Dreamwalker (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Prosperidad hung limp in The Chair's bindings. She hadn't seen daylight since entering Island Cabs. Moments of torture seemed like hours and her time within these walls already seemed eternal.

Repeated beatings delivered by St. Croix and his men had mushroomed her lips and nose. Shattered blood vessels squeezed her eyes nearly closed. Her headscarf was gone and tendrils of sweaty hair hung in her face. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

“This could be easier,” Stoner said, standing next to her. “You heard the Boss. He said stop once you gave up the boy. What do ya say? Tell me, and all the pain goes away.”

Only a muffled version of Stoner's request got through. He'd burst her left eardrum and white noise filled that side of the room. She still got the message, loud and clear.

She peered at him through the slits she had left for eyes, barely able to raise her head to make contact.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I…don't…know.”

Stoner crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.

“Too bad you want to take that route.”

He picked up two black leather gloves from St. Croix's desk. As he slipped them on, flecks of dried blood flaked onto the floor. He flexed his fingers and made a fist.

“Anytime you change your mind,” he said, “just say the word.”

Destiny had taught Prosperidad the big lesson already. What is foretold must unfold. She'd broken the code. She'd endure what was coming. She owed it to Tommy.

She closed her eyes and tried to find somewhere safe for her mind to hide. She conjured up her grandmother's house on the lake in the Dominican Republic. A cooling breeze blew her hair from her face. Her grandmother stood beside her, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“It won't be long now,” her grandmother said.

Prosperidad placed her hand over her grandmother's. She knew. She'd seen the future. Hers was empty.

Stoner reached down, grabbed her jaw, and angled her head for the next blow.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Rayna sat slumped against the palace wall. A torch marginally lit her windowless cell's interior. Rough-cut granite block walls surrounded the concrete slab floor. Only a crossbeam secured the heavy wooden door on the other side, but that was as good as a time-locked safe to Rayna. The hunters had dragged her up many flights of stairs, so she had to be in one of the towers.

She rested her head against the wall. The last time she felt this awful was when Estella died. At that moment, her life disintegrated. That point of desperation was just that, a single fleeting point. In minutes, she'd found a solution. She'd ravaged the medicine cabinet, mixed her fatal martini, and followed her sister over. An escape presented itself immediately.

This time was different. There wasn't the dimmest hope that she or her sister would ever leave this palace. Not while their souls contained an amp of energy. Dreamwalker or not, Pete would never get past the zombie hunters whirling around the palace walls.

Losing Pete's key was an even worse blow. He said it was a guide to a safe place, hidden from Cauquemere. Not any longer. When Cauquemere finished with it, it would make Twin Moon City look like paradise. And if Pete was there when that happened…

Pete's death was too horrible to contemplate. She had more than enough known disasters without adding those that were only possible.

Now, instead of being an asset to Estella outside the walls, she was a liability within, a powerless pawn in Cauquemere's game of control. Nothing she had done, even the life she sacrificed, had made the situation better. Instead, she'd made it all far worse.

She stretched out on the stone floor. The cold soaked through her clothing and made her spine ache. She thought how awful it was to be unable to die.

Estella sensed Rayna's presence in the palace. Once, she had yearned to feel her so close. Now the sensation filled her with dread. One slip from Estella, one hint of subterfuge, and Rayna would pay the price. Estella had gone from shielding her sister from Cauquemere's eternal torture to ensuring it.

The glimmer of hope that Pete had lit was extinguished. He had only the heart, not the skills, of a great dreamwalker. He'd be no match for Cauquemere. He'd benefitted from the shield she'd thrown up around Rayna. Now hunters would track him seconds after arrival in Twin Moon City. He'd never make it into the palace as anything but a corpse, or worse, a captive.

How long could she last here, conjuring evil around the clock? She stared at the gaunt faces and ragged, gray hair of the other dreamwalkers at her table. She'd eventually look like them. Worse, she'd feel like them, all the humanity and all the passion within her crushed under the weight of the misery she inflicted on others.

She wondered if miracles ever found their way this deep into hell.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The mansion's ruins were no refuge now. Pete forced himself back awake.

