Dream Walker (30 page)

“Go on,” he said, but his voice was tight, almost stern.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” he said.

The train hollered at her again, closer this time. “Stoooooooop!”

Aislen sat up and turned to face Troy. The intensity that had clouded his face at breakfast that morning was written all over his face again.

“Are you changing your mind now? Are you starting to think I
am
crazy,” Aislen asked. “You know, maybe the dream is crazy, but I still find it strange that Gen had a similar dream as mine—and I want...”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Troy said, cutting her off. “It is unusual, yes, but I don’t think you’re crazy and I am
very
interested in what you have to say.”

Out of the blue, he reached up, pulled her face to his, and kissed her. She closed her eyes. The warmth from his lips coursed through her and she felt her defenses melt immediately.

A hush descended upon the shrine as if it had been thrown under a blanket. The sounds of the birds singing outside, and the river babbling just at the bottom of the hill became muted. The silence was thorough and complete. She could only hear her own breath in her ears.

When he pulled away, his usual good-natured expression had softened his face again. “So you were saying that he showed you how to make orbs of energy and that you travelled through them? Where did you go?”

Feeling secure again, Aislen continued. “We went to my house. We travelled almost instantly into my mom’s room. I stood right by her window and watched her sleeping. Then she woke up and I thought she could see us, but she went right back to sleep and we left.”

“What happened next? Did you wake up?”

“No. We went back to the original space and he told me how I could find him if I wanted to see him again.”

“And how are you supposed to do that?”

The train screamed again, ripping through the veil of silence. “Noooooooooo!” This time it was just across the river, passing over a nearby trestle. Its rumble violently shook the walls and the ground.

“Well?” Troy said. She could see his lips move, but he sounded like he was much further away than only inches from her. Aislen knew she was awake—and she knew that a train could not speak to her—but the atmosphere felt fictive, like the whole shrine slipped from time.

She shook off the ominous feeling and continued. “Well, he gave me another orb to use. I’d never seen anything like it before. It was beautiful! Almost like a...”

The gong in the corner began to sing of its own accord, cutting her off with a circular humming that harmonized with the train’s deep bass.

“It was like a what?” Troy asked.

Aislen could only stare at him. Her thoughts were cloudy and incohesive.

“The orb your father gave you...” he prompted. “You were saying it looked like something. What did it look like?” He encouraged her to continue with a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

She looked into his gentle eyes, at the smile on his lips, and her mind wandered to how nice it had been kissing those lips. “Well...it was kind of like a diamond, clear like a crystal, but it flashed with colors like I had never seen before.”

The bombilation of the gong grew louder, overpowering the lamentation of the locomotive. The walls of the shrine felt like they were closing in around her, squeezing her in a tight embrace.

Aislen looked at Troy, wondering if he had noticed the change in the shrine. But he seemed to be oblivious to its convulsions and was watching her—looking at her in a way she had never seen before, like he was seeing her for the very first time and, yet, knew everything about her.

Troy broke his gaze away from hers and looked down at her hand instead, holding it as if it were a fragile and delicate treasure. He brushed his thumb across the back of it with a feather-like touch, sending fresh shivers of limerence from the bottom of her throat down through the center of her. Her limbs went weak.

“So, you never told me about your father before,” Troy said. “What did you say his name was?”

“His name—” Her ears popped with a loud crack and she heard her father’s voice in her head.

Do not speak my name!

Aislen gasped, snapped out of the trance she felt like she had fallen into. She suddenly remembered what her father had told her—names carry a signature that could be tracked—that just speaking his name could send people looking for her and put the people she loved in danger.

“I don’t know,” she blurted out. She shuddered at the thought that she had almost put Troy in danger by speaking her father’s name.

“You don’t know?”

“No! I don’t know his name. I never knew his name.” The lie felt uneasy on her lips, but her ears popped again and the constrictive grip around her released itself instantly. The silence lifted. Aislen could hear the evening birds, the river and the train rumbling further down the track. The shrine gong trembled out a final resonant whisper.

“That’s too bad,” Troy said. “I mean, if you
knew
it, we might be able to find him in person. You obviously have unfinished business with him, your dreams are definitely telling you that. But if you could find him, you could confront him and deal with it once and for all.”

She looked at Troy’s face. The severity she had seen on it a moment ago was gone—a phantasm that faded away leaving the genuine, gorgeous face she was used to.

The train let out a feeble moan from far off down the track. While it didn’t actually say anything to her, it reminded her of the danger her father warned about and she felt an overwhelming need to check on her mother.

“You know, it’s getting late and my mom will be worried if I don’t check in. We should go.”

Troy sighed, looking disappointed. “Sure, I can take you back to your car if you like.”

“Would you mind just taking me home?” she asked, anxious to make sure her mother was all right.

Troy perked up at the request. “Sure! I don’t mind that at all,” he said, standing up and pulling her to her feet. “In fact, I’d love to actually see the place you call home.”

CHAPTER 32

Mathis stood on the front porch of the clapboard ranch house. Though charming and well maintained, he was surprised that the old girl was still standing. The five o’clock Amtrak had just roared past, almost heaving him off the porch with the whirling dervish it kicked up.

After his strange encounter in Demesne with the even stranger Ichiban, there was no hesitation on Mathis’ part about finding out the whos and wheres of the little nurse from the hospital.

