Sweet Dreams

by William W. Johnstone

  “And I don’t think we should pursue this any further. It’s too dangerous. Once outside the perimeter one of us might not be able to get back in. Come on. I’ll meet you at the drive-in at the shopping center.”

  After ordering coffee and taking a table away from the other customers, Voyles said, “Look at the people, Doc. See anything odd about them?”

  “Sure I do, just as you do. They’re subdued. Look at their actions and their eyes. The eyes appear lifeless . . . dead. Like zombies’.”

  “I wish you’d use another word to describe them, Doc. That conjures up memories of old movies about the undead and werewolves and stuff like that.”

  “Can you think of a better way to describe what we’re seeing?”

  Voyles shook his head and inspected his coffee cup.

  “Let’s say Sanjaman’s powers extend about three miles in any given direction from the center of town,” Jerry offered. “That sound about right to you?”

  Again, Voyles nodded. He was studying the people in the café, All of them had, at one time or another since entering the café, rubbed the back of their necks. “Cut your eyes to the people in here, Doc. See if you pick up what I’m seeing.”

  Jerry looked around for a few seconds. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Dick.”

  Voyles said nothing. He watched as Jerry began rubbing the back of his neck.

  Vickie Hammel got in her car and sat for a moment before cranking the engine. She thought: These sure are some weird people around here. Not one of them remembers a damn thing about the night in question.

  Everyone she had spoken with had replied in the same dead, unemotional tone of voice. And they all looked . . . scared.

  Odd.

  Vickie was in her late twenties. She had been with the highway patrol since she was twenty-one. She was considered a fine investigative officer, and she was a crack shot with rifle, pistol, and shotgun.

  A green-eyed redhead, her temper matched the beautiful flame of her hair, as the trainees at the academy had discovered when Vickie was the lone woman going through state trooper training. Several of them had also learned, some a bit more painfully than others, that Vickie’s father was a Marine Corps colonel, a man who’d served with a Marine Raider Team during World War Two. Colonel Hammel had seen to it that all his kids learned the techniques of unarmed combat – wand knew them well.

  Bluntly speaking, Vickie had stomped the shit out of one rather offensive young man who had delighted in needling her.

  After that brief but impressive episode, Vickie was allowed to continue her training without the wisecracks and not-so-subtle remarks about her gender.

  She graduated among the top five of her class.

  She had been involved in three shoot-outs during her tenure on patrol. She had wounded two men and killed another. She had been the spokesperson during a tense hostage situation and had managed to resolve it without injury or death to either side.

  She had earned the respect of her peers – the hard way, the only way cops get it. Good cops, that is.

  She put her unmarked car in gear and pulled out. She had spot-checked the town for more than two hours, and she was experiencing a ... well, an odd sensation. Something – she didn’t know what – was definitely out of whack with the townspeople. They acted – Christ – like, like . . . zombies!

  She decided to drive out into the country, talk to a few farmers and their wives.

  But two miles out of town, Vickie drew a blank. She could not remember what she was supposed to do, why she was there, or where she was. She pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

  “What’s happening to me?” she said aloud. “Good God! The last thing I remember is leaving Sikeston at seven o’clock this morning.” She looked around her. “Where in the hell am I?”

  She sat in her car for a few more minutes, attempting to control her shaky nerves and piece together what had transpired between seven that morning and the present time. She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty.

  Backtrack, she thought. That’s what I have to do. Retrace my steps.

  “But what flippin’ steps?” she said.

  She glanced down at the clipboard beside her. Picked it up, and scanned the pages. Good Hope, she read.

  All right. Fine. So I’ve been in Good Hope. I know where that is. But what are these notes? TV shows? Her handwritten notes made no sense to her. What about TV shows?

  She read on: People are very evasive. People are acting strangely. Weird. Funny like in odd. What is going on in this town? No one remembers what transpired on night in question.

  “What night in question?” she said.

