Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  Martinez jumped off the dock ledge.

  Kirk dropped to the pavement and sprinted after the fleeing man. His temper rose, and he could feel his heart kick in as adrenaline surged through his body.

  Martinez rounded the corner.

  Kirk hit the corner and dropped his shoulder into the cinder block wall to slow his momentum then, with his gun drawn, whipped around the side of the building.

  Nothing…

  He heard a car engine start and saw a green, paint-chipped Caddy squeal out of the parking lot, just missing a light pole and throwing gravel as it hit the street.

  He yanked his keys from his pocket as he ran. Hitting the auto-lock button, he jumped into his rental car, fired it up, and took off out of the parking lot. He could see the taillights of the runaway Caddie in the distance, weaving in and out of traffic as though driven by a drunken psychopath.

  Kirk Grabbed his cell phone from his belt and dialed 911.

  “911. What is your emerg—”

  He cut the operator off. “This is Detective Weston, DPD. I’m in pursuit of a green 1990’s Cadillac heading west on…” The street sign whipped past him as the driver of an oncoming car slammed the brakes, swerving out of the way. “…Fourth Street. Just past Beacon Ave. Send backup. Suspect is Hispanic, hundred-and-eighty pounds, wearing a dark jacket and gray pants.” He dropped the phone on the seat and grabbed the wheel with both hands to make a hard left, sending the phone onto the passenger-side floorboard.

  He caught up to the old Caddy, thanking his lucky stars he drove a Crown Vic. Cars flew by like blurs of light, horns honking. Then it hit him. They were on the wrong side of the street.

  “Gus, old buddy, you just messed with the wrong cop!” Gritting his teeth and swerving into the right lane, he pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the car surged forward. He saw a sharp, right-hand curve in the road ahead and knew it was his chance to gain the advantage.

  The two cars screamed down the industrial road, his front bumper within nudge range of the rear bumper of the Cadillac. As they started into the curve, Kirk jammed his foot to the floor, waited for the gear to drop and smashed into his target. He crammed the steering wheel hard to the left, propelling Gus Martinez into a spin.

  Bumpers locked and the two cars spun in an ever-widening circle. Kirk fought for control, hoping he looked like some sort of super cop in complete control of the spin and the impending outcome. But that was wishful thinking, and he knew it. A white minivan slid through the intersection, t-boning the Cadillac and knocking the cars apart. Gus’s car slid away, then flipped over in a shower of sparks and grinding metal.

  The minivan bounced onto the curb, smoke erupting from its crumpled hood. Kirk stomped his brakes, cranked the wheel away from the minivan, and skidded to a stop. He jerked his door open and crouched behind it, aiming his .45 at the overturned Caddy. He heard brakes squeal and an airhorn blast, then saw a woman burst from the minivan and a semi-truck jackknifed onto its side behind her car. The truck slid toward them, scraping the road like a huge snowplow, metal grating and twisting in a tortuous grind.

  The semi ground to a halt beside the Cadillac. Martinez crawled out a broken window and slipped behind the rear fender of his car. An instant later, he popped around the side, a gun in his hand, and opened fire. Kirk fired two shots that pinged off the rear fender. He scanned the area for movement and saw the flash a microsecond before he felt the sting in his leg. He swore. Martinez had aimed below the door. Last thing he needed was a bullet in his leg.

  Furious, he jumped around the door and ran toward the Cadillac, ignoring the sharp pain crawling up his leg. Martinez peeked over the chassis of his car, saw Kirk and ducked, but not before Kirk shot him in the shoulder.

  Twisting with the impact, he fell backward onto the debris-strewn pavement.

  Kirk dove to the ground, skidding on his belly across glass shards and spilled fluids.

  Gus rolled over, gun raised.

  Kirk fired two shots in rapid succession that hit the dark-haired man squarely in the forehead.

  For a moment, Kirk lay in the middle of the street hearing only the thumping in his ears. He grunted as he pulled himself to his feet and brushed glass and dirt from his arms. He made his way to the back of the car, where Martinez lay in a widening pool of blood.

