Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  Pulling himself to his feet, he stared at K’s outline as she slept on her side. Her blonde hair flowed across her shoulder, one curl falling on her cheek. His brain fought to pull him back into reality. But which reality?

  Hot tears streamed down his face as he watched his beautiful wife sleep. She was so perfect. He felt his heart tear open, the old wound rip apart, blood gush out anew.

  I have to wake up. He slapped himself.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  His nose began to bleed, dripping down his bare chest. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and tried to focus. How can this be?

  He tried to stop his mind from bombarding him with questions. He needed to go with this. This dream was more real than he’d ever thought a dream could be. There must be a reason for this, something I must see and learn. Now he was thinking clearly, all eight cylinders firing, and felt wide-awake, or as awake as was possible in a dream.

  His bare chest was wet from sweat and blood, and his damp hair clung to his scalp. Walking over to the bed, he slid between the sheets. K rolled over and reached for him. Moaning peacefully, she put her arm across his chest.

  Mark turned off the lamp and wrapped his arms around his wife. He pulled her close. Tears ran down his face as he sobbed quietly, knowing that in the morning she would be gone.

  The feel of her next to him was the only thing he wanted, had ever wanted. He felt like cursing God and demand to have his life back, to take His old, wise face in his hands and make Him see what kind of pain coursed through his veins because of Him.

  Then he quieted and thanked that same God for this brief moment, this space in time, where for one night, no matter how short, he had her back in his arms. He knew that tomorrow she would be gone again.

  His world was perfect right now, at this moment in time. His beautiful wife lay in his arms, and his daughter slept soundly down the hall.

  * * *

  THE SOFT SUNLIGHT STREAMED through the window and danced on Mark’s closed eyelids, but he kept his eyes closed, knowing that when he opened them, he would be alone.

  The sheets were still damp from the night before. Finally, he slid his hand across the bed, longing to touch the warm body of his beloved K.

  Nothing.

  His fears were confirmed. It was just a dream. But he loved her more than ever after the dream. What was he going to do without her?

  “Honey, you better get up, or you’ll be late for work.”

  He gasped. K!

  His heart stopped, but his mind whirred. He could not think or feel past the ringing in his ears.

  He opened his eyes, looking down at his toes and past them into the bathroom. He could see his wife pulling a blue shirt over her blonde ponytail.

  He pinched his leg, hard.“Ouch.” He wasn’t dreaming.

  Kay walked into the room buttoning her pants. “Honey, you okay? You must have had a bad dream. You soaked the sheets last night.”

  “Uh, yeah… I had a really, really… bad dream.” The room spun, and his heart ached with a mixture of pain and joy.

  “I’m sorry, baby. Maybe you’ll forget it in the shower.” She knelt to tie her shoes. “You’d better get ready before Sam wakes up.”

  I am not crazy. This is just an incredibly realistic dream. He threw back the covers and stood.

  Time stood on end as he walked toward his dead wife. She was dead, yet here she was, all of her. Living, breathing, smiling K. His K. No matter how much he told himself that this couldn’t be real, he could not deny how real it felt.

  “Honey. You look terrible!” K reached up to brush his hair off his forehead.

  Her touch triggered chills that shot from his scalp to his bare feet.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  He grabbed her hands—her wonderful hands—and held them against his chest. “I feel a little sick to my stomach.” Was this how shock felt?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” She scrunched her eyebrows. “You look surprised to see me this morning.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He kissed her neck, kissed her lips, kissed her forehead, all the while sobbing. His whole body shook.

  K clutched his jaw, one hand on each side of his face. “Baby? What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  He tried to answer but couldn’t. He just clung to her and cried until he finally managed to pull himself together.

  She peered into his eyes, her forehead knotted with concern. “Tell me. What is it, hon?”

  He dropped his head onto her shoulder. “My dream…it was so awful, and so real. I thought… thought you and Sam were dead. It was terrible, so—” He couldn’t put into words the agony swirling in his head and heart.