He immediately called up Jackson and asked if he had jotted down her name. He had. Then he rang up dispatch and had them run out all the particulars on a Miss Aislen Walker. She was clean as a whistle, not so much as a traffic citation in all of her 24 years. The only thing they could find on her was the address listed on her driver’s license.

Mathis hopped in his pickup and headed out to the depressed little spit of a town. While he had no intentions of just handing the girl’s info to some weird, video game freak, he did have a few questions he wanted to ask her. In less than forty-eight hours since the murder of Scott Parrish, she had generated the rabid interest of two people: the catatonic son, and probable killer, of the victim, and this bizarre Ichiban character.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. She had to be connected—no doubt about it. And Mathis was going to put on his best “bad cop” persona to get the truth outta her.

Standing on the warped floorboards of the porch, he waited for the train to completely pass before he rang the doorbell. He was sure no one could hear themself think over that kind of racket storming by and wondered why anyone would ever purchase a home in such an undesirable location.

He pulled his shoulders back, widened his stance, and slipped his thumbs into his belt, doing his best Captain America impression. He looked more like Mighty Mouse, but the badge and uniform would compensate for the lack of badass. A young woman with no prior police contact would be reduced to tears in his presence.

The porch light came on, the door opened, and standing before him was a dream come true; a vision in a clingy red sweater and faded, blue jeans with her hair hanging long down her back, rather than up in the bun of a diner waitress. Mathis was immediately at a loss for words.

A worried furrow crinkled her brow when she saw him standing on her porch. “Hello, Sergeant. Can I help you?”

“Good evening, ma’am,” Mathis said, feeling ashamed of his sham now that he was standing in front of Sabine. “Uhhhhh, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for an Aislen Walker. You don’t happen to know her do you?”

Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t
, he thought to himself, but it was obvious they were related. He could the resemblance in her face to the girl he met at the hospital.

Her concern deepened. “Yes. She’s my daughter. Is something wrong? Is she okay?”

Her answer took all the hot air right out of him. “Nothing’s wrong, ma’am. I just want to ask her a few questions about an incident that happened yesterday. Does she live here?”

“Yes, but she isn’t home right now. What kind of incident? She’s not in any kind of trouble is she?”

Mathis wished he had something else to hem and haw about. This was not the kind of situation he had hoped would facilitate a conversation with Sabine. “No, ma’am. She’s not in any trouble. We had an incident in town last night—a murder—and we have a boy in protective custody while we try to sort it all out.”

“Yes! I heard about that on the news. But what does that have to do with Aislen?”

“More than likely, nothing,” he said, now hoping that it was actually the truth. He didn’t want to date the mother of a murder accessory. “It’s just that she came to the facility with the boy’s therapist and the kid acted like he recognized her from somewhere. No one else has been able to get through to him, but she walked in and he snapped out of it and spoke to her.”

Sabine looked surprised. “Well, that
is
very strange. She didn’t mention that to me. But I don’t know how she could possibly know him. Besides work and school, she doesn’t get out much. She’s kind of a homebody.”

“Well, it could have been nothing, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her and I want to cross my i’s and dot the t’s, you know.”

Sabine laughed. “Okay. But the other way around would work better for you, doncha think?”

Mathis thought about it, realized what he’d said, and mentally kicked himself in the ass. What was it about this woman that reduced him to a bumbling idiot?

“Would you like to come in?” Sabine asked, opening the door wider for him. “Aislen stayed at a friend’s house last night, but I expect she’ll be home soon.”

Mathis shuffled a boot on a crooked board. He really should just come back another time, or give Sabine a number for Aislen to call later, but the opportunity to stay in her presence a little while longer was too irresistible. “If you don’t think it will be long, I suppose that would be fine.”

He stepped through the open door and followed Sabine into the dining room.

“Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got coffee, tea—a beer?” She laughed at her own joke, knowing that he couldn’t drink while he was on duty. Mathis kicked himself again for coming in uniform under the guise of official business. He’d much rather sit on the porch, a cold beer in one hand, hers in the other.

“That’s okay, ma’am. I’m fine.” The last thing Mathis wanted was Sabine waiting on him, especially in her own home. He’d like to break that routine completely—get to know her for herself. Get
her
a cup of coffee for a change...make
her
breakfast...in bed...then build her a better porch.

“Alright. But, could you do me a favor? Can you call me Sabine? The ma’am thing isn’t doing it for me.”

Mathis smiled. “Deal.”

“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” she said as she turned and walked into the kitchen. Mathis’ eyes followed her. Jeans on that woman were even hotter than the waitress uniform, if that was even possible. When she came back in, he averted his eyes, pretending to admire the collection of teacups on a shelf. He was already low on points scored; the last thing he wanted was to get caught ogling her ass.

“So what kind of questions do you have for Aislen, Sergeant?” Sabine asked coming back from the kitchen balancing a delicate teacup on a saucer. “Maybe I can answer some of them for you while we wait.”

Mathis didn’t want to mix business with something he really wanted for pleasure, so he changed the subject. “Well, first, if I’m going to call you Sabine, you can call me Bob.”

“Bob, huh?” Sabine said. “Is that short for Robert?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.”

“Could I call you Robert? It seems to fit you better.”

No one had ever called him by his given name before. Denise had always called him Bobby. His family always called him Little Bobby, and the guys either called him Bob—or Johnny when they wanted to fuck with him. Mathis liked the way Robert rolled off Sabine’s tongue. It made him think of all the ways she could say his name. She could call him whatever the hell she wanted.