  He pounded his fist against the car. You had to kill the guy, didn’t you, Weston? He pushed your buttons, and you just had to make him pay! His only lead, and he’d killed the man. He could hear the sound of emergency vehicles closing in on them.

  CHAPTER 5

  MARK TRIED TO OPEN his eyes. They felt heavy, like they had weights on them. Finally, he forced one eyelid open, but instantly closed it against the painful, blinding light.

  Head throbbing, he waited a moment before squinting through both eyes. He was lying on a bed in a medium-sized room with a television mounted on the opposite wall. A man on the screen wearing a suit, apparently a weatherman, pointed at clouds rushing over a satellite picture of the United States, talking rapidly. But all he could hear was a monotonous beeping sound.

  Mark turned his head. The sound seemed to come from the machine beside the bed. He heard rustling and saw someone in scrubs pass his door. So I’m in a hospital, was his first thought. His second was, Why?

  He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his side and knocked him back to his pillow. But it wasn’t just his side. His whole body ached. Eyes wide, he stared at his torso, which was swathed in bandages, and at the tubes that protruded between the strips. Had he been in a car accident? Had he fallen? Had he—?

  Then he remembered. And his heart shattered. He shuddered, recalling the horror of watching his family walk into the grocery store just as a frantic man dashed out. He relived the explosion. Saw the ball of fire flashing toward him.

  “Nurse! Nurse!” he called. “I need help! Someone help me!” Despite the bandages on his hands, he frantically felt the bed for the call button but couldn’t find it.

  A nurse rushed into the room. “Mr. Appleton, are you in pain?” She glanced at his chart then reached for his wrist. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

  “Please,” he croaked as she took his pulse. His mouth was so dry, he could barely speak. “My wife. My daughter. Where are they? They were in the grocery store. Have you seen them? Please…” He gripped her hand and stared into her face.

  She took his hand in both of hers. “Mr. Appleton, I am so sorry…” She swallowed. “Everyone inside the supermarket died in the explosion. Only four survivors were found outside the building, including you. I am so sorry about your family.” Tears filled her eyes. “I wish I could give you hope, but I can’t.”

  “No, it can’t be!” He pushed himself upright. “Tell me it isn’t true!”

  She shook her head, tears now pouring down her cheeks.

  His heart exploded into a million pieces, like the windows of his car. He covered his face with his hands and began to rock as he wept. He had to think, but he couldn’t marshal his thoughts. He could barely breathe. How could he live without his family? K and Samantha were his life, his everything. The nurse patted his back and asked him if he wanted anything.

  He shook his head.

  She offered him water.

  Again, he shook his head. Though his throat was parched, he couldn’t drink, not with Sam and K dead.

  She told him she was going to find the doctor and hurried out of the room.

  Still rocking, he wrapped his arms around his sore ribs. He should have gone into the store with them, should have protected them from ... from whatever it was. Or died with his family.

  Finally, he dropped onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep, then feeling guilty for wanting to escape the pain.

  The doctor came in, looked him over and checked his charts. He offered his condolences, asked how he felt, but Mark didn’t respond. Instead, he asked what caused the explosion. The doctor told him no one knew, but the authorities were alr
eady investigating.

  Later that evening, Bill and Holly visited. His mother-in-law’s eyes were red and puffy. Bill looked like he was about to pass out. Without even a hello, Mark turned his back to them. It was selfish, he knew. They had lost their daughter and granddaughter, but he could not feel anything beyond his own deep, dark grief. He couldn’t shoulder their grief, too.

  He refused to eat, so the nurse added something to his IV. He really didn’t care what she did. The only reason to get well was to find out what happened, find out what had incinerated his family. Even if it was an accident, he would find the negligent person responsible for killing his family and... He wasn’t sure what he would do. But if the explosion was intentional, the bomber would pay—and pay dearly.

