The Devil's Dream: Book One (35 page)

Jeffrey stood on his
balcony and looked out across his lawn. The mid-afternoon sun caused
sweat to bead on his bare chest, his skin a deep brown. How had he
not done this before? How had he spent so many days inside his house
rather than out in the sun?

A woman lay next to
him, not looking out over the yard, but lying in a chair letting the
sun wash over her. Jeffrey had seen every inch of her body more times
than he could count, and while he hadn't tired of it yet—he found
the grass beneath him more fascinating right now. The lawn stretched
out for acres. He'd thought about building a small winery on it and
hiring a few people to run the operations. Nothing that he would
sell, only personal usage. The perfectly cut lawn was treeless, the
lines his landscapers created looking almost like a baseball field.
Trees did encircle the vast expanse of green, each one tall with
plenty of leaves. Jeffrey didn't know what kind they were and really
didn't care. He cared about what they looked like, and to him the
entire place looked perfect. The woman lying next to him looked
perfect. The balcony he sat on, all perfect.

He took a sip of the
drink next to him. He needed to take it slow. For himself. For the
woman he was sharing his house with now. Drinking all day, every day,
was becoming a thing of the past. No Twelve Step Program needed, but
if he let himself he would still find himself buzzing every day. He'd
like it, but Angeline probably wouldn't stand for it too long. It
surprised him that he cared what she thought, but he did. He hadn't
verbalized it over the six months since she moved in, but he knew it
internally: she was the reason the drinking had slowed. He liked
having her around; he hadn't said the 'L' word yet, but he might be
getting close. His selfishness kept him from telling her, the place
inside that wanted his life to be his and no one else's. The part of
him that traded...

Don't
go there.

A year and a half later
and his mind still brought it up. Jeffrey wondered if he would ever
be able to let it go, to let the past just live in the past and allow
his new life to continue forward.

Probably not, because
every single book he signed had a cover shot of Matthew's body lying
face down, full of bullets and dead. He hadn't wanted to use it but
his publisher insisted. Most bookstores refused to display it, hiding
it in the back under true crime, but that only helped boost sales.

The book came out six
months ago and—

Well, life changed. He
hadn't needed to move to Paris, but he had moved away from his former
house in California. He went south. Nearly to the Mexican border and
found this little slice of paradise, which he bought and then asked
Angeline to share with him. No neighbors for miles and it took twenty
minutes to get to a grocery store, but Jeffrey kind of felt that if
he never saw anyone again, that would be fine. Him, his woman, and
this place were all he needed. The rest of the world could do
whatever it needed to keep spinning.

The sales poured in and
his publisher was requiring him to do media appearances, but that was
really the only time he left this place. He had his food shipped in;
any entertainment they needed could be found on the premises. The
sales though...were beyond anyone's foresight. Six months number one
on the New York Times and all that, which was done easily enough when
selling nonfiction. The powerful part was that it outsold fiction
titles as well. He was moving a hundred thousand units a week,
unheard of in publishing. He outsold his advance and now checks were
just adding up in his bank account. He didn't even look anymore, just
knew he had more money that he would ever spend in this life. More
money than any potential children would ever be able to spend either.

And yet, he didn't want
to spend.

He didn't want to do
anything but sit inside this house, or on this balcony, and enjoy the
world as a near recluse.

Therapy.

The word came up more
and more. His brain spitting it out almost as often as it tried to
bring up Matthew Brand's name. He didn't throw
therapy
away as he did Brand, though. He knew he needed it. He
knew he had to tell someone what happened those last few weeks before
the world made him a hero and the F.B.I. publicly thanked him for his
help. Before the country decided that he had been the one to end the
fever stretching from coast to coast. He needed to tell someone that
he never wanted to turn in Brand. That he didn't even want Brand
caught, that if anything, he wanted him to have his son. Someone
needed to know that, because the longer Jeffrey kept it in, the
further he sank. He named the feeling last week, when he woke at
three in the morning, his hands extended straight into the air and a
dream quickly fading that had something to do with Matthew's body
lying dead on concrete. He slowly let his hands down, knowing that
sleep wouldn't come to him anymore that night. He left the bed as
quietly as he could and went out to the balcony. The air felt cool on
his skin, but his robe managed to keep him relatively warm. He sat
there until the sun came up, struggling to name what was happening
inside him.

Sinking.

That was the word.

Deciding, maybe
consciously and maybe not, that he no longer cared for this world and
no longer wanted to live in it. The purpose of his book had been to
explain a different side of Brand, to tell the truth of what
happened—both the first and the sequel. Both sold radically well,
the sequel on pace to break every publishing record ever, and yet no
one understood. They devoured the book but it did nothing to actually
nourish their minds. Matthew Brand was the devil and if anything, his
book had named him that. Jeffrey wrote about how far a man would go
for his son, but the world saw it as a book about a serial killer. He
wrote a book about someone he legitimately respected, and the man was
dead now because Jeffrey sold him away. Sold him so that he didn't
have to move out of the country. Forfeited Brand's son's life, too.

Was that the worst
part? Not Brand necessarily, but that Brand had been right. That his
theory was possible the entire time and on the day he succeeded,
Jeffrey took it all from him. That Jeffrey took his son's life just
as he was born. Everyone in the warehouse had heard it, every cop he
interviewed said the same words came from that glass box.
Dad?
What's going on?
And then whatever spark was inside there,
whatever mind had formed, ended. Years and years of work for that
voice, and Jeffrey allowed it all to explode.

He was sinking away
from humanity, away from anyone but Angeline.

Jeffrey stood from his
chair and looked down at her. She didn't move, must have been
sleeping. He would wake her up if he thought she was going to burn,
but for now her dark skin could handle it.

He took his drink with
him, walking barefoot into his house. The conditioned air met him
immediately, hardening his nipples from the chill of the room. He
grabbed a towel that he'd thrown on the couch before heading out and
wrapped it around him.

He walked through the
kitchen, heading towards his office, ready to find a shrink's number
somewhere in Southern California, tired of fighting these feelings.
He had to tell someone. Just like the alcohol—this was for himself
and Angeline, because if he sank deeper she wouldn't be able to
handle it. She loved him even though she kept the word to herself
too, not wanting to say it until he decided it was time, but how long
could she handle living like a hermit? No. He had to tell someone. He
had to get this out and see if he could fix whatever was broke inside
him.

Four feet from the
foyer, Jeffrey stopped. His heart notched up about a thousand beats
per minute and the skin across his body tightened, causing his hair
to stand. His mouth dropped a bit but he didn't turn around. The
kitchen was silent but he'd seen something. It had been in the corner
of his eye, almost missing it because he was concentrating on the
shrink, but if he turned around now it would still be there. If he
went forward, acting like he saw nothing, it would still be there. If
he walked out the front door, got in his car and drove away, it would
still be there. His eyes hadn't lied to him.

Jeffrey closed his
mouth and wiped his hands on his shorts.

Maybe this was the
psychiatry he needed.

He turned around and
sitting at the kitchen table, sun shining in from the window, were
the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

David Beers lives in Florida with a beautiful woman and a stubborn
dog.

You can find more
of his thoughts and writings at:

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