to let him know his family still had the power to break him with his grief. But today the grief wasn’t just for his mother and sisters and himself. Today, it was for his father as well.

  He pulled his shirt on, and the phone rang again.

  “Hi! It’s me.” The rumble of an engine backed Brooke’s voice. “I’m on my way over. I’ve got something important to show you.”

  He stifled a groan. He’d specifically told Mike to keep Brooke away, on the off chance of anyone following her.

  “How important is ‘important’? I’m kind of trying to keep a low profile.”

  “Really important.” Excitement buzzed in her voice. “Meet me at the front door in ten minutes.”

  _________

  He was waiting in the lobby when Brooke’s Land Rover pulled up beneath the apron. After a quick check to make sure she hadn’t been followed by the black pickup, he stepped into the bluster of the wind.

  Mike climbed out of the passenger side, and Chris stopped short. “Hey.”

  Mike had his mouth pressed into that I’m-trying-not-to-look-as-annoyed-as-I-feel smile. “Long time, no see.”

  Chris slid his hands in his pockets. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”

  “No night ninjas trying to strangle me in my sleep, if that’s what you mean.”

  Chris hadn’t seen Mike since he’d gotten a hotel room, and he’d only spoken with him on the phone a few times. The police had investigated the house, and Brooke had apparently even talked them into leaving a patrol car there for a few days. But Mike had been able to move back in, against Chris’s recommendation. As far as he knew, there hadn’t been any more trouble.

  Mike looked him over. “You about had it with being holed up in that hotel? Maybe you ought to come back. The police say it’s safe as anything ever is on the South Side.” His eyes fidgeted away, then back, and Chris knew it was an apology for his impatience. As if he had anything to apologize for.

  He made himself smile. “Thanks. But not yet. So what’s this about?”

  Mike climbed into the back. “Better ask her.”

  From inside the vehicle, Brooke beamed at him. “Good afternoon! How come you look like you just woke up?”

  He stepped inside and slammed the door. “Been practicing my half-asleep look. Women go for it, don’t you know?”

  She laughed. “Better wake up anyway.” Both hands on the steering wheel, she stepped on the accelerator.

  The windshield wipers sloshed across the steamy glass, and Chris reached over to turn the defroster dial. The only thing that gave him the willies more than Brooke on a normal
day was Brooke when she was this cheerful. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?”

  She cast him a coquettish glance. “I think I’ve got some answers for you.”

  “Please tell me you haven’t been ‘investigating.’”

  She was almost purring. “You just wait and see.”

  “What kind of answers?” When she didn’t respond, he glanced over his shoulder.

  Mike shrugged. “This is her show. I’m only here because I’m supposed to be moral support.”

  “Moral support for who?”

  “I have a feeling that depends on how you react to whatever she’s got in mind.”

  Whatever she’d done, it must be bad. He stifled a groan. “Brooke?”

  She turned into traffic. “All right, here it is. The other day at the hospital, I made a very interesting discovery. Really, all this disaster of yours needed was for someone—” she pointed to herself, “—to look at it logically.”

  “The hospital? You went to see Harrison?”

  Her smile slipped. “Well, no, actually. I tried, but he wasn’t accepting visitors.” The grin popped back. “But guess who I found waiting for me at my car when I got back outside?”

  His chest clenched. “Flores? Brooke, he’s a hit man! He’s in with Kaufman!”

  “What?” Mike demanded.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Stop fussing, both of you. Yes, it was Salvidore Flores. But you’ll be interested to know he isn’t a hit man.”

  Chris balled his fist against his thigh. “He can say he’s anything he wants to. How could you be that stupid? He could have killed you!”

  “Oh pooh. He wasn’t going to kill me.” She tossed him a sidelong glance. “I know him.”

  “What?”

  “A year or two ago I dated a guy he works with.” She tapped her blinker and eased into a turning lane. She looked at Mike in the rearview mirror. “A big guy with crazy eyes, as it so happens.”

  Mike gawked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The guy who worked for a psychologist?” One hand gripped the back of Chris’s seat.

  “Ding! You get the prize.” She swung the car into a strip mall parking lot. “And his name . . . is Geoff Kaufman.”

  “Brooke—” Chris’s heart revved. “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind. I don’t know what they’ve told you, but this is wrong, this is insane. This is going to get us all killed.”

  She turned down a long row of cars. “Oh, c’mon already. You should be majorly ashamed for overreacting like this.”