  She kissed him and whispered in his ear. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Forever.”

  He hugged her tighter and returned the kiss, tasting her sweet lips, drinking in the life he’d lost but was now found.

  “Daddy!” Sam came bounding into the room, her hair sticking out every direction.

  “Baby girl!” Mark took her in his arms and kissed her all over, making her squeal with delight. Her laughter filled his heart with incredible happiness as he tickled his darling little girl. He didn’t know why he had dreamed such a horrible, vivid dream, but he’d discovered he loved his family far more than he’d ever showed them.

  While K bargained with Samantha to eat her eggs, Mark called in to work to take the day off. He needed to recoup from his dream—or whatever it was. He could not put it all together. It was as if he had lived a year in a different world. Or was that world real and this one different?

  K was overjoyed to learn he’d taken the day off. Sam had a play date that morning. After her afternoon nap, she was going to K’s parents’ house to spend the night.

  Mark looked at the calendar, then turned on the news. It was the day before their wedding anniversary. Friday. He sat in his recliner and watched but didn’t hear the news anchor talk about the weather. K and Sam had died on a Saturday. But that was a dream. It wasn’t real. He shook his head, trying to talk some sense into his brain.

  What if it was real but just hadn’t happened yet? That’s impossible—you can’t see into the future. He didn’t believe in that sort of thing. A guy could pay some crazy woman at the fair to read his fortune for him, but this—this was something completely different.

  He tried to recall the dream, but all he could remember was that his wife and child had died, and that was enough for him to know it wasn’t good. He remembered he was planning to take K to The Leaf on Friday night for their anniversary and that he’d reserved a hotel room as well. He wondered if the reservations were still active. He scratched his head. They had to be, because as far as he could tell, nothing had happened.

  “K, I’m going to run into the city for a few hours today. I need to run some errands before we take Sam to her grandparent’s house.”

  K answered from the kitchen. “Okay; I’ll be a couple hours at the park, then she’ll need a nap. I’ll call Mom and Dad and ask if they can come over here to pick her up.”

  “Sounds great. Are you excited about your hot date tonight?”

  “You know it, baby.”

  “Hot date!” Sam’s little voice was muffled. Evidently, K had managed to shovel some scrambled eggs inside. “I hot. Me, hot date!”

  K laughed. “Yes you are, kiddo. You have a hot date with Grandma and Grandpa tonight.”

  Sam giggled and hollered for her grandparents. She loved to be with them, but who could blame her. They always had plenty of candy and a bottomless supply of hugs.

  CHAPTER 22

  MOOCH WAS WAY TOO perky for this time of night. Kirk was not a night owl, yet he was on the phone at midnight with a corn nut-crunching motormouth. He pulled the phone away from his ear and scowled at it, hoping to transfer his feelings to the annoying geek on the other end. But he needed Mooch, so he endured the assault on his eardrum and asked him to research Operation Justi
ce.

  “What is this? Some FBI thing?” Mooch asked.

  “Yeah, I need to know everything about anyone who might be involved in the project. Also check out anything you can find on the World Justice Agency.”

  Mooch laughed in Kirk’s ear. “The WJA?”

  “Yeah, why? Do you know who they are?”

  “Yeah, they’re the thing of myths, man. You know, kinda like Robin Hood. They hunt down the bad guys, then disappear into the woodwork. They're kind of like X-men, but for real—not mutants—but pretty cool. If they were real, that is.”

  “Do you know who runs the organization?”

  “No, man. It’s just an idea, a concept. A bedtime story. If you think they’re a real group, dude, you might want to check to see what’s in your coffee.”

  “This is the real deal, Mooch, and they’re a real organization. I need to know who’s in charge and where their headquarters is located. If the FBI thinks they exist, I’ll take their word for it over yours. Besides, I have it from a secondary source that they do, in fact, exist.” I was there, or at least I think I was. His imprisonment was becoming more and more like a bad nightmare every day.

