Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (15 page)

Donovan panics. He wants to call out to the old woman—to warn—her but like the rest of the bystanders, his body is rigid, his voice mute. Missus Schwartz glances at the woman and child and back to her husband's limp body. Her shoulders drop as if all the strength has gone out of her, but she reaches for the pen and with a trembling hand she signs the contract.

"Thank you, Madam.” The man in the sunglasses retrieves his pen and puts his own signature on the contract. “A pleasure doing business with you.” He stands up and walks away, leaving the bewildered woman behind.

The scene suddenly returns to chaos, the crowd coming back to life. No one else seems to notice the man in the sunglasses walking away through the crowd. Donovan jumps to his feet, but before he can reach the old woman, her husband coughs and sits up on the pavement, rubbing his chest. His wife wraps her arms around him.

"Oh Morty. I thought I'd lost you.” She glances back over her shoulder, and Donovan follows her line of vision.

The airplaning melon is no longer on the fork and the toddler in the stroller is struggling to breath. The young woman is frantically trying to put her finger in the child's mouth to clear his throat.

"Come on, Matty. Spit it out, honey.” She fumbles with the stroller buckle, trying to release it.

Turning bright red, eyes bulging, the child thrashes in the stroller while the woman screams for help. Donovan reaches for him, but in a flash of eye-searing light he is wrenched from his dream and back to the motel room in a ragged heap on the floor.

With aches screaming from all parts of his body, Donovan rolled over on to his back, shaken by the dream. It was so vivid ... real, like the dream of Ally's death so many years ago. His head pounded, making thinking difficult. He needed a drink, and to do that he needed to get out of the room. Taking a breath, he braced himself and climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain and nausea still plaguing him. In the quiet of the room, Donovan heard the sound of crickets and caught the scent of moist sea air. He glanced around and realized the singing bugs were outside his room, and someone had left the door open.

With a surge of adrenalin, he wasted no time rushing to the bed to grab his makeshift luggage. When he lifted the stuffed pillowcase, he noticed a folded note as it slipped to the floor. Afraid to stop long enough to read it, he shoved the paper into the pocket of his jeans and hurried to the door. Forcing himself to quiet his breathing, he peeked through the crack in the door. From the edge of the horizon he saw the pale pink light of dawn creeping into the sky, but the red blaze of The Devil's Den's
No Vacancy
sign continued to bathe the empty parking lot in its glare. With no cars and no sound other than the crickets, Donovan made his escape. He pushed the door open and ran along the building beneath the wide overhang of the roof. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he picked up speed and skidded around the corner of the building, running headlong into a giant of a man. The man appeared unfazed, but Donovan felt as if he'd hit a stone wall.

"Good morning, Mister Hunter,” said the man, his voice the belly-rumbling bass of a kettle drum. He reached out and clamped his dark fingers like a vise on Donovan's shoulder.

"Steady there,” he said.

The grip tightened, a painful bone-crushing pressure. Donovan's eyes watered as he tried desperately to twist out of the man's grip, but instead he soon found himself begging on his knees in the effortless control of a black man in a tailored suit with shoulders as wide as a yoke. The contents of the getaway sack lay spilled on the sidewalk.

"Going somewhere, Mister Hunter?"

Donovan moaned in agony, waiting for his collar bone to snap at any moment. He glanced up, and through the pain he saw a wink of light flash from a diamond in the man's earlobe. The grip on his shoulder released and he collapsed to the sidewalk. He lay there panting while the man stood there calmly—he hadn't broken a sweat.

"I'm afraid you can't leave the premises at this time, sir, but if there's anything I can get you, I'm here to help."

Donovan couldn't refrain from laughing at the absurdity of it.

"Help? You damn near broke my shoulder."

"I apologize for restraining you, Mister Hunter, but if you had left the grounds without an escort, the penalty would have been death for you ... and for your family. I was protecting you from a tragic mistake.” The big man extended his hand to help him to his feet, but Donovan ignored it and stood on his own.

