Dreamwalker (20 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Pete stood alone in the charred ruins of the mansion. The husky smell of burned wood hung like a poisoned fog in the air. This symbol of his life lay in ruins. Sorrow flashed across his mind, fast overwhelmed by anger. Cauquemere would pay, for this, for Estella, for Tommy DiStephano, for Rayna. He'd pay for all of it.

Pete kicked at the useless melted pile of weapons. He cleared some debris and uncovered the trap door to the tunnel. He grabbed the ring and pulled. Warped by the heat, the door creaked open.

The tunnel to Twin Moon City survived unscathed. Flickering candles still burned in the earthen walls. Perfect.

He bounded down the steps and then sprinted up the tunnel. Time was precious. There was no telling how fast the clock ticked back on the cigarette boat.

At the tunnel's end, he ascended the familiar wood ladder and pushed open a hatch at the top. He pulled himself up and into the ground floor of the office building near the palace, right where he planned to be.

He knelt in the shadows and listened. The building and the streets were quiet. He kicked shut the hatch. Whatever happened next, the tunnel wouldn't be his route home.

He yanked open the stairwell door. The sparkling, shattered remains of the full-length mirror covered the floor. Nothing he hadn't expected.

He plunged into the dark stairwell and started to climb. The numbing trepidation he felt the last time he ascended these steps was gone. This time he knew where he was going, and why.

He burst onto the roof, where he'd felt the city's energy flow so strongly. He dropped to his knees and crawled forward to the building's façade. He peered over the edge.

Between the palace's twin spires, the moons hung on the horizon. Outside, the palace appeared unchanged. But one new pinpoint of soul-light existed inside the dark towers. Somewhere within, Rayna waited.

Hunters swarmed like fire ants outside the palace walls, twice the number from last time. Gunner Jeeps screamed around the perimeter, loosing random, un-aimed shots at will. Squads of dismounted hunters patrolled the perimeter within the gates.

He crawled to the far side of the building and scanned the area. An unnerving stillness blanketed the rest of the city. No hunters prowled the streets, all recalled to defend Cauquemere's new prize. The
petro loa
expected Pete to attempt a rescue.

Just as Pete planned.

Cauquemere needed to be on the boat, in the body of St. Croix, heading out to the open ocean. His mindless minions had to keep his Twin Moon City prisoners secure. More trouble than usual outside the palace, but far less within. Perfect.

Pete hoped the Antelope had gotten his messages through.

Transportation, transmutation, transformation.

Prosperidad used those words to describe his potential abilities in Twin Moon City. It was time to try.

The energy pulse that flowed through the city rushed beneath him. He closed his eyes and felt the stream. Hundreds of threads wove themselves into one thick rope that snaked up into the palace. Each thread was unique, a shade darker or lighter, varied in thickness or texture, as distinct as the individuals it was drained from. Then he sensed one that was shockingly familiar.

The thread was his own.

Whether pulled by the vast slipstream the others created, or drawn to the palace by some great attraction, he couldn't tell. His small strand unraveled from within him, drew down a bit of his life force, and joined the vast hundreds. It scared the hell out of him. No wonder Cauquemere always found him so quickly.

Prosperidad had said he would learn to ride the wave. Time to test his inspiration. He wondered why he didn't understand his power the last time he was here. Transportation. Prosperidad couldn't have been plainer.

Pete relaxed and embraced the pull into the palace. Like water from an unplugged drain, his essence rushed from him and into the palace-bound flow, one self-aware thread among the hundreds. He felt lightheaded as he let not just his life force, but his physical presence, transport. He began to experience two different places at once; the empty rooftop overlooking the palace, and a dark roaring place, like a crowded, blacked-out subway car hurtling through its tube. He faded out from the rooftop, riding the wave.

This is how Cauquemere travels through Twin Moon City,
he thought.
How could I not have known?

In the darkness, he plunged forward riding the energy of the Twin Moon City captives. He sensed parts of each essence, like hundreds of simultaneous monologues.

