The Dream Awakened

by Leann M Rettell

  Debbie giggled, staring at her badge. “Did Halek really think he could hide our identities by just switching our last names?”

  Halek could have hacked into the social security network and officially changed their names, but he didn’t see a need to tell Debbie this. Who knows how she’d react? “You ready to do this?”

  “I guess so.”

  Without letting himself think too hard on it, he removed the new clothes he’d snuck into their bags just in case. “Good. We’ll just change and then be on our way.”

  He grabbed the suit jacket, pants, white shirt, and tie and ran, but he didn’t miss Debbie’s curses as she beheld the business casual clothes that he’d laid out for her.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left their hotel in the rental SUV. The vehicle didn’t handle like his Cayman, but she’d do until he could get back to his expensive and rare car collection. The SUV would be more practical if they had to haul things around. Debbie huffed in the passenger seat, wiggling like a toddler in the button-down dark gray blouse and black pinstriped pants. The silver flat clumpy shoes really tipped the scale on her displeasure. The confining outfit didn’t suit his fun-loving, fairy-hippie-style girlfriend—no, fiancée—at all, but they had a part to play.

  She huffed at least every two minutes while the GPS guided him from Fort Myer to Sanibel. They drove through the winding city streets until he coasted along green tree-lined roads. He watched as people walked their dogs or jogged and almost missed the turnoff. He pulled into a visitor’s spot and watched Debbie pale and take a shaky breath before stepping from the SUV.

  The Sanibel Police Department rang with a never-ending chorus of phones ringing, voices murmuring, an unseen radio blaring, and the white noise of the police scanner in a far corner. A middle-aged uniformed police officer manned the counter where they first walked in. His badge identified the black-haired man as Officer Johnson. “How can I help you?”

  Malcolm placed the private detective ID on the counter for the man to pick up and study at his leisure. “Yes. I’m Malcolm Anderson. I’m investigating the death of Tara Booth. May I speak with the officer in charge of her case?”

  Johnson had casually picked up the ID but sadness flitted across his face at the mention of the young woman’s name. “That was Harry’s case. I mean Detective Robinson. I believe he’s still here. Just one moment.” Johnson pushed the ID back to Malcolm and waved to the aged leather chairs lining the front of the desk. Fluorescent lights cast the place in an eerie, yellowish glow. Malcolm half expected an intoxicated man to be handcuffed to a chair beside him as he had seen in a thousand movies, but he and Debbie were the only ones waiting. He shook off his nerves as he listened to Johnson on the telephone.

  A black-haired man with startling blue eyes approached from the back. He flashed Malcolm a look of interest and worry, but turned away, talking in hushed tones to Officer Johnson. The newcomer, who Malcolm guessed was Detective Robinson, flipped his dark hair out of his eyes and opened a side door. Every speck of him from the shined black shoes to the pressed pants screamed order and a meticulous attention to detail. That meant, Malcolm guessed, the man wouldn’t take kindly to anyone peeking in on his investigation, or the subtle implication that he’d missed something, especially a case that was still open.

  “Can I help you?” The question sang with an undertone of resentment.

  Malcolm stood with Debbie at his side. “Yes, I’d like to speak with the person in charge of Tara Booth’s case?”

  “And who might you be?

  Malcolm handed the man the ID, and Debbie did the same. “I’m Malcolm Anderson. This is Debbie Jones. We’ve been hired by Clancy and Joanne Booth to investigate their daughter’s death.”

  “Her death is still under investigation.” The detective glanced back and forth from their IDs to them and back again before handing the IDs back. “Which I explained to her folks.”

  “I understand. They’re not questioning her cause of death. They would like us to look into why she went camping in the first place. Something they realized that you, Detective Robinson, I assume, would be too busy to look into the more personal aspects of Miss Booth’s life. Between you and me, I think they didn’t have the best relationship with their daughter in the last few years. They want every last scrap of information to feel closer to her now that she’s gone. I’m sure you can understand that?”

  The detective’s lip curled. “You don’t have any qualms about profiting off her parent’s grief?”

