Murder on Parade (10 page)

“Ah. Do you think she’ll be coming soon?” My question was mild.

“I’m not sure.” Thomas looked suddenly sad. “I think I killed her,” he confessed.

“Killed her?”

“Yes, we were having an argument. In the car. And I wasn’t paying attention and all of sudden there was this truck coming at us. It hit her door.”

“That’s what they told me at the hospital,” I answered. “But I have some good news for you. You’re wife didn’t die in the accident. She only broke her arm. She’s fine and so are you.”

“Really?” For a moment I thought he looked a little disappointed. “This isn’t heaven then?”

“No. You’re in a coma and this is the place where people wait when they are uncertain about whether they want to live or die.” I was simplifying but this wasn’t a moment for a lecture about the nature of the Narcoscape.

“Oh. It seemed kind of empty.” He thought about this. I was glad that he didn’t appear disbelieving of what I’d said. “Where would I go if I wanted to die?” he finally asked.

I pointed to the left where a great cloud wall marked the edge of the Narcoscape. As always, the Egyptian temple was nearby.

“That looks… ominous.” It did. It should. It was death. “I don’t think I want to go there.”

“Okay. I can take you back to your wife then.”

“Alright.” He got up slowly. “Can I bring my painting?”

I looked at his canvas. It was good. It had been good when Monet painted it a hundred years ago too.

“Sorry. Nothing from the dreamside can cross over. Maybe you could paint some more when you get back home.”

“No. I’m not any good back there.” He didn’t sound that unhappy.

“Can you clean your hands up a bit?” I asked him.

“What?”

“The paint. Make it go away,” I instructed.

“I can do that?”

“Of course.”

Thomas stared at his hands and then grinned as the blue and green smears disappeared.

“Wow. That’s cool.”

“Very cool. Take my hand, Thomas. We’re going home.”

Using my free hand to set my sunhat on my head, I used the other to anchor Thomas so we could begin our journey back to the wakeside.  My internal clock that retains some awareness of the passage of time wakeside said that we needed to hurry, but I said nothing to Thomas as he paused a moment to look a last time at our surroundings and enjoy the gentle breeze of a fine Spring day.  Although the grass was still red, I had to admit that I was beginning to find the color change to be pleasantly unique if not downright appealing. Wakeside, everything was gray and gloomy as November deepened into winter.

Walking across the meadow now thick with wild flowers, I was enjoying the tickling sensation of the foliage on my ankles.  I was especially enjoying the awareness that since this was a dream, the grass would probably not be infested with ticks and other forms of parasite.  Ah, what a feeling to stroll through a blemish-free world with a man’s hand in mine.  Thinking back, I had a hard time remembering the last occasion I’d gone strolling with a man, let alone strolling in such a romantic setting. Too bad Thomas was married and we were on such a short clock. It was a place that invited one to linger. Some days I missed my husband so much that I thought I might die from the emptiness.

Looking up into his face, I found that he could hold my gaze without being self-conscious of his pleasure, so I followed suit and allowed myself to just enjoy the moment.  I didn’t let myself think and I didn’t let myself remember. Throwing my head back, I listened to a chorus of red bluebirds happily chirping as they flew across an azure sky.  Thank God he at least got the color of the sky right. A green one would have ruined the mood.

We had traversed the majority of the field and were approaching the tree line that marked the border between Thomas’ dream canvas and our exit when the trouble began.  I first sensed its coming as a vibration emanating from the ground and traveling up my legs. 

Being from California, Thomas’s first question was: “Is that an earthquake?”

“Shit. Not an earthquake. Something worse.” I saw the earth several feet ahead of us begin to fracture as large stones were pushed up from beneath the ground.  It turned out to be a huge stone wall, an impenetrable barrier, being thrust up out of the ground between us and the nearest exit.  It rose until it stood twenty feet high and likely a mile wide.  Inevitably I heard helicopters coming from behind. Their engines were humming the theme from
Apocalypse Now
. We weren’t going to be leaving by the direct route.

“The NarcoNazis must have woken up from their nap early today,” I mused as I turned to see twenty black attack-helicopters flying our way from out of the distance.  The Dream Police had found us out. 