"Who the hell are you?” he asked, rubbing his aching shoulder.

"I'm Easy, your personal assistant. It's time to return to your room, Mister Hunter, so I can order your breakfast."

In protest, Donovan refused to touch Easy's offering of fried eggs, thick crispy bacon, and plump pancakes topped with a dollop of sweet melting butter. His mouth watered at the smell of the food and he almost succumbed to a taste from the basket of fresh strawberries, but he was a prisoner. Although he knew in his heart it was futile, he felt the need to show his defiance.

At midmorning Easy knocked on the door, but Donovan didn't answer. He lay on his bed with his back to the door, his head still pounding from alcohol withdrawal. After a minute, the big man entered to remove the breakfast dishes.

"Hmm ... Mister Hunter, you're just lucky G ... uh, my mama isn't here. You'd get her starving children lecture for sure.” He picked up a piece of the thick cold bacon and had a bite. “Mmm ... shame to let such fine food go to waste. Anything else I can get you?"

Donovan didn't answer, but on his way out Easy pulled a bottle of Excedrin from his coat pocket and left it on the table along with the basket of strawberries.

Lunchtime passed with no sign of Easy. And as the dinner hour approached, Donovan tried hard to ignore his ache for alcohol and his hunger pains, but the sweet scent of the strawberries drifted around the room, intensifying the gnawing in his empty stomach. His hands shook as he snatched the Excedrin off the table, downing three with a handful of water from the bathroom sink.

Wiping his hand on his jeans, he felt the crinkle of paper in his pocket. He pulled out the note that had fallen on the floor during his attempt to escape. He sat on the bed and unfolded the paper, trying to steady his hands.

Donovan,

I'm sorry they found you. I'm doing what I can to help, but for now your fate is to do as they say. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. When the time is right, your destiny will be fulfilled.

They're called the Order of the Red Angel or the ORA. They've enslaved the dreamers for millennia. Utilizing the dreamers’ gifts, the Contractors use coercion to force the exchange of the soul energy of innocents as payment to their master for eternal life and power in the earthly realm. You're from what they call the Bloodline, Donovan—a harvester of dreams—a dreamer. You and your kin have the special gift that the ORA both fear and covet. You can guide them to their prey, but you also have the power to destroy them. As with all things to do with heaven and hell, there is a balancing force.

After the death of your parents, they carelessly lost track of you. We've been watching and hoping they'd never track you down, but with the conception of your child your combined energy was exponential and you were quickly identified even before her birth.

I wish we could protect you from what lies ahead, but you must endure the dreaming for as long as it takes and learn everything you can about the process. You'll witness the suffering of many, but you need to remain strong. You're the key that could end this cycle of misery. The contract is the final link and one we don't have access to, but we believe, in time, you will. There is always a hidden balancing clause in dealings with the Order—it's the rules—and this is what we must discover.

They have your child, and she is already exhibiting signs of the special abilities of the Bloodline, so her fate too is in your hands. Signing the contract helped keep her alive not only for you, but for the ORA. It was a well-orchestrated trap.

I've risked a great deal in this communication. My identity must remain secret or we'll have no way of assisting you when the time comes. Destroy this message immediately after reading it. It may be a long time before I can contact you again, but rest assured I'm watching and doing all I can to help.

Stay strong,

Dreamcatcher

A knock sounded at the door and Donovan crammed the note back into his pocket. After his usual minute delay, the big man entered the room.

"A package has arrived for you, Mister Hunter.” He put a large box on the table, and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “Inside, you'll find your equipment and instructions for tonight's session. I'm to make sure you follow through with your work. If you have any questions, you're to call your liaison, Sienna.” He turned to leave and looked back over his shoulder.

"Supper?"

Donovan felt the presence of the note in his pocket like a hot piece of iron.
That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist.
He sighed through his nose.

"Yes, supper ... please."

The big man smiled; not smug, but seemingly relieved. “What do you feel like eating?"

"Anything."