  * * *

  “YOU, MR. WESTON, ARE off the case!” Captain Jacobson jabbed a long, bony finger at Kirk’s nose. “The last thing I need is a rogue cop running around my city. All you had to do was interview the families in your file. Was that so hard? Now we’ve got a dead witness and miles of rubble I’ve got to explain to the media. Who do you think is going to pay for all the damage?”

  Kirk shrugged his shoulders. “I was just doing my job—following a lead.”

  Jacobson’s face darkened. “I want you on the next plane back to Detroit,” he hissed. “Your superiors are expecting you.” He plopped into the chair behind his desk and motioned for Kirk to leave.

  Kirk stood, pulled the purchase order from his jacket and tossed it onto the desk. “You might want to look into this.” He cursed and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Interviewing the inmates’ families was a joke. This was a well-planned job, and he had a feeling the FBI had a good idea who did it. Maybe they could have stopped it. But then again, who gave a crap about a bunch of dead cons? Their massacre would save the taxpayers money.

  He flagged a cab outside the FBI building. “Hill View Hotel.” He slumped into the backseat and closed the door, his bandaged leg aching from the short walk. Rubbing his chin, he thought about what his next move should be and decided to check into a different hotel. If that bottled-capped captain thought he was going to send him packing, he had another thing coming.

  His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and looked at the number. It was his boss, who was sure to have a few choice words of his own for him. He silenced the ringer. “This one, I’m doing on my own.”

  The cab stopped in front of the hotel. Kirk dug in his wallet and tossed the driver a fifty. “Keep the change.”

  Hill View was a simple hotel in the midst of other cheap hotels. The lobby stank of cigar smoke and stale coffee. He didn’t bother to look at the scabby rail of a man behind the short counter they called a front desk.

  He packed his clothes, which were thrown all over the floor, making sure to grab one of the fluffy, white robes as a gift to himself. “Thanks. I needed one of these.”

  He stuffed the robe into his Under Armor athletic bag and zipped it shut, thinking how strange it was that a dump like the Hill View had robes. Let them charge me.

  Outside the hotel, he slung the bag over his shoulder, put on his sunglasses and headed for the Avis car rental agency several blocks away, though walking was painful. He gritted his teeth each time he added weight to his sore leg. The only comfort was the knowledge he’d sent the goon that shot him to the morgue.

  He had to flash his badge to get the woman behind the counter moving. Noting in the computer that he’d smashed his previous rental car didn’t help her uncooperative mood, but he promised her the FBI would take care of it.

  Once he was behind the wheel again, he felt much better. He’d requested a Dodge Charger, and they happened to have one left. He was especially pleased that it was black.

  He sat for a moment in the agency’s parking lot, contemplating his next move. He couldn’t get Martinez’s words out of his mind. They said. Who was they? He needed more info. What he needed was a hacker. He needed Mooch.

  He’d picked up Mooch a few years back for hacking into the eBay website and changing every auction to “Buy it Now for One Dollar”. EBay officers had ended up in a lawsuit for the billions lost in that one day.

  But Kirk didn’t arrest Mooch. Instead, a working relationship was forged between the two. It was always good to have a computer whiz owe one a favor. In this case, it was a big one.

  “It’s time to pay up, kid.” He dialed his cell as he drove, weaving in and out of traffic, only to be stuck behind three Yellow Cabs.

  “Pick up,” Kirk muttered.

  The other end of the line crackled and a young voice came on the line.

  “Hey, Mooch, I need that favor you owe me. I’ll be online in ten minutes. Stay close to your phone.” He pushed the End button before Mooch could say anything more than hello.

  Slipping his phone into his pocket, he turned down Fourth Street, looking for a coffee shop. He needed some caffeine. If he was cut off in traffic one more time, he would no doubt lose it.

  He spotted a small coffee shop at the next corner with a Mean Bean sign above the window, pulled down the alley behind the brick building and parked in back. Grabbing his laptop from the front seat, he locked the doors and strode in the back door as if he owned the place.