  A tall blond man in a raincoat stepped out from behind a parked truck.

  Chris stopped breathing altogether. “Get us out of here.”

  She laughed. “Geoff is going to take us out to dinner, and I’m going to properly introduce you. He has some business with you, that’s all, and he agrees with me it’s time you two sorted out your differences.”

  Mike grabbed her shoulder. “The man’s trying to kill him. You think that’s going to get sorted out over dinner?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned into a parking slot. “He is not trying to kill anyone.”

  Chris caught hold of her wrist. “Don’t park the car! Get us out of here now.”

  “Brooke,” Mike’s voice vibrated with intensity, “so help me, if you don’t get us out of here—”

  Kaufman was only a dozen strides away. His gaze, hard as glass, met Chris’s through the window, and his stride lengthened.

  Chris unsnapped his seatbelt. “I’m not going to ask you again. Drive away. Now.”

  “I can’t believe you guys.” She glared at Mike in the rearview mirror. “And you were supposed to be moral support for me, not him.”

  Beneath the flutter of Kaufman’s raincoat, a concealed handgun bulged. Chris lurched across the console and stomped on Brooke’s foot, mashing it down against the accelerator.

  “Ow! What are you doing?”

  The Land Rover bucked forward into the parking slot and slewed to crash through an opening between two parked cars.

  She screamed and grappled with him for the steering wheel. “What are you doing?”

  He muscled the steering wheel around, and the car screeched in a tight circle.

  “He’s getting in his truck!” Mike said.

  Chris didn’t look back. “Buckle up!”

  Brooke kicked him with her free foot and tried to step on the brake. “Stop it right now! You’re going to kill us!”

  “Let up on the clutch! You’ll ruin your engine!”

  “My engine! You’re driving like a maniac, and you’re worried about my engine!”

  The street loomed in front of them, and Chris dragged the car around to make the turn. The Land Rover shot off the curb and cut across two lanes of blaring traffic. He let up on Brooke’s foot long enough to slam on the brake and haul the car back onto a straight course. Horns blasted from all sides.

  “He’s following us!” Mike said.

  Chris dared a look in the mirror. “Is he waiting for traffic?”

  “Yeah, I think— No, here he comes!”

  He slapped his blinker and cut through an intersection on a red light. Oncoming cars swerved and skidded.

  Brooke shrieked. “Stop it, Chris. I mean it! You have no right to do this!” Her arms snaked between his, and fought for control of the steering wheel. “Mike! Do something!”

  “If you don’t shut up and let him drive, we’ll get demolished out here!”

  “You’re both insane! If we don’t all die, we’re going to end up in jail!”

  Chris took another hard right onto a side street. “Nobody ends up in jail for running away from a murderer.”

  “He’s not a murderer! I told you, I used to date him.” She shoved his arm. “I would never go out with a wacko!”

  “Hang on.” He swung around another corner, then another, zigzagging through the city. In the rearview mirror, he caught sight of Mike’s tight face. “How we doing?”

  “I haven’t seen him for the last five minutes.”

  Finally, he turned into a residential district and eased the speedometer needle back.

  He looked down to where Brooke’s head was wedged between the neck rest and the window. “If I let you have the wheel back, will you promise not to do anything stupid?”

  Tears stood out in her eyes. “This is carjacking. And kidnapping—because this whole detour was most definitely against my will.”

  Mike rattled the back of her seat. “And hauling us out here to meet your gun-happy ex-boyfriend wasn’t a culpable act on your part?”

  “He’s not gun-happy! And he was never my boyfriend.”

  Chris eased the car to a stop on the curb and shifted into neutral. Then he slid back into the passenger seat. He offered Brooke a hand up, but she batted it away.

  She used the steering wheel to drag herself upright. Her hands trembled as she slid her hair back from her face. “Geoff has been a professional bodyguard for years. You were right about him working for Faolan Mactalde—who, by the way, happens to be a tremendously respected doctor of psychology and a philanthropist. Do you think someone like that would hire Geoff if he had even the slightest smudge on his record?”

  She lowered the visor and touched the beginnings of a bruise on her cheekbone. She looked at Mike in the mirror. “Who’s making more sense here, Chris or me?”

  Mike glanced once at Chris, then, grudgingly, back at her. “You.”

  “At least somebody here is still rational.” She slapped the mirror back and turned to Chris. Her lower lip quivered. “I think you should apologize.”

  “The man shot at me. What am I supposed to do with that? Pretend he was playing laser tag?”