  Debbie took a step forward. “On the contrary, we are providing a service. Giving her parents a glimpse into her last months. It’s something they need in order to move on. It’s a kindness, but we do have to eat. Now, are you going to help us or not?”

  Robinson sucked his teeth, eyeing Debbie up and down. “If her parents confirm your story, I’ll get you what you need. Have a seat.” He disappeared through the door without giving them a second glance.

  Sitting back in the run-down seats, Debbie whispered under her breath, “Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! What do we do?”

  “Relax. Halek is one sneaky son of a bitch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Malcolm leaned in, pretending to straighten his socks. “Halek managed to hire someone to go to her parents to discuss grief counseling, and they let it slip how much it helped them to hire a reasonable P.I. when their child died. We were hired this morning. Officially.”

  Debbie opened and closed her mouth several times but stopped at the subtle movement of Malcolm’s hand. Officer Johnson watched them, and they couldn’t give anything away. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled out of the parking lot, case file in hand, and headed toward a local diner for lunch.

  While Malcolm cut through the lunchtime traffic, Debbie read aloud, “According to this, Tara left her job at the local Target, where she’d been working for a couple years, after her shift on Friday at 3 p.m. She has been living in Sanibel for the last two years. She attended Fort Myer University, studying business. She told a coworker, Cindy Lawson, she was going on a weekend camping trip.” Debbie skimmed the interview with Cindy while Malcolm attempted to merge into the right-hand lane to exit. “She didn’t say if she was going with anyone or not. Two days later, a man named Jacob Fredrickson found her body while fishing. The coroner’s report ruled her death an accidental drowning. Her body sustained multiple injuries, both pre- and post-mortem.”

  Malcolm flipped off the turn signal, wishing he could read the file himself. “What kind of pre-mortem injuries were there?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all medical mumbo-jumbo.”

  Malcolm tapped the steering wheel, thinking hard. He checked the time, just after one in the afternoon. “How hungry are you?”

  Debbie shut the yellow folder. “After seeing the pictures of her, not at all.”

  “Good, because we have another stop to make.”

  “Where?”

  Malcolm pulled the SUV over and dialed the number he’d found on his cell phone. The line rang and rang, never going to voice mail. He dialed it twice more before an agitated woman’s voice answered, “Lee County Medical Examiner’s Office. How can I help you?”

  Malcolm shivered, hoping this hunch wouldn’t lead him down the wrong rabbit hole.

  9

  After Malcolm explained their situation, the Medical Examiner’s office let him make an appointment for the next day. At just before ten the following morning, Debbie and Malcolm pulled into the parking lot off of Danley Dr. It was a good thing they had decided to get there early since it took several long minutes navigating the textured stucco building to find the main visitor’s entrance. They stopped by a check-in desk and received visitor stickers to stick on their clothes. Long hallways with fluorescent lighting did nothing to qualm the spooky vibe of knowing dead bodies would be cut up here.

  Besides the front entrance, no other windows were in sight, and by the amount of goosebumps on Debbie’s arms, Malcolm guesstimated the temperature at a balmy s
ixty-five degrees. A smell of bleach, lemon cleanser, and formaldehyde hung in the air and mixed with the scent of leftover spaghetti sauce. The combination churned Malcolm’s stomach. Echoing his own thoughts, Debbie grabbed at the white blouse with green and blue stripes. “How can anyone think about eating in here?”

  “You get used to it.” A man in a white lab coat popped out of the side door just ahead. Debbie’s startled scream brought a tinge of pink to the man’s cheeks. “Sorry, one does get used to the ambiance. I forget how much this place can give people the heebie-jeebies. I’m Dr. Iverson.” He stepped fully into the hallway, wiping his hands on a napkin and shoving the used thing into the white lab coat. Sandy blond hair curled around his ears, and a bare hint of a beard disrupted the smooth skin, giving him a permanent Dougie Houser look. The canvas R2D2 and C3P0 shoes did nothing to help this boyish image.

  Debbie crossed the distance between them, hand outstretched. “I’m Debbie Jones. This is my partner, Malcolm. I believe we have a meeting with you.”