Dim daylight crept into Prosperidad's living room. Though the sunlight claimed he slept through until morning, he didn't feel rested. He was as tired as he'd felt last night, maybe more so.

Pete's watch said 5:30. That time didn't square with the daylight outside. He stuck his head through the drapes. The orange glow was waning, not waxing. It was 5:30 p.m. Pete had been out for over twelve hours. Time had raced by while he checked the ruined mansion. He'd lost almost a day.

He hobbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. The instant glare made his pupils recoil. When he focused, he was horrified.

He looked even worse than the day before. His lower eyelids sagged, exposing pink, inflamed sockets. His face was pale and drawn, his cheeks drooped. The shocker was his hair. Streaks of gray peppered the black. He reached up and ran his fingers through it. His shoulder felt like it was lubricated with gravel.

The two-tailed burning candle barely had a middle left. Living simultaneous lives in two worlds was wasting him. If he kept this up, he'd wake up with a coronary.

Prosperidad hadn't returned last night. Either St. Croix still held her captive, or she was dead. Pete hoped St. Croix valued her fortunetelling skills enough to keep her alive.

He hung his head and slumped against the sink.

Rayna. Estella. Prosperidad. Cauquemere. St. Croix. He was supposed to be the key, the one who could fix the problems in both realities. He kept rearranging the variables in his head, trying to find an equation with a resolution. None seemed to work. Wherever he was, he needed to be elsewhere simultaneously. He could traverse two different planes of existence, yet only stay in one at a time.

But Cauquemere had the same disadvantage
.
He was fighting two enemies, just like Pete was.

That was the weak spot in the black knight's armor. Pete just needed to find the right weapon, discern the right blow to strike and Cauquemere's weakness became Pete's strength.

Pete entered Prosperidad's reading room. He flipped over the table back and poked through the wreckage on the floor in search of something to fertilize the sprouting plan.

He didn't understand most of what he saw. Multicolored feathers. Bones from anonymous animals. A ring of braided hair, which he prayed wasn't human. Many things were broken beyond recognition, shattered bits of powerless talismans.

Then he saw something useful.

On the floor lay what looked like a railroad spike, but on a smaller scale. The fact that it looked like a weapon caught Pete's eye, but it had a more important property. He flaked some orange rust off the sharpened tip. It was made of iron.

Prosperidad said that iron killed in both worlds.

It would come to that. He was sure of it now. Either he would kill St. Croix/Cauquemere, or the demon would kill him. He hadn't killed anything above insect in his life, and in a test of physical strength, either of the
petra loa's
manifestations had him beat. He hoped he'd be up to it when the time came. He had to be, for Rayna's sake. He slid the spike in his pocket.

Something about the ring of braided hair called to him. He fought the urge to pick it up until he remembered how things had come to him in Twin Moon City. In each instance, sudden clarity replaced confusion, clarity so obvious he felt stupid for questioning it. If those epiphanies could come in that reality, why not here?

He picked up the hair. It felt like silk, but with a strange static charge between the strands that made him feel uneasy. He pocketed the braid.

He lifted the broken shelf off the floor. Underneath lay the antelope's head. He picked it up and brushed it off. Prosperidad asked the Antelope to send the message he saw at the mansion. He smoothed the fur on the skull. He flipped it over. A roll of paper stuck from the sinus cavity. He slid the paper out and unfolded it. It said:

PETE, MEET ME AT MY HOME.

Prosperidad's message she sent to the mansion. The Antelope translated it into the dust storm vision.

Then it came together, as effortlessly as throwing up a reflection has come to him.
Transportation, transmutation, transformation.
The cloaking murkiness dissipated and the potential of his powers in Twin Moon City appeared clear as coral in Caribbean waters. All he had to do was reach out and touch it.

He understood the powers of the talismans, each distinct, each destined to have a part in the hours that lay ahead.

In this forming plan he could rescue Rayna and Estella, and perhaps everyone else trapped in Twin Moon City. He could end St. Croix's reign in Atlantic City. He could tie things up neatly. Almost.

He couldn't resolve a future with Rayna. Where could they exist on the same plane with any hope of having something meaningful?

A bridge he'd cross later.