Sorrow inundated him. Lost voices cried out in a multitude of tongues. Sensations of desolation and abandonment rippled over him. The tortured prisoners of Twin Moon City pleaded for release from this hell, though, alone in their hiding places, they despaired that no one listened.

The confused, weak forces of the zombie hunters registered as he flowed past their posts outside the palace. The mass of energy he rode accelerated and tightened. The individuals lost coherence, all weaving into one single strand, a strand about to be consumed. He pulled away like a fighter plane rolling out of formation. He banked at high speed and…

…appeared in the Hall of Dreamwalkers.

He stood on the thick oak table. Nightmare orbs whirled around his head. He knew where he was, though even in his dreams he'd never seen this place.

The dreamwalkers stopped work. Their lifeless faces strained to display a long dormant emotion; surprise. They stared stunned at the first being other than Cauquemere to enter their hall.

Pete raised his hands over his head and rotated them in a circle. As his fingertips touched each orb, it burst in a phosphorescent flash. He turned to Estella, her neck still bloody from Cauquemere's piercing grip. Her eyes burned with hope.

“Estella,” he said. “I'm Pete.”

The power that fueled the dreamwalkers' nightmare channeled into Pete, the unrestricted energy that fueled Cauquemere's megalomania. With this power, his mission would be more than a rescue. The
petra loa
would be stopped for good.

He dropped to one knee before Estella and placed his palms over the thick leather straps that bound her. The straps glowed bright white and vaporized. Estella sighed in relief.

“You got the Antelope's message?” he asked.

“I know the plan,” she replied. She motioned to the other dreamwalkers. “We'll do our part. I'll explain it to them.”

Pete turned and raised his hands over the other three. With a flash like a welding torch, their bindings evaporated. The man next to Pete touched his hands to his face in amazement. Pete stood and turned back to Estella.

“Rayna?”

“In the tower through that doorway,” Estella said, pointing left. “Hurry.”

Pete leapt from the table and charged through the tower doorway. Inside, a stairway wound around the inside walls. The steps went up forever.

The power within Pete waited on tap like an idling engine. He raised his hand over his head, bent his knees and leapt. He flew straight up. Stairs whipped by him at a dizzying speed. He approached an extended platform, slowed and hovered beside it.

A crossbeam barred a heavy looking wooden door in the wall. An older vintage zombie hunter stood beside it. His safari-style clothes were torn and dirty and only a skeleton protruded from the shirt's neck and sleeves. Bony hands grasped a machine gun across its chest. Empty sockets stared out of the skull.

The hunter swiveled the weapon toward Pete.

Pete cocked his right hand and unwound it like pitching a fastball. A sphere of lightning flew from his fingertips and nailed the hunter in the chest. The hunter slammed back against the wall. Limbs exploded in all directions. The main body fell to the floor, the ribcage collapsing into a jumble of bleached bones. The skull hit the floor with a crack and rolled on its side. The empty sockets faced Pete, finally at rest.

Pete touched down at the cell door. He slung the hunter's machine gun across his back. He tossed aside the weighty crossbeam and pulled open the door. A shaft of white light expanded across the cell floor. At the far end, shielding her blinded eyes, sat Rayna.

Pete's heart fluttered. He sprinted to her and dropped to his knees.

“It's me, Rayna,” he said, putting his arms around her.

Rayna slid her arms around Pete's waist and buried her head in his shoulder.

He breathed in the sweet smell of her hair, the best sensation Twin Moon City ever offered. He kissed her. Fireworks exploded. Their lips parted, delicate as the beat of a butterfly's wing.

“I'd abandoned all hope,” she said, tears in her eyes. “Then your message came.”

Rayna pointed to the Antelope's writing on the floor.

“I knew you'd rescue us. Without me, without the mirror, without the plan, you'd still find a way. I just had to hang on. Whatever happened I'd endure, because in the end, you'd be here.”