  “That’s right. The Booth case. I apologize for catching an early lunch. Had an early morning call.”

  Fine lines crinkled around his eyes as he smiled. Jealousy rippled through Malcolm as the good doctor took a few moments too long to let go of Debbie’s hand, eyeing her left ring finger, noting, not subtly, the lack of a ring. As she let go, the man’s gaze ran down the length of her gray slacks.

  “It’s not a problem at all. We’re sorry to interrupt you.”

  Without paying Malcolm any attention, he waved off the apology. “Please, come into my office.”

  Dr. Iverson’s office, like the rest of the building, lacked windows, but he’d made up for it with several lamps casting softer light, and several potted plants littered every corner of the room. Medical textbooks adorned the bookshelf behind the large wooden, paper-covered desk, and a plate of half-eaten spaghetti lay across the center. Iverson grabbed the plate and shoved it in a microwave off to the side on top of his own mini fridge. No family pictures or evidence of a personal life decorated the desk or walls, but instead, Star Wars memorabilia jumped out at odd places. A BB8 replica was on the bookshelf. A lightsaber pen hid amongst the ordinary pens. A framed photo of the Millennium Falcon hung beside the doctor’s desk, as if during the middle of the day he could see it and escape the lull of death.

  The doctor picked up an opened lunch box and a ragged, frayed book bag that may have once been navy blue from the two chairs in front of his desk and stowed them away. He smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his white lab coat and adjusted the strap on the navy-blue scrubs before sitting in his black leather chair. He waved a hand at the now empty chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

  Malcolm sat, scooted the chair to the very edge of the desk, and stretched one arm over the back of Debbie’s chair, perhaps pushing the dominant male factor a tad too much by the look on her face. “As you might be aware, Mr. and Mrs. Booth hired us to investigate further into their daughter’s death and the last few months of her life. It has come to our understanding that you were the medical examiner on the case.”

  The easy smile fell from Dr. Iverson’s face, replaced by a grim expression. He swiveled in the chair, touching the mouse, and began typing into the keyboard. “Yes, I was. Let me pull up her file so I don’t give any misleading information.”

  “You have ruled her death an accidental drowning. Is that correct?”

  “Her death was by drowning. In the initial stages, the circumstances were suspicious. Young woman goes camping, by all accounts alone, and ends up drowning. Her autopsy showed a fair amount of trauma, both pre and postmortem.”

  “Aren’t the pre-mortem injuries suspicious?” Debbie pulled a notebook from her computer bag and clicked her pen, jotting down notes.

  “Not necessarily. If she fell in the water or had been dragged downriver, then she would be thrashing around, causing several injuries.”

  “Then how was it deemed to be an accident?”

  Iverson focused on Malcolm, sitting straighter, suspicion lining his face. “I took the police investigation into account. I take it you have their file?”

  Debbie glanced between the two men, not understanding their new hostility, and slid to the edge of her chair to match Malcolm. “The report stated she left work and told a friend she was going camping. The following day the police received an anonymous tip reporting her missing. I found that to be suspicious.”

  “So did they.” The doctor relaxed now that Debbie leaned in close, letting a bit of cleavage show, if unintentional. Malcolm pushed down the jealousy, realizing the old adage was true. You could catch a lot more bees with honey than vinegar. He sat back, allowing Debbie to take the reins.

  “What changed their minds?”

  “Not every single bit of investigating makes it into the records, I’m sure you understand.”

  Debbie tapped the pen on her chin. “You mean, they’re covering for someone?”

  Iverson laughed, waving his hands. “Not in that way. They wouldn’t go so far as to cover up a murder. No, they traced her cell records. There were a lot of calls between her and one of the professors at the school. They did some digging, and Tara and the professor were a bit of a thing. Not unheard of, and they were both young and single, so nothing shady there, but it doesn’t give a good appearance, professionally.”

  “Who is this professor?”

  Iverson scrolled through the computer. “Jim Fischer.”

