The Dreamstalker (2 page)

“That's because you tell her all my secrets.” Kerr formed a pistol with his fingers and shot down his twin.

“What secrets? Your life is the proverbial open book, and despite what you think, not everyone wants to read it.”

“Don't you two ever get tired of cutting each other up into little pieces?” Alysia asked.

Karen escaped answering when Jesse joined their group.

“Hey, gang, discussing the bizarre mystery of Gordon Anderson's death?” Jesse took the desk across from Karen and smiled at her. His smile said, “I love you.” Karen's said, “Me, too, love you back.”

“I don't know about bizarre,” Kerr said, “but you'll have to admit it was fitting, well-deserved.”

“Kerr, no one deserves to die.” Alysia had a tendency to side with underdogs, or maybe to understand people better than they understood themselves. Kerr was just the opposite. If he could catch anyone down, he'd step on them. It seemed to amuse him to torment anyone who was close enough to attract his attention. If you couldn't take it, you moved out of his range.

“Oh, yeah, how about hardened criminals? The perverts of society?” Kerr was serious. In the mock election they'd had in government, he had lobbied for a return of the death penalty.

Karen reached out and touched Kerr's arm. “Kerr, Gordon wasn't a criminal. He may have been a bully all his life, but I think he was a very unhappy person.”

“And he made a lot of kids just as miserable as he was. I say his death was good riddance.” Kerr welcomed Bret Sandoe and Easy Miller, who pulled their desks close to him. He was always the center of a group of admirers, like a planet with its satellites. “Don't you guys agree?”

“If you say so, Kerr.” Bret didn't even hear what Kerr had said, but he was always on Kerr's side of an argument.

“I'm saying that no one will mourn Anderson's demise.” Kerr let them in on the conversation.

Easy, labeled because of his initials—standing for Earl Zachariah—and after his ease on the football field, grinned at Karen. “His parents will. I guess your parents have to love you, no matter how much of a dweeb you are.”

“Not necessarily.” Kerr had the last say on that subject, too, since their teacher called the class to attention.

Professor McArthur drove from the University of Colorado's Denver Campus to Evergreen High to meet with the special class of gifted and talented seniors for their last hour. They were used to his being late, especially if the weather was bad. He's instructed them to talk about the day's material among themselves until he arrived and he knew he could depend on their doing so. As often as not, the class extended well beyond the time for school's ending, almost like a psychology club.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I assume your conversation has centered on the death of one of your classmates.”

All ten of the students in the group nodded or murmured yes, some a bit ashamed to admit it.

“A very unfortunate circumstance. I read the newspaper story. It would seem that Gordon died of suffocation. I understand he had asthma from early childhood.” McArthur took off his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, then cleaned the glasses and put them back on. A suddenly bare face made him look vulnerable. Short and bald, he was never an imposing figure, but Karen admired his mind—and his volunteering to teach this special class. In the beginning, he'd said it gave him a chance to study the variances of the adolescent mind. He pretended he was teasing them, but she suspected he was really being frank.

“Then he died of natural causes?” Lucy Bosch asked, lisping around a mouthful of metal braces. “What about the—the—flowers?”

“And the paint?” Danah Thompson asked.

“The police have been called in,” McArthur answered. “My opinion is that he wasn't alone when he died, even though no one actually killed him.”

“This is someone's idea of a joke?” Kerr grinned.

“You could say that, Mr. Newton. Do you find it humorous?”

“I'll admit I do.” Kerr was honest. “If I'm not mistaken, I think a number of us do.” Kerr looked around as if to count those who agreed with him.

Professor McArthur studied the class with his piercing eyes, made larger by his thick glasses. Karen thought he looked like a nearsighted gnome. She looked down quickly when his eyes rested on her. While she didn't find Gordon's death funny, and dreaming about it made it even less humorous, she couldn't find a lot of sympathy for the boy. He'd called her and Kerr “Fig Newtons” until the joke wore thin—she was “Fig One” and Kerr, “Fig Two.” Sometimes he'd commented that they were both a
jig
ment of his imagination. Twins are weird, he'd taunted. Karen called him “The Pest” and was able to ignore him. But to some kids, weaker than she and Kerr, Gordon was a real threat. In grade school, he'd taken kids' lunch money many times. As he got older and more sadistic, he'd made girls and even a couple of boys cry with his cruel and humiliating practical jokes.