  Mike leaned over his knees. “But why is he shooting at you? You say he’s after you because Mactalde set you up. But that doesn’t make sense. If they set you up, they’d want you alive.”

  Brooke folded her arms. “Are you trying to cover your tracks? Are you trying to shift the blame onto Geoff?”


  “No.” He looked at Mike. “You know I wouldn’t do that. We’ve already talked about this.”

  Mike shook his head. “You can’t expect me to back you up if you won’t give me a clue about what you’re messed up in. As far as I can tell, things are getting way out of control here.”

  Brooke emitted a little snort that was half sob. “Getting?” She raised her foot to the seat and took off her ballet flat. Her big toe was bleeding from where Chris had stomped on it. “This is way past getting out of control.”

  None of Chris’s choices were reassuring. If he told them the facts, they’d think he was lying. If he didn’t tell them, they’d know he was holding back.

  He stared at the stretch of wet asphalt in front of them. The duplexes that lined the street sat in silence. Except for the mailman walking down the sidewalk, the street was deserted—which was what he was likely to be if he told the truth.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. You’re not going to buy it, but I’ll tell you anyway.” He twisted in his seat to face them. “Mactalde hired Flores to kill Harrison Garnett. And he hired Kaufman to kill me, because I’m a threat.”

  “A threat to what?” Mike asked.

  “To his plans. To . . . his life.”

  Brooke’s jaw dropped. “You are mixed up in his disappearance! You told me he was safe.”

  “He is.” For the moment, anyway. “The only thing I did was help him leave.”

  “Then where’d he go? And why’d he need your help?”

  “Where is he?” Mike kept his voice quiet, but he wasn’t asking anymore. He was demanding.

  Chris opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared out the windshield and shook his head. How ridiculous was he to think he had a chance of them believing him?

  He gestured to the window. “The weather’s been really strange lately, right?”

  Mike flopped back against his seat. “Chris . . .”

  “I’m serious. Everybody’s been talking about the weather, right? And not just here. All over the world.” He’d watched enough TV over the last week to know the weather was headlining the news. Meteorologists everywhere were scrambling to explain the sudden drop in temperatures.

  “So?” Brooke said. “The weather has nothing to do with Dr. Mactalde leaving. Unless he went to the Bahamas.”

  “The weather isn’t why he left. The weather is happening because he left.”

  She stared blankly.

  He glanced back at Mike. “Mactalde disappeared—” He ran back over the weeks in his head, trying to separate the time he’d spent in Lael from the time here. “Around the middle of June, right? And that’s when the weather started cooling off.”

  Mike shook his head. “That’s coincidence. And if this is supposed to convince me you do, in fact, have things under control, you’re doing a pretty rotten job.”

  He hooked one arm around the neck rest. “You have to promise me you will not just dismiss this out of hand. It’s going to sound crazy. It’s going to sound beyond crazy.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes.

  “But you have got to at least think about it. Okay?”

  Mike shrugged. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  Chris looked at Brooke.

  She sighed. “Why not?”

  “Okay, here it is. What if your dreams are real?”

  Mike’s expression hesitated a long second, as if he were waiting for Chris to move on to his real explanation. Then his face crinkled. “The dream thing again?”

  “Just answer. What if they were real?”

  “But—” Brooke shook her head. “They’re not.”

  He turned to her. With her penchant for conspiracy theories and superstitions, she might be able to believe him. “How do you know they’re not real?”

  “Everybody knows that! Please, please, please tell me you’re not trying to say Dr. Mactalde is in dreamland?”

  The heating vents hummed between them. He stared at her levelly. “I took him there.”

  “And that made the weather crummy?” Mike’s words were stilted, careful.

  He was losing them. Or rather, he’d lost them before he’d even opened his mouth. And why not? A month and a half ago, he would have laughed in their faces had they been the ones telling him his dreams were for real.

  He tried again. “It caused some kind of imbalance between that world and this one. The weather’s bad there too.”

  Mike broke eye contact. “Chris, bro . . .”

  The ignition ground, and the engine rumbled back to life. Brooke stared out the windshield. She wasn’t trembling or fighting back tears anymore. She stared ahead. “I’m glad you didn’t talk to Geoff.” The words were flat.

  He waited a moment, hoping against all reason. “You believe me?”

  She shifted into first gear. Then she turned to him, dead serious for maybe the first time in her life. “How can you even ask me to?”