First, he'd need the help of the Antelope. He grabbed a pen and paper and dashed off a note. He paused and then wrote another. The more lengthy second message filled the page. He folded the two notes up the way Prosperidad's had been folded and inserted them in the skull. He flipped the skull back over onto the table, and looked it in the empty eye sockets.

“Antelope, Prosperidad told me you can send messages to the other side. Please, here are two. I really need your help.”

He hoped the Antelope would cut his half-assed request some slack. What he planned to do would be impossible if he had to do it alone.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

In the Hall of Dreamwalkers, Estella and the others wove nightmares. Cauquemere was gone, walking the tactile world as St. Croix. Estella touched up a vision for tonight's delivery. The orb floated above her outstretched hands.

In it, a steel plate protruded from a wall like a thin eight-foot shelf before a vault-like door. A nude woman lay prone upon it, her, red hair flowing down her creamy shoulders. Her unmarked body lay rigid and still, save for her panicked eyes that searched right and left.

A white-robed attendant approached and adjusted some dials on a panel. A low roar behind the wall increased.

The woman's eyes focused on the attendant. Her eyelids fluttered as if their flapping noise would attract his attention.

He continued his tasks. He pushed a button. The vault door arched open and exposed a sea of blue flame. The rapid outpouring of heat singed and curled the hair of the crematorium's next customer.

At the smell of her own roasting hair, the woman's eyes registered surprise, and then anguish. She stared hard at the attendant, straining to make her intensity audible, to overcome the limitations of her paralyzed body and silenced voice, to let him know she was still alive.

The attendant pushed a large red button on the panel. The shelf began to retract into the broiling oven.

The woman's skin blackened and peeled as flames seared the outer layers. She gave one last frantic look to the room as the vault door sealed shut at her feet. The blue gas jets flared. The vision ended.

The cycle began to repeat and Estella started to add the details she knew would make it more horrific for the woman, though the scene already turned Estella's stomach. She was about to paint the attendant with the face of the woman's father, when the nightmare paused. Only the attendant remained in motion. He turned to Estella, his face neither its original visage, nor that of the woman's father. It had elongated and turned dark brown. It looked like an antelope.

“Estella,” he said.

Estella pulled back her hands like the globe had caught fire. Visions only repeated, they didn't change and speak to their creators.

“Estella,” the Antelope said again. “I have a message for you from Pete.”

Estella listened to the plan Pete sent across. It was complicated and dangerous, and timing would have to be precise. However, as she listened, for the first time since her incarceration, she broke into a broad smile.

In the palace prison tower, Rayna sat against the rough stone wall of her cell. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. A senseless cackle from the guard outside rolled in under her door. She rubbed her temples.

Something scratched the floor in front of her. As if drawn by some unseen stylus, lines and curves formed in the dirt on the floor. They connected into letters and then words. She read the message twice, disbelieving her eyes the first time.

A second smile was born in Cauquemere's palace.

On the floor it read:

I'M COMING.

-PETE

Chapter Forty

Darkness fell as Pete darted across a street in Atlantic City. He carried four weapons into battle: the spike in his pocket, the ring of hair from Prosperidad's, the coil of copper wire, and blind faith. His hood hid his eyes from the few that braved the chill air, and their eyes from his, as he tried to recapture the anonymity he enjoyed the day before.

He took an indirect route across town, navigating a warren of alleys and streets, always moving west. The course was clear, undiffused by his VPD, like a GPS map in his head that scrolled by as he walked. Like it worked in his dreams.

Anxiety mounted with each passerby, potential scouts on St. Croix's payroll. He ducked into shadows as strangers passed, especially those driving Island Cabs.

He made it to the old schoolyard, scene of the brutal basketball game the day before. One lamp cast a weak circle of light over the empty court. A solitary man leaned against the fence corner, his New York Giants jacket collar turned up against the cold. A smoldering cigarette hung from the corner of his lip. His eyes followed Pete with a rehearsed show of indifference.

Only a lookout would brave the cold like that. Pete kept a measured pace, trying to exude cool, trying to look like he was supposed to be here.

After a hundred feet, Pete stole a quick glance back at the court. The lookout absent-mindedly crushed his expended cigarette beneath his boot. No alarm sounded.