  The walls of the Mean Bean were painted mocha brown and black and decorated with burlap sacks, along with pictures of coffee beans and newspaper clippings of the shop’s ribbon-cutting ceremony, which made at least one local paper.

  He ordered a plain, black coffee from the pretty, brown-eyed brunette at the counter. On a different day, he might have flirted with her, but “thanks” was all he offered today. He headed toward a booth at the back and slid across the vinyl seat.

  As his laptop booted up, he glanced around the nearly empty place. One guy with a woven cap on his head was hunched in an easy chair reading a book, and a couple of ladies were laughing and talking in hushed tones over what looked like scones and tea.

  When he heard twenty-year-old Mooch’s voice answer his call, he jumped right in. “Mooch, bring up the Transportation Department.”

  * * *

  MARK WAS RELEASED FROM the hospital the next day, though he was a long way from healed. The doctor told him he had to take it easy for a month, so his ribs could heal properly. He had three broken ribs, lacerations over his arms, legs and back, and his hands were swollen and bruised.

  However, considering what he had been through, the doctor said he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t feel lucky. Lucky people don’t watch their families die and lose all that matters to them in an instant.

  He took a cab home, even though Bill and Holly had offered to drive him. He wanted to walk through the front door alone. He didn’t know how he would react when he returned to an empty house.

  He stopped in the foyer, where K’s scent lingered, and closed his eyes. He had to get through this. There was no one to hold his hand and do it with him or for him. He walked upstairs, looking at all the family photos that hung on the wall. How could this have happened? Just yesterday, he’d awakened in the hotel after an incredible night with K. Just yesterday, he’d hugged little Sam and felt her squirm with energy and excitement as she showed him her new toy puppy dog she’d named Woofie.

  K smiled at him from the bathroom. He could see her putting on makeup, brushing her hair. He smelled her perfume, ran his fingers over her clothes in the closet.

  He stumbled back to the bedroom. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go on without K and Sam. This house, this home they’d made together wasn’t a home anymore. It was just another house on a street where other families lived, played, and loved each other.

  A wave of emotion racked his body. He fell onto the carpet, weeping bitterly. What would he do without them? He could not live in this house filled with memories, memories that would increase the pain of his overwhelming loss. He wanted to remember K and Sam, but knew he could not live surrounded with the life he’d had with them. He had to leave.

  The phone
on the nightstand beside the bed rang. Startled from his grief, he crawled to his feet and checked the caller ID. It was Hank, calling from his cell phone.

  He hesitated. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but Hank was his boss, a boss who’d been close to his family. He dried his eyes on his shirtsleeve and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  Hank’s voice was soft. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” He paused. “I, I don’t know what to say. The explosion was a horrendous thing, but knowing K and Sam were in that store…” It sounded like he choked back a sob. “Everyone here is in shock. They’re all thinking of you and praying for you.”

  He swallowed, the sound audible on the phone. “The next few weeks and months are going to be rough. Take as much time as you need to get through this. We’ll cover for you. I’ll help however I can—line up meals, funeral arrangements, legal matters. A shoulder to cry on. Whatever. Just let me know.”

  Mark sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Thanks, Hank. K’s parents are taking care of most of the funeral arrangements. They scheduled it for Wednesday morning.” Just the thought of attending K’s and Sam’s funerals made him want to throw up.

  He took a breath. “I think after that, I’m just going to get out of town for a bit…” His voice drifted off. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay, buddy. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

  Mark hung up the phone and sat on the side of the bed. He looked around their bedroom, memories threatening to overwhelm him. Endless nights of lovemaking. K in the morning, her hair spread across her pillow. Sam cuddled between them, kissing first one parent, then the other. He couldn’t spend one more night in his house, a house that was once a home.

  But he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Maybe he should get something closer to work. The only reason they’d lived outside the city was for Sam’s sake, but now… He shook his head and lifted a picture from the nightstand of him and K standing in front of their house. K’s beautiful smile radiated as she beamed at her newborn daughter sleeping in her arms. He took the photo out of the frame and held it to his chest.