“That’s bad?” Thomas asked as he squinted at the helicopters. He sounded calm.

“It isn’t good, but we’ll manage.” I sounded confident. It was very important that the lost have faith.

As they neared our position, zip lines were dropped to the ground and soldiers, also clad in black and carrying heavy arms, descended those lines in waves.  I’d never seen so many Dream Police in one place.

“Thomas, I hope you’re feeling fit and that you’re ready to lead these jerks on a bit of a chase ‘cause I’m not sure they’ll let you go home if they catch us.”

“I’ve never felt better, actually,” Thomas said, looking more fascinated than afraid of the approaching army.

“Good,” I replied as I watched the soldiers pursuing us form a line and point their armaments our way.  I concentrated on our opponents as their leader issued the order to fire.  Rather than hearing the rattle of automatic weapons and being riddled with bullets, the barrel of each gun in the line ejected a small rolled up flag that unfurled quickly and displaying a single word: BANG!

Thomas found this to be funny.  I, on the other hand, knew that this would likely enrage them. As I watched, the soldiers threw down their rifles and came running at us brandishing swords which had appeared from nowhere. Obviously they didn’t share my sense of humor.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to explain a few facts about the Dream Police and their operation within the Narcoscape.  First, their official function is to police the Narcoscape, keeping dream raiders— which they consider me to be— from traversing multiple dream canvases and thereby supposedly siphoning off dream energy, or polluting the Narcoscape and in other ways causing emotional devastation and mayhem in dreamers’ psyches — yadda, yadda, yadda.  I suppose that someone has to perform this function, but suffice it to say that these guys are no friends of mine.  Second, no one is exactly sure who pulls the strings of the NarcoNazis, but it’s widely assumed that they get their marching orders from somewhere amongst the loose association of dream authorizers my family calls The Absolutes.  Whoever or whatever it is that runs the NarcoNazis, they have substantial power within the Narcoscape and they wield a large portion of it via their Dream Police. Alone, Thomas wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.

 Finally, it’s also worth mentioning that these guys aren’t actually out to kill anyone, not outright.  Instead, they’re out to imprison one’s dream essence, bring the dream-self to trial, and expel the dreamer from the Narcoscape—sometimes for a few days, sometimes forever.  This last sentence is of course tantamount to murder since no one can live for very long or with any quality of life without dreaming.  I for one had no intention of falling into their hands, nor would I leave Thomas behind to face his fate alone.

I wished passionately that Josh was there. My husband and I had been a great team. He would create the diversion and I would rush the package home while everyone was dazzled by his sleight of hand. Now I had to play both roles.

“Thomas, have you ever wanted to be a gopher?” I asked nonchalantly.

“A gopher? Like a real one, or in a cartoon?”

“Either. But I need a yes or no, Thomas. Are you up for this or not?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” he said with a broad, foolish grin. “I always did like Looney Tunes.”

With a wink of my dream essence, the dreamside equivalent of wiggling my nose or crying “Shazam”, we became gophers.  I immediately started to burrow my way under the stone wall and soon sensed that Thomas was busy doing the same.  Arriving on the other side I continued to burrow underground at a fast pace.  There’d be no popping my furry little head of the ground until I was out an exit or safe in someone else’s dream.

Dead ahead I heard a thud and felt something heavy penetrate the ground.

“Thomas?” I shouted down the tunnel. “They’ve blocked the exit. Go right!”

My warning came too late. Thomas wasn’t digging deep enough and I heard a loud
bonk
from behind as Thomas hit his head on the bottom of the new wall. He swore in cartoon fashion, then we were off again, this time side-by-side, burrowing rapidly toward the tree line and the safety beyond.

Having no intention of being denied their prey, the Dream Police were soon back on our trail forming themselves into a huge mechanical beast that pounded its way through the stone wall (this was just for effect, because they could have as easily willed the wall away) and then began punching into the ground with some kind of pointed stake.  The massive mechanoid followed our collapsing tunnels, stomping on the raised earth with huge metallic feet in a feeble attempt to squash us before we could get away.  Surfacing a few feet from the tree line I assessed our chances of escape. Not Good. They could stomp faster than we could dig.