  She gripped the steering wheel tightly. Gripped it until her hands ached. She closed her eyes and attempted to pull something – anything – from the depths of her mind.

  Nothing.

  “Well, then, by God, I’ll just drive back to Good Hope.”

  She turned the car around and headed back. Five hundred yards down the road her memory returned. Everything. She pulled over and parked. Sweat began dotting her face. She clicked her ballpoint and wrote in a shaky handwriting: Return to Good Hope if you lose memory again. Last odometer reading: 23029.2.

  She turned her car around and headed back up the road. A few seconds later, she lost all memory of what had transpired.

  She stopped and looked around her.

  “What the hell am I doing out here?” she said. She looked around her, glanced down at the clipboard, read the message.

  “Oh, God!”

  She again turned the car around and headed back toward Good Hope. In a few seconds, total awareness returned.

  “Voyles said this was a weird one,” she muttered. “He sure wasn’t kidding about that.”

  She spoke aloud to calm her shaky nerves.

  She headed for the town of Good Hope. She wanted to sit down and have a long chat with Lieutenant Voyles, tell him about all this. And she just might punch him out for not leveling with her about this “weird one.”

  Voyles tape-recorded everything the kids told him. He was red-faced from thinly disguised rage as Heather related the events that had occurred at her house the night before.

  Voyles muttered something extremely vulgar under his breath about certain types of parents and what he’d like to do to them – painful procedure.

  Heather had left nothing out. She had used the exact words she had heard the adults and her brothers utter. Voyles, Jerry, Janet, and Maryruth were clearly embarrassed at certain points in the girl’s description of the events.

  Even Marc shifted in his seat a couple of times. He’d heard all those words in the movies and read them in certain books, but still . . .

  “Are you afraid, Heather?” Maryruth asked the young girl.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am. And for some reason – I’ve already told Marc – I’m very much afraid of Marc’s father.”

  “In what way?” Jerry asked.

  “Sexually afraid,” she replied.

  Marc said, “Heather, you remember back at the shopping center? When I said I had an idea?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” the boy said, “I’m not trying to be ugly or disloyal to my parents, or anything like that, but it’s like Heather said: our parents have turned against us. So ... things being the way they are, I think there is something Lieutenant Voyles should know.”

  Voyles looked at the boy. “All right, Marc. Go ahead.”

  “Up until now, my Dad pretty well had his act together. I mean, he’s been not just a good father, but a great one. But I overheard him and mother talking one night. I was about . . . oh, five, I think, but I remember it clear as day. She asked him, ‘Do you really, really think you’ve got it whipped this time, Harry.’ And my father said, ‘I really believe I have. The doctors think so, anyway.’ My Mom said, ‘All right then, Harry. But I don’t ever want to go through this again. I don’t want to have to leave a community in disgrace. Not ever again. If Marc has any little gir
ls over here playing, I want you out of the house. You stay away from them, Harry. Do you understand?’ My Dad said he did and that was the end of the conversation.”

  “Guess my fears have some grounds to them,” Heather said.

  “Where was this, Marc?” Voyles asked.

  “Frederick, Maryland.”

  “Were you born there?”

  “No, sir. I was born in Dallas, Texas.”

  “And you left there when?”

  “When I was four.”

  “Was your father ever in any trouble with the police in Maryland?”

  “I ... I don’t really know, sir. But a couple of times police in plainclothes came to the house and talked to my mother and father. One time Dad got real mad. He shouted at them. Said, ‘Goddammit, I haven’t done anything like that in a long time. How long does it take for a man’s background to fade?’ ”

  “Did the police reply to that?”

  “Yes, sir. They said, ‘In your case, Anderson – never.’ ”

  Voyles sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to run him. Dallas and Maryland. I’m going to tell Jeff City this is top priority and to shake it. We should know something by morning. If we’re real lucky, by late this afternoon.” He walked out of the room to radio in from his car.

