The Dream Runner

 

 

O
ne of the truths
I've learned about life is this: never say never. The gods take it as a personal challenge and are bound to screw you over. Trust me on this—I'm the poster child for fate.

I skipped town the week I turned sixteen, taking nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing and my father's vintage Indian Scout motorbike. He was dead; it wasn't like he was going to miss either it or me. And when I rode away, I swore I would never set foot in Williamsville again.

Ten years later, almost to the day, I pulled my old motorcycle, Red, off the highway just south of town to get the lay of the land and wrap my head around the idea of coming home. From that vantage point, nothing seemed to have changed about Williamsville at all. Alderson's Forestry Products still clung firmly to the western shore of the lake, a sprawl of buildings I knew inside and out. 

The rest of the town curved along the lake's south shore: big houses along the water, stores and businesses in a grid behind them, the ranks of more unassuming homes and then the mansions lining the heights. I could pick out the grocery store, the skating rink, the stampede grounds. All there, all unchanged. And I was good with this. When you've traded your soul to a supernatural entity and are bound indefinitely to serve as an errand runner, it's good to know that some things stay the same.

The lake was another story. Just the sight of it was a visceral blow to my solar plexus. An onslaught of memories damn near made me drop the bike but I managed to get the kickstand in place, and then went through all of the coping moves I'd taught myself over the years. Breathing helped, but it wasn't enough and I pulled off my gloves and dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands hard enough to break the skin, centering myself in the physical pain. If I had to come back here to take care of business, so be it. I sure as hell wasn't going to let this visit—and let there be no doubt it would be a short one—suck me into a vortex of memories.

I got back on Red, pulled my gloves on over bloody palms, and rode into town.

It was round about 4 pm, full heat of the day, and the wind in my face was warm and smelled of sawdust and fresh-cut lumber. I was scheduled to meet Tom Hasbro, the realtor, to pick up a set of house keys and run over a basic strategy for selling the property. I'd chosen Dave's Roadhouse, which would be jam-packed later but not too busy yet at this time of day. Besides, just thinking about the place set my mouth to watering.

Inside, not a thing had changed. Same split wood floor. Same red checked tablecloths and plastic coated menus. Same mouthwatering smell of slow roasted meat and properly fried potatoes. Every eye in the building turned to me when I walked in. It's a side effect of the biker gear. People can't help looking at a woman in chaps and motorcycle boots. Mostly it slides off me like water off a duck's back; but on that day the last thing in the world I wanted was attention. Fortunately there weren't many folks in yet, and those who were went right back to their brisket without that awkward moment of recognition.

Avoiding eye contact with everybody else, I looked around for Tom. He'd already been old when I left, at least by my definition, so I figured he wouldn't have changed much and should be easy to spot. While I was busy looking for the dumpy guy with a hefty comb-over and a loud Hawaiian shirt, my path was intercepted by six feet of lean mean cowboy.

A pair of boots well-loved and well worn, not just for show. Muscular denim clad legs, leather belt, black t-shirt tight enough to show off a well-muscled chest without getting tacky, all topped by a familiar grin and a pair of hazel eyes, the right with a triangular spot in the iris that was just plain green.

"Well, would you look what the cat drug in? Never expected to see you back in town."

I stared up at him, speechless, my heart galloping along like a runaway horse and my knees gone a little weak. Marsh was about five years older than me and out of my league. Troublemaker, heartbreaker. He'd expressed a little interest once, way back when, and I'd ignored him despite my body's inclinations to the contrary. No way I was going to be a notch on the bedpost, 'cause I was pretty sure he counted and took pride in his conquests.

"Table's over in the corner. Come sit down." He put a hand on the small of my back in a proprietary way that woke up both my obstinate streak and my better sense, and I shook my head.

"I'm supposed to meet Tom—"

"Couldn't come. He sent me."

I laughed. "Right. Look, I need the keys to the house and to talk about strategy—"

He dangled a pair of keys in front of my nose, then stuffed them into his pocket. "Been working for Tom for over a year now. Come on. Let me buy you some dinner first."

Food was definitely a lure. There's nothing like riding all day to make a girl feel both tired and hungry and there wasn't going to be anything to eat back up at the house. Plus, I needed those keys and if I knew anything at all about Marsh, it was that I was going to have to work for what I wanted.

I let him steer me into a quiet booth off in the corner and order me a brisket, but I wasn't here for a pleasure jaunt, no matter what sort of noises my body was making, so I kept the conversation focused on the business at hand. Marsh was surprisingly competent and up to speed with the job. He sat back on his side of the booth, arms spread across the top of the seat, and answered my questions.

The last set of renters hadn't been the best we'd ever had up there, and Tom sent them packing. Might be they'd left a bit of a mess behind, but the house was essentially empty. And mine. This was the information I was struggling with, but my questions had to wait while I worked through a mouthful of beef that was almost mind melting in its perfection.

Marsh watched me eat, his lips tucked in just enough at the corners to indicate pleasure, those eyes all intensity. "You grew up good, Jesse."