Trying to keep things as cartoon-like as possible, in the hope of not terrifying Thomas unless I absolutely had to, I exerted my dream-essence in the direction of the metal beast. A huge steel foot transformed into a giant orange carrot that landed a few feet away from me and snapped off harmlessly.  Thomas had surfaced too and feeling cocky, he decided to take a large bite out of the carrot stump with the set of preposterously huge buck teeth he had provided himself.  This sent the mechanoid hopping away holding its damaged vegetable appendage.

*@#!*
exploded into the air above us. The mechanoid had not been provided with a voice and this was its only way of cursing. Thomas snickered, still thinking that this was play. It only looked funny because we were in his dream space and he had decided on a cartoon environment.

Now is a good time to mention a few things about dream manipulation.  We all do it in our own dreams to a certain degree. It’s just that some of us are more adept at it and more creative in our manipulations because we are aware that this is what we are doing.  I’ve had a great deal of practice over the years manipulating the Narcoscape for fun and profit, and often to facilitate my escape from the Dream Police. What surprised me was Thomas’s ability to consciously manipulate his dream. Novices usually weren’t that good first time out. I wondered if there might be something special about him. Some people are born with latent abilities that can be developed with proper training.

Still in Thomas’ dream canvas where he had a reasonable amount of power, we had succeeded in redirecting the attention of our pursuers for the moment but we had yet to deal with the dream membrane that separated us from the next canvas and what I hoped would be an unguarded exit.  This is a simple procedure when one has the time for delicate manipulation.  We didn’t have time for delicacy though, so instead it would involve me plunging through the membrane, which I can do very easily as long as I apply the mental equivalent of brute force, and then dragging Thomas’ sorry ass after me.  The membrane was protean and would close up after us without any harm to the neighboring dreamer as long as our entrance wasn’t witnessed and we didn’t tamper with the dreamer’s basic reality. The problems would begin when we had to interact with what we found on the other side. Although I had already traversed the next dream canvas on the way in and found it safe, no work of art remains the same for long. There was no knowing what we would be facing and how much the dreamer might fight against my dream manipulation.

“Ready?” I asked, looking into Thomas’ cute, whiskered face as I grabbed a hold of his paw with my newly transformed hand. “It would be better if you let me handle the dream manipulation when we get to the other side, okay? And don’t be freaked out if things look weird.”

“Squeak,” Thomas answered through massive front teeth.

Jumping through the dream membrane, I felt the familiar sensation of satin sheets being dragged across my naked body.  There was then a slight sucking sound as the last of my body passed through the gap. It was followed by a gentle pop.  I like the sensation but I know that many others do not. Of course, there was a strong tug as Thomas hit the membrane and panicked at being pulled through the curtain. Hauling on his paw with all of my might, I wondered if he had transformed himself again and I was dragging a fifty pound sack of potatoes through quicksand. 

I paused for a second to catch my breath. No, I remembered the quicksand dream now, and it was much worse. I just needed to pull harder. Bracing my feet, I yanked with all my might. Thomas came through the barrier with a much louder pop, and it took a while for his face and other features to snap back into human shape. 

“Ow! My teeth hurt,” Thomas complained.

“Yeehaw!” A shrill voice screamed before I could answer.

I looked over my shoulder and sighed. Things were about to get athletic and Thomas didn’t have long to adapt since we were now in the middle of another dream.

“Hang on!” I shouted as we were spun up into the air and dumped onto a pair of horses.

Most people would find it somewhat alarming appearing in a new dream, mounted on horses running at a full gallop.  Fortunately, although I had never ridden a horse bareback before, I had been incorporated into this dream as a fully qualified rodeo rider.

“Howdy partner, Wyatt Jones is the name,” I heard in a comfortable drawl from beside me.  Looking to my right I saw a man who was undoubtedly the dream owner, also running at a flat out gallop.  He had a long walrus mustache and wore a dirty hat and bandana.

“Howdy, Nicodemus Smith is my moniker,” I replied.