  When he opened the door, Bud and Leo were standing on the porch.

  “Is the meeting still planned for one o’clock this afternoon?” Bud asked politely.

  Voyles nodded his head. “You’re weird,” he said. “I won’t even bother to ask how you knew about the meeting. You’d just tell me my white mind would not understand. Right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Go on in,” Voyles said. “I’m going to use some white man’s magic and radio in.”

  “An electromagnetic wave of sixty meters or less. You must have a repeater system in this state.”

  Voyles stalked off the porch, muttering under his breath. Bud smiled and opened the door for his friend.

  Jerry quickly brought the men up to date.

  “The lieutenant is correct – on the right track, I should say,” Bud said. “He will probably discover some terrible weakness in Marc’s father. The same type of weakness – although it does not manifest itself in the same manner – is present in all those directly in allegiance with Sanjaman. It is what he preys upon.”

  “Wait until Dick gets back,” Jerry put in. “I want you to elaborate on that.”

  Vickie listened to Voyles’s transmission. When he finished, she asked for his ten-twenty and drove over to Jerry’s house. After introductions were made and coffee was poured – Cokes for the kids – everyone settled in for a session.

  Jerry and Voyles, with a couple of assists from Heather and Marc, brought Vickie up to date. The woman sat in silence, disbelief on her face.

  Vickie smiled slowly. “It’s a joke, right?”

  She was met by silence.

  Vickie looked at each person in the room, Heather and Marc included. She said, “You people are totally bonkers!”

  “That’s what I thought, too, Hammel,” Voyles said. “And I’m still not one hundred percent certain that everything I’ve . . . well, seen and felt is real. But. . . .” – he shrugged his shoulders – “I can’t dispute facts. I can’t dispute what I have personally witnessed.”

  “Manitous? Spirits? The supernatural?” Vickie shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but no. This is just too far-fetched.”

  “Reserve further judgment until you have lived through a night here,” Bud told her. “I feel your opinions will undergo a very drastic change.”

  Maryruth said, “Bud, would you please go into more detail about the weaknesses you mentioned a few moments ago?”

  “Surely. Of the several thousand people in this community,” the Indian said, “only a handful are actually taking a willing part, assisting Sanjaman. These are people with a secret, flawed past. They are weak people, spiritually and emotionally. The Manitou has found their weaknesses, their hidden desires, and is using them. The vast majority of people in this area will not willingly take part in any bloodletting or assaults.”

  “You really believe all that mumbo jumbo!” Vickie said.

  “Of course,” Bud told her.

  “Incredible.”

  “Hammel, shut up,” Voyles said. “Just listen for a minute. Bud? If we round up those people working with . . . Sanjaman, then we’ve got it whipped, right?”

  “No,” Bud dashed that small hope. “Sanjaman would just find more people. And he might turn totally ruthless in his quest for immortality. That would be devastating.”

  “For whom?” Maryruth asked.

  “The entire community, dear lady. The state. The world.”

  “Oh, bullshit!” Vickie said.

  “Shut up, Hammel,” Voyles snapped. “And that’s an order.”

  She glared at him, green eyes flashing.

  “So what do we do?” Jerry asked.

  Bud said, “Out of this entire community, probably no more than ninety people – at the most – are actively and knowingly helping the Manitou. The majority have unconsciously rejected Sanjaman’s mental demands on them. They will take no part, for or against, the Manitou. They will, and this is the only way I know of phrasing it, be.”

  “I don’t understand,” Vickie said querulously.

  “Shut up, Hammel,” Voyles glared at her.

  “You tell me to shut up again,” Vickie warned him, “and I’ll jack your jaw.”

  Voyles looked at her, amazement in his eyes. “Little lady,” he said. “I – ”

  “And don’t call me little lady!”

  “Knock it off!” Jerry shouted.

  The two cops fell silent. But if looks could kill ...