Pete owed the Antelope twice over. He lifted Rayna with him as he stood. He slipped the machine gun from his shoulder.

“I need to complete the other half of this plan,” he said. He handed her the machine gun. “Estella's at the bottom of the tower. She'll finish Cauquemere for good.” He patted the machine gun. “You may need to defend her from any inquisitive hunters.”

Rayna's face dropped.

“Where are you going?' she said.

“Back to the other side,” Pete answered. “To tie up some loose ends.”

“Then you'll return?”

“You bet.”

He was lying. If everything went as planned, there'd be nothing for him to come back to. Twin Moon City would be gone. Estella and Rayna would have crossed over, along with the rest of these lost souls. He forced that final scene away before it strengthened his selfishness.

Rayna didn't catch the prevarication. She brought the machine gun to the ready and smiled bright as a supernova.

“We'll be waiting for you,” she said.

Pete couldn't stand it. He wanted to tell her goodbye. He wanted to tell her she was the only woman he had ever, or would ever, love. He wanted to stretch this second into hours so he could absorb every nuance.

But Rayna needed to focus on defending Estella. Estella needed to focus on the plan. Pete needed to return to the boat before St. Croix completed his deal. Even a place without time held no moment for them.

Pete reached out to the river of energy running through the palace. He didn't need the tunnel, didn't need the mansion. With the palace power within him, he could hit escape velocity from Cauquemere's world by himself. He pushed himself back into the waking world.

Pete faded and then vanished before Rayna. He had never left Twin Moon City that way, but Cauquemere did it all the time. Pete had mastered the magic, those methods Cauquemere used to twist the supernatural to his will. There was no stopping Pete now.

Rayna left her cell and ran down the stairs. Flight after flight spun around her like a dizzying flock of birds. Estella was only yards away. Rayna could feel it.

She hit the ground floor and skidded to a stop in the open threshold. Four gaunt figures in white shapeless robes stood in silent conversation by a large oak table. The closest one was her sister. Rayna's heart soared.

Estella saw Rayna. Her face lit up. Rayna ran across the room and bear hugged her sister.

“Estella!” she managed. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Estella pulled back and put a finger to her sister's lips. She put their foreheads together.

A flood of pictures, conversations, and memories rushed through Rayna's mind like they were shot from a fire hose. She staggered, numbed by the blur of colors and shapes. The images slowed and she sorted them out. It was Estella's whole story. Her nightmares, her death, her enslavement as a dreamwalker, Rayna's protection her from Cauquemere. The last chapter arrived. The Antelope. The message. Pete's plan for Cauquemere and someone named St. Croix. She gasped.

“So dangerous,” she said aloud to herself. “He'll be killed…”

“He's the only one with the power,” Estella said. She caressed her sister's arm. “He'll make it.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Pete awoke to the echoing roar of the engines in the fiberglass hull. The cigarette boat had gone to sea while he penetrated the palace in Twin Moon City. The sleek ship skimmed the ocean, throttles wide open, cresting one wave and then slamming into the next. Each strike tossed Pete's body hard against the cold hull, grinding bits of the shattered fiberglass into any exposed skin. He stifled a cough from the combination of gas and exhaust fumes, paranoid St. Croix might hear him, even over the engines.

Pete shifted in the cramped compartment so that his head was against the cover. He raised it a few inches for a view into the shadowy cockpit.

St. Croix sat in the seat behind the wheel. The edges of his long, leather coat fluttered behind him like two raven's wings. He alternated between a search of the horizon and a glance at a glowing GPS device. It displayed bearing, time, and distance to the rendezvous location. The clock clicked down from fifteen minutes to fourteen. As advertised, St. Croix came alone. A silver metal briefcase up against the forward bulkhead glowed with reflected starlight.

Pete wiped his sweating palms on his pants leg. He reached into the corner of the compartment for the wire. The cold copper touched his fingertips. He grabbed it and the horsehair talisman next to it, what he now knew to be the amplifier.

