The Nightmare Maker

by Gregory Pettit

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, but I replied first. “I’m dealing on my own behalf. Mr. Redderton can have a 10 percent agent’s fee for my work, but I’m making my own decisions here. I want that to be clear.” My conscience had already convinced me to turn down the Anarchist’s offer; I wouldn’t besmirch Dana’s memory by agreeing to something shameful now.

  “Of course,” Dennis replied. “Let me be forthright then, Mr. Adler, Mr. Redderton.” I noted the order in which he said our names. “We are dealing with an adversary who wants to undermine the very foundation of the nation. I know that it is not…your nation, Mr. Adler, but I believe that you have developed a certain fondness for our kingdom. The individual in question has at the heart of his intention the destruction of a select group that guides the economic fate of the country. Without our guiding hand and intervention, the city would not have the…draw that it has exerted upon investors for the last few centuries.” He paused even longer than usual, and Jack had a chance to interject.

  “The dead bankers were good, but, no offense, there are thousands of people who would do their jobs.” His gruff East End accent sounded out of place in the fine room, but the banker fielded his question with a smile and an inclusive spreading of his hands.

  “Yes, as bankers, we are certainly replaceable…but as priests and priestesses, we are extremely rare.” My eyebrow arched in puzzlement at that statement, but then I looked around the room a bit more closely. The heavy gilding suddenly brought to mind the interior of a cathedral instead of a palace, and I picked out various symbols—a pelican for stability here, a staff of Mercury (presumably in his role as god of trade) over there. Dennis saw my consideration and nodded appreciatively at my comprehension.

  “There were thirteen of us in the ranks of the Senior Clergy of Mammon. Now we are three. I can give you the name of my remaining magistrae. The Anarchist seems to be working the list in order of seniority—I’m not sure why, but it at least lets us know who is next on the list, and she must be protected. If you cannot protect her, then there is a final opportunity to…safeguard the nation—but it would also bring ruin. I saw that you were able to accomplish…something yesterday. This is much more than any of the others, who have promised so much but delivered so little, have managed. If you can stop this, I have it in my power to ensure that you have every possible resource, mundane and not, in your attempt to locate your missing wife. Mr. Redderton—I of course will want to continue using your firm for physical security. In that capacity, you’ve done an admirable job, and I have no doubt that that is why the individual in question has started to employ these…unorthodox tactics. My secretary will be able to provide you with a dossier on the way out of the building, and please be aware that the rest of my brothers and sisters, the junior priesthood, have been instructed to cooperate with you fully.” The banker sipped at his tea again, and then he replaced the cup on the saucer and stared out the window. It was clear that we’d been dismissed, so Jack and I rose.

  We picked up the dossier on the way out of the building and crossed a mosaic depicting two guardian lions as we strode through the lobby on the way to the street, where rain drops as cold as well served revenge pelted down. I was surprised when Jack pulled out an iPhone and Ubered up a car. He must have caught my look.

  “There are so many drivers that I figure this is safe. Security through weight of numbers,” Jack chuckled. It made sense, and I gave a thumbs up in acknowledgment. Once we were in the car, Jack opened the file with a ripping sound. Inside was a neatly arranged briefing with a photo, biography, and contact details for the woman that we were to protect. I’d seen similar briefings on several occasions for our CEO before important meetings and could tell that the quality of these documents was impeccable.

  “Mrs. Jenkins. Makes sense. I was asked to put a security detail on her this morning. You’ll need to meet her?” Jack asked, rubbing sanitizer on his hands.

  I dipped my head in confirmation. “I don’t have to meet her long. Just enough time for her to recognize my face, and I’ll need something of hers—a lock of hair should work,” I replied.

  “Should?” he queried, his already hard voice going flinty.

  “I’ve only made this work once before,” I admitted.

  He just kept staring.

  “And I may have almost burned down my house in the process,” I carried on.

  Not a peep.

  “It’s also possible that I have no idea how to actually protect anyone from the murderer,” I admitted lamely.