  “Arguing among ourselves is the last thing we need,” Jerry said calmly. “Miss Hammel, I know what we’re saying is very difficult for you to accept. As a physician, I know it all flies in the face of science. But believe me, what we are discussing has happened. It’s . . . crazy, I know how it sounds, but it’s very real, Miss Hammel. And it’s very, very dangerous.”

  Vickie sighed and leaned back in her chair. She shrugged in resignation. “I’ve been assigned to work this case with Lieutenant Voyles. I guess I have no choice but to listen.”

  “Bud?” Janet said. “You said the people won’t help us?”

  “Won’t is not correct,” Bud replied. “They can’t help us. And they can’t help the Manitou or those aligned with him. They are, quite unknowingly, in ... well, call it limbo. Time, as we are presently experiencing it, does not exist for them. I am afraid you will all understand that in the very near future. And don’t ask me to elaborate. When this is over, if it will ever be over, those people caught in limbo will remember nothing. If we somehow manage to fight back the Manitou’s efforts, time will resume. If we lose”—he shook his head—“it will not matter.”

  Voyles’s head jerked up. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We shall all be dead—if we are lucky.”

  That brought Vickie alert. “Being dead is lucky? What’s unlucky?”

  “Serving Sanjaman. You will see. As time passes the Manitou is growing stronger with each hour.”

  “Our hours?” Marc said.

  “Time is different for a Manitous,” Bud explained. “It means nothing to him. Time is a plaything that a Manitou can change at will; on a whim. A Manitou is not of or for the white world. But he can make a place for himself here, for he was once a part of earth. He is all things pertaining to earth.”

  “Mind-boggling,” Vickie muttered.

  Voyles glared at her.

  She stuck out her tongue at him.

  Marc and Heather laughed at both of them.

  “What can stop the Manitou?” Maryruth asked.

  “Only a very few things,” Bud said. “One: another Manitou. Two: a being that is presently trapped between life and death. Three: a medicine man, if his medicine is strong enough. Your guns are use
less; your supplications to a higher power are useless. Your god and my gods are not the same. One does not recognize the other.”

  “Then the being caught between life and death can’t be a Christian?” Janet asked.

  “Certainly, it can,” Bud corrected. “For that spirit is no longer of this earth. It understands the workings of the nether world, a knowledge that only death brings.”

  Vickie muttered something under her breath.

  “What’d you say, Hammel?” Voyles asked her.

  “I said, maybe we should try to contact Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

  “Shut up, Hammel.”

  Before the two cops could start up again, Jerry said, “I think I’m beginning to comprehend some of this. The cries and thumping sounds that Marc and Heather heard—those are the children who were killed at the Lancaster house, right?”

  “I am certain of it,” Bud replied.

  “Oh, come on!” Vickie blurted. She looked at Voyles. “Damn it, Lieutenant, you’re a cop. You can’t be serious about all this . . . mumbo jumbo. You just . . .”

  Laughter came from the rear of the house. It sounded dark and evil . . . hollow. A foul odor drifted to the group.

  Vickie jumped to her feet. “What in the hell was that?”

  “She hasn’t lost it,” Heather said to Marc. “She believes.”

  The laughter came again; now it was a constant thing. It grew louder and louder, its volume rattling the windows. Vickie looked around as a movement on the porch caught her attention. The mailman was putting letters in the mailbox. He paid no attention to the wild booming laughter.

  Vickie watched the man place the mail in the box. He pulled out a bandana and wiped his sweaty face. He stood for a moment in the shade afforded by the porch, and contentedly scratched his ass. The laughter echoed, booming in waves around him, but he calmly stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. He chewed for a moment, hitched his heavy bag around, and then stepped off the porch, continuing on his appointed rounds.

  The laughter ceased; the house fell into a heavy silence.

  Vickie felt her heart beat heavily. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. She leaned against the back of a chair for support, fearful that her legs would not hold her.