And Donovan noticed the pain in his head had begun to subside, but at the thought of food his stomach growled loud enough for the big man to hear it.

"I'll make it something quick,” he said with the hint of a smile as he left the room, locking the door behind him.

Donovan dug the note out of his pocket and rushed to the bathroom. Taking one last quick read of the contents, he tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. He kept flushing until all traces of the note were gone. At the sink, he washed his face in cold water and realized that Dreamcatcher was right. For the sake of his family, this was his fate. He dried his face and crossed the room to open the package the big man had left behind.

Inside was a new laptop, Bose headphones and a small binder of instructions. After a quick skim of the instructions, it seemed simple. Use the headphones and listen to the recorded music which contained embedded brain pattern coding to assist in detailed dreaming. Record every element of his dreams in an encrypted email and send it to his liaison. Eventually he wouldn't need the encoded music to reach the dream state, it said, and from the vivid state of his café dream early that morning, Donovan suspected they were right.

3.

Donovan's new life began that night, if it could be called a life. He did as he was told: he dreamed; he recorded; he reported, night after night, knowing that he sealed the fate of innocents by providing the Order of the Red Angels with the location and details of their prey. He wondered how often the contracts were signed, hoping they resisted often ... unlike he did.

For months, he never left his room. Easy offered field trips to the sea, dinner at the local crab house, a matinee at the little cinema downtown, but Donovan sank into a stupor of depression. The only thing he wanted was a drink.

When his mood started to interfere with the quality of his dream reports, Easy stepped in.

The knock on the door came early one morning, before his normal breakfast wake-up interruption. As usual, Donovan had fought sleep because he always dreamed when he slept, but his depression left him unable to do much else. He never reported his private dreams, sticking only to the deal of his nightly obligation.

"Rise and shine, Mister Hunter,” said Easy, his tone not a request, but an order.

As the big man pulled the drapes back and let in the bright morning sun, Donovan moaned.

"Go away, man. I've done my part, so leave me alone."

"Apparently there's some concern about the quality of your work. Besides, you're rotting away in this room. By the stink in here, that's not far from the truth.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Have you had a look at yourself lately?"

"Fuck off."

The big man raised his eyebrows, and without further conversation he ripped the covers off of Donovan and proceeded to pull the sheet off the bed with his reluctant charge still on top of it. Donovan fell like a lump to the floor, wearing only his boxers. He didn't move, so Easy strode into the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and without hesitation poured it over Donovan's head. He spit and cursed at the big man, then grabbed the sopping covers and pulled them tight around his body.

"I know you don't want me to wash and dress you, Mister Hunter, so please shower and get dressed. I'll be back in twenty minutes. We're going for a walk."

He turned and left the room as Donovan flipped him a classic third finger bird. The anger felt good. Defiant, he lay on the floor in the tangle of covers and fell back to sleep.

A warning knock woke him.

"Five minutes ... and if necessary, the Easy grooming method will begin."

After another bird aimed at the door, he got to his feet and shuffled to the closet. From his first encounter with Easy, Donovan knew he meant business, so he pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and slipped his feet into his sneakers. He shuffled back to the bed and waited for the next knock.

"I guess that will have to do ... for today,” said Easy, inspecting Donovan's disheveled appearance. He opened the door, and for the first time in months Donovan went outside. The weather was warm and he could smell the moist sea air. As he staggered along the walkway behind the big man, he felt the warm sun on his face, and as much as he hated to admit it, it felt good.

"Come along,” said Easy. “First stop: a walk on the beach. And then breakfast at Liaguno's. Vince will whip us up something memorable ... that is if they don't throw us out because of the stink. Tomorrow, Mister Hunter, you shower."

The slog along the beach showed Donovan just how out of shape he'd become, but it felt good to move his body. The depression still hung around him like a fog, but after breakfast he went back to his room and showered off the stink. He toweled himself dry, feeling better than he had for sometime. He opened the bathroom cabinet for his toothbrush, and there, taped to the inside of the door, was a note.