Pete continued down the block, past Island Cabs. A few cabs were parked in the deserted bay past the open rollup door. The shiny black SUV was parked outside, just as he feared.

Prosperidad was probably in there somewhere, and had been for almost a day. He could only imagine what St. Croix and his goons had done to her. The idea of a heroic rescue surfaced and quickly sank. Outnumbered who-knows-how-many to one and with no idea where she was, he'd never make it.

He'd stick to one mess at a time. He'd be back here later. If he lived.

Pete re-entered the storage yard. He picked his way through the maze of boats and trailers. At the fence corner closest to the water, he dropped to his belly and slid underneath a faded cabin cruiser in a decaying cradle.

The cigarette boat was still tied up to the dock behind the warehouse. It rocked gently in the bay's slight swells, squeezing its bumpers against the pilings. The unlit cabin looked empty.

He spent fifteen minutes watching. One cab came in and then left again. No one left the building. No one seemed to be guarding the exterior. Nothing moved on the boat. Time to act.

Pete crawled forward. He launched himself up the chain link fence and rolled over the top. He dropped to the other side, ran across the short sandy stretch of dirt, and sprinted down the dock. He skidded to a stop at the dock's edge and lowered himself into the cigarette's cockpit.

They'd stripped the barren ship down for speed. There were no seat cushions, no cup holders, and no cute little aft mount for a yacht club pennant. Every potential ounce of useless weight it carried out was one less ounce of illicit drugs it could carry back. One seat faced the wheel and control panel.

Pete went to the hatch that led to the cabin. A formidable steel lock secured the hasp.

“Son of a bitch,” Pete whispered.

No one had locked the boat when it docked before. Who would steal from St. Croix? This screwed the stowaway-in-the-cabin plan all to hell. An open, missing, or broken lock would arouse suspicion and guarantee a search. He scanned the cockpit for another option.

A bench seat ran along the cockpit's aft, split into two storage lockers; the lid doubled as the seat surface. Pete opened the left compartment. It was about the size of a steamer trunk. An anchor and anchor lines lay inside. On the right was what looked like a fuel line cutoff valve.

Useless. Someone might open that, even before the boat left.

He dropped the hatch back down and opened the one on the right side. It was the same size as its twin, but fiberglass baffles across the interior created small compartments, all empty.

Perfect,
he thought
Well, almost perfect.

He went back to the first compartment. He let out a low groan as he pulled out the anchor. He lugged it to the other side of the cockpit. He grabbed the end and, swinging it like the world's most unwieldy golf club, brought it down into compartment two. The blow splintered the fiberglass dividers and sheared them from the compartment floor. The crashing noise echoed inside the hull. He waited in case it drew a reaction.

The warehouse walkway stayed empty. He reached into the compartment, gathered the smashed baffles, and slipped them overboard. They sank into the dark water.

Pete placed his spool of wire and the horsehair talisman in the cleared compartment. He took his sweatshirt off and stuffed it in the corner. Then he stepped inside and crouched. Still too tall to close the lid, he rolled to his side in a tight fetal position. He reached up, grasped the lid's edge with his fingertips and pulled. The stars disappeared behind the lid and Pete lay in darkness.

The smell of the compartment enveloped him, a combination of the sweet scent of fiberglass and the fearsome reek of gasoline. What if he passed out in here from the fumes? He pushed the idea away. He was out of options. The boat was the only place St. Croix would be alone.

Pete shifted in the compartment's cramped confines and moved his shoulder off a rough patch of fiberglass. Step one complete. For step two, he'd have to do something a lot more difficult.

He'd have to fall asleep.

He had to get back to Twin Moon City. He was going to do it without the wire and knife protection, but he was gambling that with St. Croix making his deal tonight, Cauquemere would be pinned in the tactile world.

Pete closed his eyes. Enough adrenaline ran through his body to power a herd of charging rhinos. He took strong, deep breaths and relaxed his body with each exhalation. The boat rocked like a cradle and he let the exhaustion he'd kept at bay all week take him over. The mainspring of Pete's consciousness wound down.

The sounds of the tactile world grew faint and then vanished as Pete passed over to save the woman he loved.