The Dream Machine: Book 6, The Eddie McCloskey Paranormal Mystery Series (The Unearthed) (17 page)

It was a twenty-five minute drive further south and west to the strip mall. Our driver, the ever-silent, rock-jawed middle eastern, communicated with his eyes only.

He stopped in front of the store and let us out, then parked in the back of the lot. He kept the engine running and the lights on.

Manetti and I entered the store. The shootout had been last week but they’d already replaced the windows and the shop was open for business. A man wearing a turban and standing behind the counter looked up from his iPad where he was probably tracking inventory and gave us a long look.

There were three other patrons in the store. Some kid about to overflow his pour on the Icee machine, a rough-looking teen checking out the seemingly endless assortment of beef jerky, and a woman jabbering on her cell phone while she picked up some two-liters. She might have had cobwebs in her hair.

We let the man ring them up before we moved in.

“Police?” he said.

“Federal agent.” Manetti badged him.

“Federal?” He had an accent. But then again, we all do.

Manetti nodded. “We came to talk to you about the shootout. Are you the owner?”

He nodded. “I already answer police. I already answer everything.”

“What’s your name, sir?” she asked.

He said it once and I couldn’t make it out. Manetti asked him to repeat. After listening a few times, I was pretty sure he was saying Anirban. Either way, I was going to butcher the poor guy’s name.

“We’d like to talk to you about that day.”

“I answer everything. With the police.”

“We are exploring different angles,” Manetti said. “Do you remember who was in the store when everything happened?”

“I told police already. I told—”

“Tell us,” Manetti said, putting a little steel in her voice.

“Kids.”

“How old?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. White people look same.”

I laughed. Manetti kept her composure.

“Were they with their parents?”

“No, no. Teen. Teenager, maybe.”

“Were—” Manetti’s phone buzzed. She checked whatever message had just come through. After shooting me a quick look, she turned back to the cashier. “Sir, I have to take this call. My colleague will continue.”

Manetti exited the store quickly. Anirban watched her go, then swiveled his eyes back to me.

“Uh, the kids…how many of them?”

“In police. In report.”

“I’m just looking for a ballpark.”

He held up seven fingers. “Eight.”

“Eight. Got it.” I really didn’t know what else to ask him. And his patience was wearing thin. He’d probably answered the same questions dozens of times already. “Did the kids know the shooters?”

“No. No. They hide behind aisles.”

I was struggling to come up with another question, when Manetti poked her head in. “Eddie.”

“Thank you, sir. We might be back.”

I hustled outside.

***

“The spider’s still running but we have our first good hit,” Manetti said.

“Spiders don’t run.”

“Shut up.” She held up her phone for me to see. There was a picture of a blond woman wearing black-rimmed glasses smiling back at me. “Kelly Isaacson. Forty-three. Friends with Alison on Facebook. Single and living alone. She has filed not one but two TROs on her on-again, off-again boyfriend, David Gilbert.”

“TRO?”

“Temporary restraining order.”

“Got it.”

“She started the process once of bringing charges but got cold feet at the last hour.” Manetti shook her head and looked at me. “Do you know how many women do that?”

“One would be too many.” I took the phone from her and looked at the picture. Wherever she was, it was well-lit. I could clearly see her face. But I got no sense of recognition. She could have been the woman in the dream. Just as easily, though, she might not have been.

“I know,” Manetti said. “The picture isn’t ringing any bells for me either. But it’s a place to look.”

“Got a picture of the asshole?”

Manetti swiped her phone and a new image came up. A tall, lean man with dark hair. We had so little to go off from the dream, though, that it was almost useless trying to find a match.

I stared at the image for another moment but it really didn’t help. The guy in Alison’s dream could have been anybody.

“Okay,” I said.

“Right,” she said. “It’s not much. Get anywhere with Anirban?”

“Nowhere. Just that the kids were teenagers.” Long shot, but I decided to ask. “Has Alison ever lived near here? Maybe she knows them or knew them.”

“You call her parents. I’ll call Kelly Isaacson.”