  He cleared his throat.

  “No—that’s pretty much it. If you can find another Dreamwatcher before tonight, then go for it, Jack.” I wasn’t sure if I was using his name as a specific identifier or in a more general sense.

  “If I didn’t know that you were telling the truth, then I’d think you were a complete liar.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye as the car splashed down Oxford Street. “But since I do know that you are telling the truth, I know that you’re really just in way over your head.” A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of a small Italian restaurant called Rocca, just a couple of blocks from the South Kensington tube station.

  After meeting Dennis, the encounter with the next target on the killer’s list was an anticlimax. Jack already had security loitering under the red-and-white-striped awning, so we breezed into the strangely empty restaurant, walked up to the only occupied table, where Jack introduced me as Dennis’s “fixer,” (I could hardly keep the grin off my face at that one), and shook hands. Jack then requested a lock of hair, which the woman immediately hacked off with a knife and handed over to him, and then she turned back to her partner as though that were an entirely normal reason to have dinner interrupted. Apparently, Dennis was to be obeyed.

  By eight, we were pulling up to the new house. Jack had asked on the way back if I needed any help. I’d considered asking him to watch over me, but then decided that I just didn’t trust the man enough yet. I gave him a wave, and my still-broken fingers throbbed, underscoring my decision.

  When I got in, Becky was just putting Olivia to bed, but as soon as I appeared, she put the girl down and marched into her room. This is a situation that I need to get under control, I thought as I got my daughter ready for bed. After reading to her about some green eggs and ham, I tucked her into the small cot bed in my room, kissed her, and turned off the light. I got a peck on the cheek in return: best part of my day.

  Going into the living room, I was happy to see that the couch I’d ordered had arrived. With the insurance money, I wouldn’t have to worry about the enormous credit card bill that I had run up, I’d be able to get Olivia out of the country, and I’d be able to pay Father O. I was looking forward to checking my account in the morning. The leather couch had a fantastic new smell as I plopped down with the envelopes I’d received.

  I picked up the message that Mia had slipped into my pocket. On the one hand, she’d tried to kidnap my daughter and had broken into my house; on the other hand, she’d tied up Becky, so there were some points in her favor. She’d had me at her mercy on several occasions but hadn’t actually harmed anyone seriously, so far as I could tell. Considering her for long minutes, I just couldn’t put the pieces of her puzzle together.

  I ripped the envelope open and read the note, machine printed on ridiculously high-quality paper with the logo of a golden shield emblazoned in the upper-left-hand corner, presumably denoting its origin with the Sons of Perseus. It read:

  Dear Mr. Adler,

  Per your agreement with our agent, we have prepared an overview of the task with which we would appreciate your unique assistance. In brief, we believe that an individual, the Anarchist, is using nonprime-dimensional manipulation coupled with thaumaturgic resonance to perpetrate some scheme involving the Bank of England. We can only speculate on the perpetrator’s motives; it may be that he is attempting merely to rob the bank, or it may be that he is looking to gain access to the considerable potentiality associated wit
h that location. Given the level of skill being employed, it would seem unlikely that this endeavor is merely for material gain; however, the motive is not our concern.

  Our concern, and the guiding raison d’etre for our organization, is the suppression of any individuals or entities that seek to manipulate, subvert, or otherwise harm humanity using unconventional, extraphysical means. In this case, the individual in question is not only accessing the extradimensional plane that you refer to as the “Dreamscape” for the purpose of murdering certain parties, but as I believe you have surmised, he has in some fashion incited a number of riots over the past several months. We believe that the purpose of these riots is to harvest the necessary forces to access the Dreamscape and overpower the dreamer by drawing a thaumaturgic link between the well-documented resentment toward bankers and violent activities in the prime dimension.

  If the individual in question were expending any of this force in the prime dimension, then we would easily be able to locate him; therefore, we would suggest that these inciting activities are occurring in the Dreamscape as well. As your skills in this particular arena were so ably demonstrated by the recent successful operation against the puca entity, we appreciate your agreement to investigate this matter and will of course honour your agreement with our agent.