“How many of you were at some time bullied by Gordon Anderson?” McArthur asked after his study of each face.

One by one, everyone in the class raised a hand. Some responded slowly, as if hating to admit it, but the vote was unanimous.

“I thought so. People of superior intelligence are often the target of bullies, even bullies who themselves possess more than average IQs. You might suspect that with my looks and stature I have more than once received such treatment. You would be correct, of course. The minds of bullies tend to overperceive hostility in peers. This leads them to react in a hostile or aggressive manner. They will especially pick on someone smaller in size. But keep in mind they are usually very unhappy people.”

“Are we going to spend the hour talking about Gordon Anderson?” asked Kerr. “I'd much rather talk about dreams. Let's talk about Karen's dreams.” His dark eyes teased Karen.

Her look said, “I'll pay you back for this, Kerr.” His continued grin said, “I know you will.”

They often communicated without words. It had been fun when they were younger, but it was disconcerting now. Karen felt the need of more privacy. She shut Kerr out when she could. This year, Jesse had taken Kerr's place in her life. Finding out that another guy besides her brother could love her was delightful. And, she admitted only to herself, reassuring.

“Care to reveal your night's adventures, Miss Newton?” Now the professor was teasing her.

“No.” She didn't look at anyone when she answered. Let them think she still hadn't remembered. It was the class joke.

The rest of the hour centered around recurring dreams, the night-after-night replay of the same subject.

“The repetitive dream is often caused by your subconscious wanting to tell you something and your not listening. Or by something happening in your life that you don't have control over,” McArthur said. “I'm recalling a period of my life where I was very stressed and overloaded. My dream was a car going downhill backward out of control. I couldn't get it to stop, but I would wake up before it crashed.”

“Is it true that you'll wake up in a dream before you die?” asked Kaziah Cole. “You know, like falling and falling but never hitting bottom?”

“That usually seems to be the case.” McArthur encouraged students to speak out with questions.

“Like that old superstition that if you die in a dream you'll die for real.” Danah spoke up. Danah questioned everything. She was the class skeptic.

Kerr couldn't resist. “Anderson dreamed he died, and when he woke up he found he had.” He laughed.

McArthur silenced him with a frown. “Since we can never know what a dying person is dreaming, we can't know for sure, Miss Thompson, but I suspect that idea is just what you called it, a superstition.”

The bell signaling the end of school shrilled into the classroom. But people hung around talking, in no hurry to end the discussion. Psychology wasn't a subject they had to take. Everyone in class had elected to be there. All had their own transportation, too, so there was no dash for a school bus.

Karen slipped to the front of the room where Professor McArthur gathered his notes into his briefcase. “Do—do you have a minute?”

“Of course, Karen.” McArthur was less formal on a one-to-one basis. “Have a question?”

“More like a confession,” she joked—or tried to. “I did remember a dream last night. Dr. McArthur, I dreamed about Gordon Anderson. I dreamed the way he died—the—the yellow paint and the flowers—it was awful.” She was practically whispering. But she had to tell someone. She wasn't sure she even wanted to tell Alysia all the details. Not yet, anyway.

McArthur studied her for a moment. “That's interesting. I'd like to hear more about it. There is such a thing as a psychic dream, seeing something that's going to happen. Have you ever had any psychic experiences before?”

“No, never. And I wouldn't want to. Especially if they are like this.”

“Did anyone talk to you about Gordon yesterday? Did you have any arguments with him yourself? Any kind of contact?”

“No—no, he was absent, remember?”

“Oh, yes, he was. Perhaps already sick. Let me think about this, Karen.” McArthur pulled at his ear-lobe. “And will you do something for me? Will you write down the dream in detail?”

“Do I have to?”