She gave me their phone number. Karen picked up on the first ring, like she’d been waiting by the phone.

“Karen, it’s Eddie. Did you happen to look at the list that Agnes sent you?”

“Hi, Eddie. Yes, I did. But none of the names jumped out at me.”

“Ah, okay. How about the strip mall? Have you guys ever been here?”

“We used to live not far from there.”

“But you didn’t recognize any of the names?”

“No.”

“Ever go into the store?”

“I don’t think so. We lived about twenty minutes away and there was another one closer to us.”

“How about the shooters, or the guys that were arrested? Recognize any of them?”

“No.” She made a tut-tutting sound. “I can’t believe that something like that could happen there. It’s a nice town. It’s supposed to be safe.”

“I know.” I looked out the window. “I’m here now and it’s tough to believe.”

I let the silence stretch, hoping she would say something—anything—that would give us something to go on. But she didn’t.

“Well, Eddie, you give me a call if you need anything else.”

“Okay, thanks, Karen.”

I hung up and looked at Manetti.

“Kelly didn’t answer.”

“Great.” I looked out the window at the convenience store. Anirban was still behind the counter, warily watching the three teeny-boppers that had just invaded his store. “Now what?”

“Hurry up and wait,” Manetti said. “One of Riehl’s favorite sayings. Hurry up and wait.”

I nodded. It was all we could do. “I’ll start looking at Alison’s other dreams. Greta should have me set up with access to their server now.”

The car ride was a quiet one. Outside the night air was surprisingly warm and still, no sign of the hurricane tearing through the Atlantic on its way up here.

The driver found us a restaurant. He stayed in the car while we went inside. It was a slow night. Our food was out in twelve minutes and I inhaled the eggplant parm. We didn’t make small talk, or any talk for that matter. We just chowed down and Manetti charged the dinner and we headed back out to the car.

We got back to the facility at nine. We found Dr. Zane in his office. He gave me the log-on information I could use to access the server. They had limited my permissions so all I could view were Alison’s dreams. Which was fine by me. I didn’t need to see what that asshole convict White was dreaming about. Manetti stayed with Zane to ask him some questions, and I retreated to another office to begin watching.

I plugged in the web address that led me to the secure, encrypted server and I entered the log-on information. It took a moment, but a new screen came up. At the bottom of the screen, there was a folder marked Alison. I opened it.

There were several subfolders labeled by month. It didn’t take a genius to decipher their cataloguing system. I opened November because I wanted to see the more recent dreams.

And started watching.

***

Every ghost hunter’s least favorite part of the gig is the data analysis after the go dark. Every onsite visit has the potential, albeit small likelihood, to turn into something really special. When it does, the audio and visual data recorded only serves to confirm what you saw: the proof everybody is always so eager for. But most of the time, nothing happens during the go dark. And when that nothing happens, you know there’s an even smaller chance that the tapes or audio will reveal anything. Going into the data analysis, you know you’re not going to find anything.

Hour after hour of non-dynamic film has defeated many a ghost hunter. I’ve known guys—good hunters—finally pack it in. Not because they never got a good hit, but because they were just tired of sifting through the nothing to find only more nothing. And any time I could push the data analysis off on somebody (poor Stan!), I jumped at the offer. It wasn’t my strength anyway, or so I told myself in a poor man’s attempt at rationalization.

But this time was a little different.

This time I was watching somebody’s
dreams
.

I had no idea what to expect. So far, I’d only viewed the short highlights from the hours and hours and hours of footage.

But for the first time in years, I was
excited
to look at tape.

***

Alison's dreams were beautiful.

They were rich with detail and flowed. The content didn't always make sense--in fact, most of the time, it didn't. But watching her dreams made me feel like I was sitting back in a dark theater taking in a silent art house flick. Half the time I couldn't make sense of what I saw, but that didn't matter. It was like stepping into another world where reality bent to the director and the audience was totally in thrall.