  We sincerely wish that there were some way in which we could provide you additional information but, with the exception of the speculation above, we have no further wisdom to impart. It is, however, our hope that the additional knowledge contained in the appendix to this letter, in regard to documenting the chain of causality that led to the identification of this new threat, will be of some use.

  Cordially,

  SoP

  I rifled through the remaining documents and found them to be a time line of disturbances of public order leading up to the first murder a few weeks ago and escalating into full-blown riots and the recent string of nightly deaths. Then I got to the last page and stopped, hands trembling. The page included a photo from the previous evening: half-a-dozen blackened corpses, the victims of apparent spontaneous human combustion. A note on the page mentioned that they had been included only due to the coincidental timing. What had I done? I ran to the bathroom to be ill. I didn’t make it.

  While I was getting into a really good dry-heaving session, I heard my phone beep. There was a message there from Toscan: Help.

  Chapter 20 2230–2330, Friday, October 2, 2015

  I dialed my friend’s number. It rang three times before the call connected. I hadn’t really expected anyone to answer, but it wasn’t surprising that it wasn’t Toscan who greeted me.

  “I offered you the carrot, Julian. Now comes the stick. As in, if you don’t back off and stay away, then I’m going to shove a stick up your little Australian friend’s ass and keep on shoving until I have a Toscan-kebab.” I recognized the distorted voice from my dreams—it was the Anarchist.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” The words were out of my mouth before my brain had any chance to interpose itself. I just couldn’t understand why this man had decided that I needed to suffer more. I think the words surprised him because it was a few seconds before he replied.

  “You’re beyond my hate, fool. You have my pity. That’s why I’m trying to offer you this mercy. The rest want to use you. Well, I do too, but when I’m done, I’ll do everything in my power to help you. Do you really think those bankers, those swine are going to keep their bargain when you’ve done their dirty work? Or will those fanatics in the Sons of Perseus ever let you out of their chains? I’m not even going to waste my breath on those two-bit freaks at the Redderton Agency.” His machinelike voice speared into me with dispassionate logic, and I hated the amount of sense that it made. “Seriously, Julian. I have your nosy little friend. Don’t make me hurt him. If I see you tonight—stick, ass, done.” He finished speaking and ended the call.

  After the call, I was numb. I lay down on top of the comforter, my daughter sleeping soundly a few feet away. I’d killed innocent people and put my best friend in jeopardy. I didn’t have any idea what to do. I picked up the phone again and dialed my dad’s number. There was no answer, and I pushed down the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’d been trying to ignore for so long. There was something badly wrong back home in Wisconsin, and a part of me said that the best thing I could do now that I had my passport back would be to grab Olivia, hop on the next flight out of London, and not look back.

  I fiddled with my wedding ring, and the burn on my finger itched. Come find me. Dana’s voice echoed in my head, and I agonized again about what was happening to her in the oblivion that I’d consigned her to. After a few minutes of that, I pictured the people that I had hurt: hospital orderlies bleeding out as I led them to their deaths, the broken bodies of a dozen police officers, Arthur Hightower’s burnt and blistered skin, and six people dead from a fire that should never have been. I could use what I’d learned to try to stop a killer so that their deaths hadn’t been in vain.

  However, I couldn’t just condemn one of my only friends to death either. That would mean that I had to let the Anarchist kill another of the dwindling number of financier-priests. My mind raced…if I had to decide who lived or died, I knew what my choice would be. But if I let down the powerful bankers, what retribution would they take on me and mine? My years of management experience at a big multinational came into play—I could kick the problem down the road. I picked up the phone and dialed Jack’s number. He answered on the third ring.

  “Jack—I can’t do this tonight,” I said frantically.

  “Explain,” was his one-word reply.