  The phone rang on the doctor’s desk. He held up a finger and picked up the receiver. “Hello. Uh-huh. I’m in a meeting. Yeah. Okay. Well, I’ll come down to sign when I’m done here. Shouldn’t be but a few more minutes.”

  While they tried not to listen in on the one-way conversation, Malcolm and Debbie shared a look. Her look implied she believed Tara had engaged in a secret love affair with a college professor. Perhaps her death didn’t have anything to do with the systematic murdering of former targets. Malcolm had stolen her dream himself. He would’ve seen if she’d end up dying at his hands. Something had altered her future, but he had doubts. After all, who knew better than a dream thief how easily a simple deviation can completely change the course of someone’s life.

  The doctor replaced the receiver. “I’m sorry about that. The funeral home is here to pick up Miss Booth’s remains. I’m afraid we’ll need to wrap this up, but I can send you a copy of her death certificate.”

  Debbie held up a hand. “I have it. I would like to know why the police didn’t think Jim Fischer had anything to do with her death.”

  “From what the detective told me, Mr. Fischer was supposed to join Tara last Friday evening, but at the last minute, the dean volunteered him to do a talk at a charity event for the school. He was there until just after ten. He left her several messages that evening, but she never answered. When he drove up early Saturday morning, all her stuff remained in the cabin, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. He got spooked and ran. Wasn’t the smartest idea, but her time of death was between five to seven Friday night. He had a solid alibi. No reason to ruin his career for an accident.”

  The doctor stood, and Debbie rose and slid an arm through his. She dawned a bright smile, eyes sparkling, a move Malcolm had seen her do hundreds of times to customers on the fence about a purchase back at their old bookstore, Eye of the Beholder. “You have helped us so much. I feel so bad for that poor girl, only twenty-one years old.”

  Iverson stroked Debbie’s arm, in a move that was meant to look like consoling but bordered on flirtatious. “I know. I see a lot of sad cases every day, but this one also struck me. I’m sure you see a lot of sad cases in your line of work, too.”

  Debbie laughed. Her voice dipped an octave lower. “Oh, we mainly get cheating spouses. I just don’t understand. How did that poor girl drown?”

  Iverson led Debbie down a hall, opposite the entrance, not realizing he led her toward the morgue. As Malcolm let the distance between them grow, something cracked in his chest, a foreign yet famil
iar sensation, similar to when he had a target. He paused, catching the last of the doctor’s words. “She did have on a bathing suit.”

  He couldn’t have a target. He wasn’t a dream thief, not anymore, and this felt different. He wasn’t drawn to fold in on time and space; it was more like a beacon guiding him somewhere. His feet walked of their own accord and the sensation built. He crept through a door inside a cool metallic room with white tiled floors. He recognized rows of steel doors with a hand in the middle. This was where the bodies were stored. This was where Tara Booth awaited to be picked up. The sensation pulsed through him now, building in intensity, like words screaming Here! Here! Here!

  His hand reached out and grabbed a random handle that he knew wasn’t random at all. A blast of icy air greeted him as he opened the door. Inside the dark tube was a white sheet draped over the still form of a person, and only dull, lanky brown hair peeked from the top of the sheet. He moved to the side and slid Tara Booth’s body out and guided the sheet down. The bloated blue skin seemed to crawl and slither while the beckoning intensified. As if he’d been transformed into a puppet, his hand reached out, laid gently upon the cold, hard flesh of her forehead, mere centimeters from the circular incision from the autopsy. He closed his eyes and plummeted into the dead girl’s mind.

  10

  The connection crawled, cold and difficult, straining that deep part of the singularity that used to pull dreams into him. Darkness surrounded him as death’s icy clutches chased him through deep caverns, and his blood cooled in his veins. He fought and fought to get further inside, to some part of Tara’s brain that hadn’t yet decayed or been destroyed by the autopsy. Instinct drove him further until shadowy images flashed. Unlike a living, dreaming mind, these images wavered and flickered, with fine details missing. Pain and fear laced every new scene laid bare before him. He saw the last few horrendous hours of her life, the sole witness to the agony of her death, and felt every nuance of her emotional rollercoaster as those bastards stole her future.