The hurricane dreams were vivid, dark, terrifying--even without sound. I could only imagine how much more powerful these visions would have been if some musician had scored them and laid down a soundtrack. But you could feel the wind ripping through the setting, the trees bending to it, the hard angled rain reducing visibility to almost zero.

If there was a theme running through the storm visions, it was this: almost all took place from inside buildings. A few times the point of view would shift and I'd realize I had been looking out a window, the glass buffeted by wind and slicked by rain. Once her mind's lens was looking through the crack in a basement storm door while outside the wind cut through the lawn and upended trees either too young or too old to stand the force.

In other words, all these dreams could have been from someone's point of view.

Except one. The latest storm-dream couldn't have been.

Because it took place outside. I knew because the point of view did several complete three hundred and sixty degree turns, revealing their surroundings. The camera, for lack of a better term, had been placed in the middle of a forest as the wind tore through the trees. Branches were flung like missiles across the field of vision, that floating camera that turned and whirled and twisted and focused and inclined and declined.

But it was just that: a camera. Nobody would be outside in a storm like that. Nobody. It was certain injury, if not certain death.

So again I was presented with a contradiction. When Alison dreamed of the future, the vision was almost always from somebody's point of view except the one storm dream, the rape sequence (which was like watching through a surveillance camera), and the shootout.

Which reminded me, I needed to finish watching the shootout.

Damn I was tired.

***

Manetti came into the office with the phone up to her ear.

"Kelly, I'm going to put you on speaker. My partner, Eddie McCloskey, is with me."

I perked up. Kelly was the woman we'd pulled from Alison's collection of Facebook friends who had a history of filing DV and assault charges only later to withdraw or recant them. Being our only lead, I was excited.

Manetti tapped her phone to activate the speaker. "Kelly, can you hear me?"

"Yes...what is this about?"

She had a tiny, nervous voice and it was hard to hear her through the speaker function.

"Has David Gilbert been in contact with you recently?"

"What...he called me a few days ago kind of out of the blue and left a message but I didn't call him...You said you were a federal agent?"

Manetti said, "Yes, Kelly. My team investigates violent crimes that are serial in nature or extend across state lines. We're following up on a lead."

She almost whispered the next question. “
Do you think Dave is a serial killer?
"

"I'm sorry, Kelly, but we can't share any details about our ongoing investigation. Can you—”

"I should have...jeez...if he's hurt somebody...I was so selfish. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, Kelly?"

"I...I brought charges against him a few times but...look, he's scary alright? He's
scary
. He's tall and powerful and he wrestled in college. He knows how to hurt. I...I was worried, alright?"

Manetti gave me a look and I nodded. It was hard to blame her for being scared.

Kelly went on. "I brought charges but every time I backed down because I was scared...has he hurt other women?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Kelly. And we need your help. When he called a few weeks ago, what did he want?"

"He called to tell me he still loved me and that we needed to be together again. He didn't want anybody else to have me and couldn't imagine me being with somebody else."

Manetti and I said nothing. The picture was starting to come together.

"I know what that sounds like, but honestly, he's always talked like that."

I didn't have the heart to tell Kelly that didn't make things better. If anything, it made them worse.

"Kelly," Manetti said. "Can you take pictures with your phone?"

"Yes—why?"

"I need you to do us a favor. Take a bunch of pictures of your bedroom and send them to me. Okay?"

"Okay...but I don't understand why you need to see my bedroom."

Her voice had grown suspicious. I jumped in.

"Kelly, someone sent us pictures of a woman's bedroom in connection with an assault and we want to compare."

"I’m totally freaked out…someone was in my bedroom you're saying?"

"Well, we don't know, that's why we need the pictures. Okay?"

"I don't understand...why would anyone send you pictures before they...unless they're really a freak?"

Manetti took that one. "I wish we could share that with you, Kelly, but that's part of our ongoing investigation. Could you send us the pictures?"

A long silence. "How do I know you are who you say you are?"

Manetti gave her the name and number of someone within the federal government who could verify her identity for Kelly. I thought that was a bit circular, but Kelly seemed appeased.