  “The Anarchist has my friend, but if we can buy a single evening of extra time, then I have a meeting tomorrow that could lead me straight to him. If I go after him tonight, not only do I get my friend killed, but I’ll be fighting him on ground of his choosing. If I can get the item that I’m hoping for tomorrow, then I can hunt him down in his own dream. I’ll have the element of surprise.”

  I wasn’t sure that I would have bought the excuse, but it seemed that Jack did as he replied, “I’ll call Dennis. My team can keep Miranda awake through the night. Don’t make me regret this.” He hung up the phone, and I thought about what a slim thread of hope I was dangling from. I carefully tucked the envelope containing the lock of hair into my laptop bag, put it outside of the circle around my bed, and climbed under the covers.

  **********

  I opened my eyes. A familiar, long, dark, bed-lined dormitory room stretched away in front of me. In the way of dreams it was impossible to make out the far end, but a thin trickle of light leaked in underneath the closed door. I could hear sobbing from the other side. I was back in the little girl’s dream. A whisper of concentration cloaked me in shadows and muffled my footsteps as I crept up to the threshold of the door. I reached out oh-so-tentatively with my dream senses and brushed the glowing spark of the dreamer’s mind as gently as I was able. It felt like someone had shoved my brain directly onto an electric fence, making me reel, but I braced myself against the wall and held my breath as I pulled my senses back. I waited a dozen heartbeats and then wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow as the dream stayed intact.

  I extended a hand toward the doorknob, hovering over the brass without touching it. What was going on in there? Was Olivia on the other side of the door? I couldn’t be sure, but what father could ignore any crying child? Before becoming a parent, I’d had a healthy dislike of anyone that mistreated kids, and I always tried to be gentle with children when I visited their dreams. After I became a parent, I despised people that abused children. How anyone could look at a helpless, innocent, trusting child and still hurt them became incomprehensible—the very definition of evil.

  Trembling, I took a deep breath. Instead of rushing in, I bent down to the door and put my eye to the keyhole that I knew with absolute certainty would be there. I took in the sight on the other side: a little girl, maybe three or four years old, sat on the floor wit
h an old-fashioned travel desk laid precociously across her lap. I watched for long seconds as she grasped a pencil carefully in her tiny right hand, glanced at a book on one side of the desk, and began to laboriously copy into a small notebook on the other side.

  I squinted hard into the gloom but couldn’t make out her features, just the long, blond cascade of hair framing her face. With a click, the pencil broke, and the girl’s whimpers heaved out into full-throated, miserable sobbing. I just wanted to hug her.

  “It’s okay, dearest. Even the best of us can’t help it if our tools let us down sometimes,” a man’s familiar voice said. I was so surprised that I recoiled from the keyhole and sat back on my haunches with a loud “oomph.” As soon as the sound was out of my mouth, I tried to dampen the exhalation, throwing mental images of pillows and thick carpeting around the room, but it seemed that the speed of sound was faster than the speed of thought because the dream started to break up around me, the room rapidly darkening and going fuzzy at the edges.

  “No!” I screamed as a picture of the Anarchist, holding Arthur Hightower prisoner in his own dream, burning, flashed through my mind. I would help this little girl.

  I clamped down hard with my willpower. I’d visited this dream multiple times, and I knew it as well as any Dreamscape that I’d ever visited, so I focused on every detail with years of mental conditioning honed by my trials in an alien realm…and the dream held. But at a cost.

  My head swam, and my knees went weak as I tried to totter back to my feet. I failed, but I didn’t have enough mental processing power left to figure out which way was up, so I crawled the few feet to the door on hands and knees, trying to ignore the splinters of wood that maliciously worked their way out of the floor and into my palms. The sleeper’s mind was pushing back, causing the entire pocket of unreality to rally against me.

  “Who are you?” I lunged for the doorknob and screamed in pain as the metal scalded my hand. I powered through the agony with a manly whimper and twisted, collapsing through the frame as the door swung in. I had nothing left mentally, and the dream started to unravel. I craned my neck upward until vertebrae popped, but though I couldn’t get a good look at the girl’s face, she apparently got a good look at mine.