"You haven't changed much," I managed to throw back at him. It was true. Didn't have to be a compliment, but he of course took it that way. The look in his eyes was one I had come to know well, had seen in scores of bars all across the country. He leaned toward me, elbows on the table now, letting his eyes linger on my lips, then breasts.

"Doesn't look like the town's changed much either. Anything I should know?" I took another bite of brisket, partly for something to do with my mouth and hands that would stop me thinking about the way Marsh and I could make use of them.

"Will Alderson came home."

Old Dave was losing his touch. All at once, the brisket in my mouth tasted like sawdust and old leather. A line of cold sweat trickled down my spine and my stomach went queasy. Marsh was watching me, and there was a hint of something else in his eyes now. He'd been a bit of a bully, I remembered belatedly. Liked to make people squirm.

Apparently he didn't get the reaction he was looking for, so he went on. "Old man Alderson was losing his marbles—he's in the home now. Alzheimer's. Nearly drove the mill into the ground before Will came home and took charge."

"Town would suffer without that mill." I washed the last of the brisket down with a gulp of water that almost choked me.

"So it would. You and Will used to be a thing, right? Before—"

"Ten years ago," I said, cutting him off. "A lot changes in ten years, at least away from this place. Let's talk about the house. Tell me again why it's mine now?"

"According to the lawyers, your dad just never got around to changing his will after your mom ran off. So it all went to her. But then after she died…"

He stopped to take a long drink of ice water. I was appreciating the way his tanned throat stretched as he tipped his head back when my cell phone went off.

 No good thing ever comes from a phone. Maybe for other folks the experience is different, but for me, the phone is surely an instrument of torture and destruction, probably dreamed up by some sadistic, small-time, out of work god who takes great delight in stirring up the anthill.

Nobody has ever called me to say something like, "Jesse Marie Davison, you are the winner of the Publisher's Sweepstakes. We will be by on Monday afternoon to present you with your tax-free million dollar winnings." No, they call to say things like, "Miss Davison, our condolences on the death of your mother. We need to work out some details."

That one was a shocker. In defense of the Fallstone and Noland Law firm, maybe they thought I had already heard the news. Mostly, daughters and mothers keep in some sort of contact, through other family members if nothing else. Since I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since I was ten, I'd written her off as dead years ago. My father had certainly hinted at that. Funny how finding out that someone is dead for real, when you've been picturing them dead in all sorts of ways for as long as you can remember, is still an unsettling event.

Not that I grieved her. It just felt strange, is all, to know for certain that I had no blood ties left to anybody on the face of the planet.

The ringtone on my cell is set to the theme song from the movie
Jaws
. I figure if the calls are going to be bad news, I might as well embrace that full on. So when the phone started blaring scary shark music in the middle of dinner, the resulting rush of adrenaline wasn't a surprise to me.

Marsh, on the other hand, did a spit take with his water and came up coughing.

"Hush," I said. "I need to take this."

He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth and made a grab for the phone. "Aw, c'mon, Jesse. We're talking. Let it go to voicemail."

It was easy enough to catch his water glass with my elbow and send the whole thing, ice and all, cascading into his crotch. I took the phone outside, ostensibly so I could hear, but mostly so nobody in the diner would listen in. I already knew who was on the line. No caller ID, that's a sure giveaway. When the Dream Merchant calls, the display doesn't read "private" or "blocked," it just lights up blank and the shark music comes on.

"It's me," I said, "What's up?"

"You're wanted—subject is Mia James. Forest Heights Cemetery."

"This isn't a good time —"

But the phone was already dead, which was just as well. Arguing with the Merchant was not only pointless, but possibly dangerous, and I've never been good about keeping my opinions to myself. But, shit. I hated cemeteries. And I'd hoped that maybe way up here in Nowheresville rural Washington I could fly under the radar, and have some time to think and sort out my mother's affairs.

A picture appeared on my phone, a snapshot of Mia so I'd recognize her. For a supernatural being, the Merchant has a pretty good grasp on the use of technology.

I glanced into the diner, debating whether to go back in or not. Half of my brisket still sat on my plate, uneaten, but I'd lost my appetite. Marsh was on his feet blotting at an embarrassing wet patch in the crotch of his jeans, and the expression on his face had traveled way south of Happy Land down into Hellfire and Brimstone County.

Much as I needed the keys to the house, it was way more important to ditch Marsh before I went up to the graveyard. I'm not much for rules, but the strict code of secrecy around the dream runner business made a lot of sense to me. Best to get away now, while he was preoccupied.

Red is difficult sometimes, but she started on the first go round and we beat it out of there. I avoided downtown, not that Williamsville has much of a downtown to avoid, winding around the outskirts and up Overlook Hill toward the graveyard. All the while I was blocking memories so hard it made my brain hurt, and the pulse of a headache started in between my temples, thudding with the rhythm of my heartbeat.

 

 

I
didn't need the
picture the Merchant sent me to identify my customer. The way the woman stood told me everything. Her entire focus was on the raw earth at her feet, as though everything that mattered lay underground. She didn't look up at the sound of the motorcycle, or the sudden silence when I killed the engine. She was young yet, not more than thirty, I'd guess, but the lines in her face from sleeplessness and grief aged her another ten.