  “I’ll do my best, but you’d better cover my butt on this. If I get caught hacking the feds, I’m in deep doo-doo.”

  “Just get me the information. According to what you say, you’re the best. Here’s your chance to prove it.”

  Kirk hung up the phone, set it on the breakfast bar, and stared off into space. They needed to find the mole and his or her connection to the WJA.

  Kirk looked over at where Geoff had been watching TV. He was passed out on the couch, his mouth wide open and a guttural snore vibrating his chest. It had been a long day, and Kirk was getting tired himself. Tomorrow they’d get an interview with Captain Jacobson, one way or another.

  * * *

  GEOFF WOKE UP WITH a start and yawned, stretching his arms above his head. The TV was on, but the rest of the apartment was dark. His watch read two thirty a.m. He felt good, and his mind kicked into gear, reminding him why his internal clock had brought him back into the land of the living.

  Getting up, he leaned back, popped a couple vertebrae, and let out a sigh. He went to the fridge to grab a Pepsi. Nothing was as good as an ice-cold Pepsi. Of course, at this hour, it might keep him awake for awhile, but he wasn’t planning to go back to bed anytime soon anyway.

  He looked at the door to Kirk’s bedroom. It was half-open. He could see the detective’s leg sticking out from under the covers like a dead branch on a very old tree.

  It’s time.

  Walking over to his shoulder bag, he pulled out a nine MM and screwed on a silencer. He opened the curtains and studied the gun in the moonlight. It was a beautiful weapon. The stainless steel caught the moon’s white light and bounced it back at him. Too nice of a gun, really, to waste on an old geezer like Weston. He sighed. It was a simple chore, one beneath his skill level, but he was a professional, and he had a job to do.

  He tiptoed into the other bedroom, pointed the gun at Kirk Weston’s chest, and fired.

  * * *

  MARK HEADED INTO THE city, trying to clear his head as he drove. This dream or vision, or whatever it was, had shaken him to his very core. Maybe he was dreaming now and what he thought was his dream the night before was reality.

  He laughed.

  Stop over-thinking this, Appleton. You’re here, and your family is alive. But then, maybe they weren’t. Maybe his mind was so broken he’d imagined K and Sam were alive, but he was really asleep somewhere, lost in a dream world of his own making.

  The radio played in the background, filling the car with the distinctive voice of Glenn Beck, who was rattling on about gas prices. He sounded real enough. Mark stopped by a small coffee shop and found a parking spot right in front, which was a rare, if not unheard-of, experience. Maybe he was dreaming, after all. He ordered a coconut mocha, picked up a newspaper and found a comfortable chair.

  “Cindy, are you there?” The morning news sounded from a television that hung in the corner just above a rounded counter filled with straws, creamer, sugar and everything else one might want to add to his or her cup of Joe.

  “Yes, Tom. I’m here at the New York City maximum-security prison on David’s Island. We don’t know what exactly is going on at this point, but we’ve been told some inmates have suffered from food poisoning. The Center for Disease Control is already at the prison investigating the apparent outbreak.”

  Mark stared at the screen, mouth open. He’d heard the same report a year ago while stalled in traffic. He remembered how he’d anticipated his date with K all day and how anxious he was to get home to her.

  This can’t be. It was a dream. Or was this the dream?

  He looked back at the paper in his hand and saw a “buy one, get one free” ad for Campbell’s latest chunky soup at the Super Mart.

  He jumped to his feet and ran for the door. He hit the fob button and climbed into his Honda Accord, trying to remember all the details of that day. He’d gone to work, returned home after work, took K out to dinner—and then they went to the hotel.

  Nothing unusual on Friday. What happened next? He had to think.

  We got up late, then we picked up Samantha, then… Then went to the Super Mart…

  “Pat. I have to find Pat Rotter.”

  * * *

  KIRK RUBBED HIS HEAD, which felt twice its normal size and throbbed as if a thunderstorm was brewing between his ears. When he tried to sit up, a bolt of pain shot across his left side. Feeling under his shirt, he could tell several ribs had been broken.