He wrapped the talisman around the end of the wire and then pulled the wire through it a few inches at a time. All the while, he watched St. Croix, who remained fixated on the gauges.

The horsehair would give the wire a kick. He hoped it was a big one. He couldn't risk it all on the element of surprise.

The “time to destination” display turned to thirteen. Soon he'd be in view of the other, more heavily crewed ship. Then, outnumbered, he'd have no chance. If he waited until after the transaction, he might be discovered in the rear compartment during the loading process. It was time.

Pete took one end of the wire in each hand. He pushed the compartment lid up and open. He climbed out into the bouncing cockpit, thirty knots of wind in his face.

They were far out at sea, the dazzling lights of Atlantic City well below the western horizon. A million stars dotted the moonless sky. Pete crouched and weaved each time the ship hit a wave, trying to keep his balance. St. Croix stared straight ahead.

Pete lined up behind the drug lord and unwound three feet of wire between his hands. He flipped it into a loop. With catlike steps, he closed the gap between them. Four feet, two feet, one.

He flipped the wire loop over St. Croix's head. The man's reflexes were cobra fast. Both hands left the wheel and reached for his neck. Pete pulled the wire noose tight, a split-second too late. St. Croix had fingers and thumbs inside the wire. He grunted in shock.

Pete wedged a knee against the seatback and pulled, but St. Croix held his own. An inch of wire slipped through Pete's hands. St. Croix was winning.

Then the wire came alive, tapping Cauquemere's own power within St. Croix. It throbbed with energy and warmed Pete's hands. A tart soldering iron scent rose into the wind.

The wire sizzled. St. Croix let loose a strangled scream. Thin wisps of smoke curled from his fingers. The copper sliced through St. Croix's digits like a laser scalpel. Ten fingers fell to the floor like ripened fruit. St. Croix held his stubby palms before his face in shock. The drug lord choked and gasped for air.

Pete tightened the noose. The horsehair talisman's power ebbed. Decapitation wasn't Pete's plan. St. Croix gagged at the extra pressure and his arms fell limp. Pete wrapped each end of the wire around a bolt on the rear of the seat. St. Croix gurgled a weak threat.

Pete pulled Prosperidad's iron spike from his pocket.

Iron kills in both realities.

He stood before St. Croix. Blood ran from the stumps of St. Croix's fingers onto the deck in two symmetrical puddles. Hatred burned in his eyes.

“You,” he said.

“I'm
your
worst nightmare,” Pete said. He pressed the spike over St. Croix's heart. St. Croix's racing heartbeat made it pulse in his grip.

St. Croix managed a faint smile.

“I'll just cross back over,” he croaked.

“I'm counting on it,” Pete said. He plunged the spike into St. Croix's heart.

Blood spurted as the spike punctured a ventricle. St. Croix's eyes rolled up into his head and left nothing but white. A hoarse rattle ground in his chest. Four weakening pulses painted Pete's hands in sticky red blood. With one last gush, the beating stopped. St. Croix's body relaxed. His head rolled forward. He was gone.

Pete nudged the engines into neutral with his clean elbows. He slipped the wire from the corpse's neck. The boat stopped. He pulled St. Croix's body to the gunwale and rolled it over the side. It hit the water with a splash.

Pete stripped off his blood soaked shirt and tossed it overboard. He washed his hands in the ice-cold Atlantic until he couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled himself back in the cockpit and donned the sweatshirt he'd stored the compartment.

He spied the silver briefcase against the bulkhead. He bent down and opened it. It was packed with cash, banded stacks of hundred dollar bills crisp as starched collars. It had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars. He closed the case. He had an idea for this unexpected windfall.

He nudged the two throttle controls to full forward. The boat hunkered down at the stern and leapt to life. The GPS display said he was just two miles short of the rendezvous point. He spun the wheel and the boat swung left. Polaris rotated to his right shoulder and the compass pointed west. The time to target reading on the GPS started to climb. Pete headed home.

The rest was up to Estella.