Murder on Parade (12 page)

The NarcoNazis weren’t willing to shoot the dream owner. How lucky for us.

“Come on, Lieutenant, we need to get to the top of that hill before the enemy regroups,” I shouted encouragingly, sending him some of my power. I could be wrong, but I thought that defeating these bastards would be good therapy for this guy.

“Come on, boys, follow me,” the suddenly brave lieutenant bellowed as he raced over the top of the dune leading us toward the next dream barrier.  Again, his machinegun fired with incredible precision, cutting a swath through the Dream Police soldiers who tried to stand in our way.  I laughed breathlessly as I stormed through ineffectual return fire.  Thomas did little but whine about the pain in his shoulder as he followed, but at least he kept up.

Arriving at the top of the hill, we found a line of almost one hundred enemy troops standing between us and the barrier.  No worries though.  With a single spray of no more than twenty bullets, the lieutenant managed to send all of the enemy to the ground, convulsing in overly theatrical death throes.  I didn’t stay to give thanks to our rescuer. Plunging through the center of the enemy line, Thomas and I hit the barrier running and never looked back.

I was pleased to find that this time I didn’t need to pull Thomas through the wall.  With a bit of a struggle, he managed to make it by himself.  Once past the obstruction, his shoulder stopped hurting and he seemed much relieved, though again we didn’t have a lot of time to prepare mentally before finding ourselves in the middle of another intense dream sequence.

“Damn. Doesn’t anyone have simple house-keeping dreams any more?” I muttered as grass sprouted under my suddenly cleated feet.

“Hut one, hut two, hike,” the owner of the dream shouted.  Receiving an oblong ball through the legs of the man crouched before him, the dream-owner immediately turned and handed the ball to Thomas who, though startled, gamely pushed me out in front of him as we started to run for the end of the field.

“Run for the end zone, I can see the barrier there,” Thomas yelled as he tried to guide me in the direction he wanted to go.  I had no idea what the end zone looked like, but I recognized the barrier just beyond a line of giant men wearing black football uniforms.  Having a basic familiarity of the game, I started throwing my shoulders into the opposing players sending them flying to either side of the field as I forced a hole for Thomas to run through.  Unfortunately, the more players I knocked aside the more players who showed up to replace them.  Soon there seemed to be hundreds of opponents packed close together between us and the end zone. This was blatant cheating. Still I hammered on and watched as the gridlines disappeared under my feet. The dream owner really wanted that touchdown and was helping Thomas and I get there.

I saw the exit sign glowing green at the end of the tunnel behind the end-zone. Hallelujah! We had a way out
. Ten yards, nine, eight, seven
— I continued to push on. 
Six, five, four
— now I was beginning to slow and was thankful when I felt Thomas shove at my back to add momentum. Once past the goal line, the dreamer had abandoned us, but we couldn’t let the drop in energy slow us down. Usually I don’t tire dreamside but today had been unusually taxing.
Three, two, one
, I had almost stopped now, feeling that I was too exhausted to move on, then suddenly we were there, running down the tunnel toward the glowing exit sign next to the locker-room.

I shoved the door open and snapped awake instantly. I was slumped in a very uncomfortable hospital chair just outside Thomas’ room.  Springing to my feet, I threw open the door to room 316 and found a ring of concerned looking individuals surrounding Thomas’ bed. They watched in amazement as he regained consciousness and slurred what I recognized as: “Touchdown!” 

One woman in particular looked more amazed then the rest.  She stood beside the bed holding an unplugged cable in her hand.  Although I had never met her, from the cast on her right arm, I recognized her as Thomas’ supposedly loving wife, Nora.

“Nora, what are you doing with that plug in your hand,” were the first clear, waking words that left Thomas’ mouth.

That was a telling question. I can’t tell you how many times I had seen it. Loved ones who take the expression “pull the plug” literally then end up unplugging the lights over the patient’s headboard or the heart monitoring machine in their eagerness to get it all over with. 

“Nora?” he asked again.

It looked like someone had some explaining to do. Thankfully it wasn’t me.

I backed out of the room before anyone noticed me. I felt no inclination to participate in the subsequent heated discussion.  Having completed my contractual obligation and seen Thomas safely wakeside, I decided that the rest of the details such as billing and words of thanks could be taken care of via the mail. 

If Thomas ever asked why I left without talking to him, I’d tell him that I hate long, mushy goodbyes. Really, I just hate long family arguments.

He probably wouldn’t ask though. Most rescued dreamers never quite believed that I was real.

About the Author

Melanie Jackson is the author of 23 novels.  If you enjoyed this story, please visit Melanie’s author web site at
www.melaniejackson.com

Be sure to check out all the books in the
Chloe Boston Mystery Series
:

Moving Violation

The Pumpkin Thief

Death in a Turkey Town

Murder on Parade

And don’t miss Melanie’s exciting new series co-written with her husband,
The Book of Dreams
:

The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis

The Second Book of Dreams: Meridian

The Third Book of Dreams: Destiny