  But he didn’t remember how—or why. All he could remember was going to bed, then waking up here, wherever here was. He looked around. Light was coming from under a door in front of him.

  He swore. Kidnapped for a second time. Either he was an easy target or he was making someone nervous. These WJA people were beginning to get on his nerves.

  He could tell from the primitive cell that he was in an old prison. The floor was concrete and the walls were made of rough bricks. The thick wooden door was wrapped with metal around the edges.

  He grunted and sat up, ignoring the pain in his side. Was this a WJA prison? Couldn’t be. This wasn’t their style. Too rugged and out-of-date. No magnets. No flying saucers.

  He heard a key slide into the lock, then a click, and the door was shoved open. He covered his face with his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light and see who was standing in front of him. But all he saw were dark shadows.

  Two masked men yanked him to his feet. He almost passed out from the pain as he was dragged out of his cell and down a hallway. He kicked his feet and fought for footing without success.

  Other doors lined the wide hallway. Most of them were shut. Who knew how many more victims were waiting for their fate with broken ribs, or worse, in a cold, dark cell, wondering if they would ever see the blue sky again.

  The men threw him onto a cold metal chair and tied his hands behind his back. His feet were strapped to the legs of the chair.

  One of the masked men knelt before him. “You might be wondering why we brought you here, Detective Weston.” The deep, thick voice had a hint of Russian and was tinted with contempt. He leaned close. “You have information we need. You are going to tell us everything you know. Understand?”

  Kirk looked into the man’s dark eyes, instinctively memorizing everything about his interrogator and realizing the large, muscular man could tear him apart without breaking a sweat.

  He grinned at the Russian, then spit in his face. The man backhanded him and sent him toppling to the hard floor with a loud crash. His skull bounced against the cement and blue-and-yellow stars floated across his vision.

  Ow—that hurt.

  The two masked men pulled him upright.

  His ribs rebelled, but he refused to cry out.

  The big man folded his arms and looked at him as if examining a piece of fruit. “So, you think you’re tough. W
e will see, Mr. Weston.”

  With that, he turned and left the room. The two other men followed him without a word. The door shut with a clink of the lock.

  Kirk surveyed his surroundings. It looked like he was in a washroom. Clumps of hair clung to the rusted floor drain. The tiled walls were so dirty he couldn’t tell the color. A naked light bulb hung from an cord in the center of the room.

  He could hear someone talking outside his door and had a feeling his captors weren’t planning ways to make him more comfortable.

  The door flew open, and one of the masked men marched in. Pulling out a knife from his pocket, he cut away the rope, freeing Kirk’s hands.

  It’s now or never!

  Jumping to his feet, he spun around, sending his legs and the chair crashing into the masked man’s face. He fell to the floor with his legs on top of the now-unconscious man. He frantically searched for the knife, then spotted it on the floor a few feet away.

  He dragged his body toward the knife, the chair scraping the cement floor. He heard his attacker begin to stir.

  One more foot.

  With a final lunge, he grabbed the knife and spun onto his back, pulling his legs to his chest. He cut his feet loose from the chair and rolled to his feet, ignoring the scream rising from his ribs.

  He jumped on top of his assailant, who was on his knees spitting blood onto the tile floor. Kirk shoved the knife beneath the man’s chin and drew the blade from one side of his throat to the other. The guard made gasping, gurgling sounds and dropped to the floor. Kirk stepped over his body and walked toward the door, which was half open.

  Kirk peeked into the hallway and could hear voices coming from the other end. He clutched his side with one hand and gripped the knife in the other.

  What did they think he knew? And what did they think he would do—lie down and take their garbage?

  He tried to ignore the questions that ran through his mind, but he was a detective, and it came naturally. His anger was rising, and he could feel his primal instincts kicking in as he leaned out to get a clear view of the hall.

  Just get out of here alive, Weston. No heroics.