They hung up and we waited.

"Sounds like a good lead," I said.

Manetti nodded absently. She had changed into a different, non-burnt-from-an-explosion shirt and found another jet black jacket to complete her outfit. Her eyes had a faraway look.

"What?"

"Oh the usual. We need twenty more boots on the ground, we're working against an unknown deadline, and we don't have anything to go off of."

But there seemed to be more underneath that. I'd never seen Manetti tired before, and right now she was looking exhausted. Normally I wouldn't have probed with Manetti, but since it was just me and her on this investigation, I decided to dig deeper.

"There's more bothering you."

"We caused that accident," Manetti said. "What if we can't stop what’s going to happen?"

"More people would have died if we weren’t there. I count that as a win."

"We don't know that anybody got hurt in Alison's version of the accident. And maybe we didn't stop anything. Maybe we can't."

Her pessimistic attitude was unexpected. Usually her team was brimming with a can-do, take-charge mindset.

“Manetti—”

“The world isn’t supposed to work like that,” she said. “We’re supposed to have some control over it.”

We were headed down a deep, dark existential tunnel. “Agnes, think about how close we were to preventing it entirely. If we had a little more lead time, we would have."

"Maybe."

"What's the point in thinking we can't? That doesn't get us anywhere."

"The point is, we have to be prepared for it. If we can't stop these things we have to change our strategy, right?"

"But it's still the same problem, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily."

"Manetti. Agnes. This isn't you talking. This is exhaustion speaking. You're not like this."

She flashed a grim smile. "Maybe. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen since Oregon."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "We'll solve this. I know we will."

"You're right."

I went back to watching Alison's dreams and Manetti got on a laptop to do more research while we waited. But I was having difficulty focusing. Manetti wasn't herself and there was no chance of us getting any sleep for the foreseeable.

I couldn't much concentrate, thinking about Alison and White and Zane and wondering whether Alison was actually seeing the future or only a possibility of the future, and whether we could influence events significantly or just make tiny incremental differences and—

Manetti's phone buzzed. "Pictures."

I jumped out of my seat.

Manetti tapped her screen and held her phone out so I could see also. It took a few seconds for the first image that Kelly Isaacson had sent us to load.

“Damnit,” she said.

I took my time and studied the picture. Her disappointment was appropriate. The bedroom in the photo was tiny, the furniture arranged differently, and there was a dresser right next to the bed.

“Damnit,” I agreed.

Manetti tapped her phone and got Kelly back on the line.

“Kelly, do you have any other bedrooms in your house?”

I listened absently to Manetti’s half of the conversation. From the look on her face, I could tell we’d struck out.

Before hanging up she assured Kelly that the bedroom we had eyeballs on didn’t match hers at all, though she did tell her to be careful with her asshole ex-boyfriend.

She ended the call and we looked at each other uncertainly. I was hoping for inspiration, and when none came to me, I was hoping for her to think of something. But eventually we both shrugged and I went back to what I was doing and she left the room to check in with Pater.

***

I woke with a start.

I'd slumped on the desk and fallen asleep working. After the initial feeling of "wow I'm watching somebody dream" passed, the video became dull and the non-sensical nature of the dreams too much to digest. I ended up skipping around, but there was so much content I had barely scratched the surface.

"Find anything?" Manetti asked.

She was stretched out on the couch, feet up on one armrest, head propped up on the other. She must have come in after I'd fallen asleep. Some crow's feet had popped out around her eyes, making her look tired. Her eyes were half-open, sort of looking at the ceiling.

I got my tired eyes to focus and registered the time on the tablet: 4:17AM. I stood up, my back protesting at the position I'd assumed when falling asleep, and stretched till I felt that gentle tug and relief in the muscles.

"Not yet." I yawned and sprawled out on the floor. The office was so small, my head was practically against one wall and my feet were almost touching the couch. The floor was hard and the carpet was about a centimeter thick. Despite that it felt good to stretch out. My aching back thanked me. The back of my head was tender too, probably from the blast yesterday.