“It will help you get rid of it. Don't worry about this, Karen. As fascinating as it is, we'll try to find a reason for the phenomenon.”

Karen was reassured by the way Dr. McArthur always talked like a textbook. It relegated her dream to being something to dissect and study, but nothing as peculiar and frightening as it had seemed to her earlier.

“Karen, let's go,” Kerr called from the doorway. “If you're riding with me.”

Jesse stopped her as she hurried after Kerr. “Saturday night? Sorry I can't see you sooner.”

“Sure, Jesse. I have tons of homework.” She circled Jesse's waist and gave him a hug. “I know you have practice and Friday's game.”

She caught up with Kerr and walked beside him to their car. Neither said anything until she told him they had to go to town. As she'd predicted, he was angry about having to stop at the grocery. He grumbled as they headed into town instead of toward home.

“Kerr, want to hear something weird?” She went on, assuming he did, telling him the dream to distract him from his anger. “I dreamed about Gordon dying last night. It was as if I saw the whole thing.”

Kerr's mood changed all right. He burst into laughter. “You did? Oh, Karen, that's great. You were there? I love it. Tell me the whole thing, in detail. This is fabulous.”

“It is not. It was awful. You can't think that someone dying and my dreaming about it is funny.”

“Hey, look, Anderson's defunct, zip, zero. I can't do anything about it, can I? And I sure can't say I'm sorry. He was a public nuisance. But your dreaming about his death is fascinating.”

Karen sighed. She should have known better than to share this with Kerr. “Dr. McArthur thinks so, too. He asked me if I was psychic.”

“Psychic. Hey, if you're getting psychic, so will I. This is great.”

“Kerr, people don't become psychic. You're born that way.”

“Like being born twins? Hummm, it's probably just as much of a burden, too.” Kerr laughed out loud as he pulled into the City Market parking lot.

“I'm sorry to have caused you so much grief.”

“Hey, don't take it personally. Life would be dullsville without my better half.”

She jumped out and stomped across the parking lot. “I am not half of you, Kerr, and you aren't half of me. We're distinct individuals.”

“But we're getting psychic. I love it.” Kerr caught up and trapped her by putting an arm around her shoulders. “I love you, older sister. You are one fascinating lady.”

Karen ignored the stares of strangers. But she hoped people realized they were brother and sister.

I love you too, Kerr, she said to herself. As frustrating as you are, as egotistical, as complex, being your sister is always a challenge.

Chapter 3

I did it! I actually did it! It was just an experiment. It's still hard for me to believe it can really work. And Karen dreamed about it. I've thought it strange that she never remembered a dream. The class has talked about it, teased her about it. Everyone remembers some of his dreams. She chose this one. She did choose it, although she'd never believe she did, or admit she did. I hope we can talk about it more
.

Pretty, lively Karen. It scared you. I'm sorry it scared you. I'd never deliberately do that to you. You're too nice a person. But people can be too nice. It gets them in trouble
.

I wonder if Gordon was ever nice, even once. I don't feel at all bad about what I did. He was a miserable human being. He's a lot better off dead. Maybe he's happy now
.

He was sure scared, though. He knew he was going to die. He'd always worried about choking to death. He told us he had nightmares about it. That's why he left his window open, even with it twenty below zero. Made it a lot easier for me
.

I thought the yellow flowers were a nice touch. A hint of springtime. Gordon won't see spring this year. It's obvious that Karen's favorite color is yellow. She wears yellow all the time. I hope my use of the color won't spoil that for her
.

Colors are very symbolic. Yellow also stands for cowardice. Gordon was a bully and a coward. The yellow stripe down his back was an inspiration
.

Killing Gordon gave me a feeling of power that I like. I've never felt that kind of power. Now that I've proved that it can be done, I won't have to do it again. But it's satisfying to know that I can if I want to
.

Captain William Martin was a kind man. He didn't like questioning Karen. She knew that, but it didn't make her talk to him any easier. She glanced at Dr. McArthur, but he was taking notes and didn't look up. She felt better having him there, she guessed. At least she felt better not being left alone with a police officer, even one who was trying to be considerate of her feelings.