The Dream Runner (5 page)

Time to shake it off and get on with the day. I needed coffee and breakfast and basic supplies. There was business with the attorney, and Marsh and I needed to have a little come-to-Jesus talk about the renters. Something else nagged at me, lurking at the edges of my mind until I was putting on my boots.

Mia's dream.

My briefcase was still upstairs in the bedroom, behind a closed door. At the idea of going back upstairs, all of my calm logic took a nosedive. Still, there was no way the Merchant was going to let me blow off a delivery because of a little nightmare, so I talked myself up the stairs and then stood outside the bunny room, listening, with my heart beating too fast and my throat feeling dry and tight. Finally I got fed up with my own behavior and slammed the door open so hard it crashed against the wall and bounced back, smacking me in the shoulder. I grabbed the briefcase and ran with it, down the stairs two at a time, through the house, and all the way outside.

The deck of the old house is in back—not looking out over the yard and the road, but down over the valley and the lake. When I was younger, before the accident, I loved that lake. I would sit out there in the sun, eyes half-closed so that it blurred into a tapestry of shimmering blues in the distance, and daydream for an hour at a time. Now, when I looked at that view I remembered the feel of the water, cold and killing, stealing around my limbs, and I shivered.

There were other reasons to shiver that day. Early mornings in June are chilly in the north and the mosquitoes were vicious already. But my aversion to whatever dream contamination might or might not be loose inside the house made me willing to endure a little discomfort.

 Twenty numbers in the combination for the locks, and I spun the little dials up and down as if I were a genius with a photographic memory, when the truth is that I struggle to remember my own phone number. Every time this happened it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, wondering how the Merchant managed to get into my head.

Last time I'd closed the case it was empty. Now, when I opened it, one small stone bottle was strapped into the padded storage compartment at the center. How it got there, I had no idea, and I didn't waste a lot of time wondering.

Here's the thing about the Dream Merchant. I've met her. She is what she is, she does what she does, and speculation about any of it is pointless.

Mia's bottle was a dark translucent green. When I held it up to the morning sun I could see the dream shadow within, the darker green taking up only a third of the bottle, so small it would have fit inside the curl of my hand. A small dream. It was tempting to sample it. My own dream of vengeance having gone awry last night, I wanted to taste hers. Surely vengeance would be the desire of her heart—to hit back at the man who hurt her, to make him feel small and violated, as he had done to her.

But I wasn't prepared to take the risk, not after last night, not after the dream that still rode me. Even now my hands felt sticky with blood, and a sickening sensation of metal slicing through flesh clung to me like a rotten smell.

 No more dreams. No more ugly. At least not for today.

All at once I wanted it out of my possession. Now. Not later in the day as I'd originally planned. My stomach was no longer in the mood for breakfast; even the thought of coffee twisted it into a queasy pit of disaster. So I splashed water over my face and braided my hair, still damp, and that was it. No makeup, no fuss. Time to take care of business.

 

 

M
ia's house was a
quiet, unassuming grey building right next to Franklin Park. The playground in the park was occupied by two little kids who hung off the monkey bars, laughing, the little girl's long hair dangling down almost into the grass. A man watched them from a park bench, a half smile on his lips. There was a tablet in his lap, but it was secondary; all of his focus was on watching the kids play. The boy dropped onto all fours, made a screeching monkey noise and charged the bench, where the man caught him in a bear hug.

Swallowing back a knot in my throat I turned away, the heat of anger running through me.
Unfair
. I caught myself on that. Had I really become such a miserable and jealous person that I would begrudge these people their happiness?

Yes.

Truth hurts, and I was still trying to digest mine when I knocked on the door to Mia's house.

It was an old wooden door, and most of the rust-colored paint had flaked away, leaving weathered wood. Mia wasn't in any better shape than I was. She wore an old t-shirt, far too big, her arms wrapped protectively around her thin body. His shirt. Her feet were bare. Hair hung around her face in lank strands, dark shadows circled under her eyes. She shivered, her voice a raspy whisper when she asked, "Did you bring it?"

I nodded, my heart twisting with an unwelcome emotion at the hope that came into her eyes. What did she know of the Dream Merchant, that she should be so trusting? In my experience trust, faith, whatever you want to call it, has been a bitch that bites people in the ass when they're expecting teddy bears and snuggles. But she'd asked for this dream and I'd done my best to warn her.

"Can I come in?"

She nodded, but put a finger to her lips. "Jayden's sleeping."

Opening the door wider she stood aside and I slipped past her and into a living room. I'd come to expect a certain chaos associated with grief, made up of family members clumping together in solidarity or taking out their pain on each other in guerilla warfare, either of which created a detritus of suitcases and extraneous belongings.

This space was spotless. It was dark, the shades all tightly closed to block out either the light or prying eyes or both, and there was only one small lamp switched on in the corner of the room. Still, nothing was out of place, not so much as a book or a magazine. Not a piece of fuzz on the carpeted floor, not a speck of dust visible. Through an open door I caught a glimpse of the kitchen—empty sink, gleaming, uncluttered counters. And this woman had a kid.

As I set down the briefcase on the coffee table she flinched, as if an invisible hand had threatened her.

"Just a minute, please," she said, and vanished down the hallway, coming back with a small towel. Gingerly, touching it no more than absolutely necessary with the tips of her fingers, she lifted the briefcase and laid a towel on the surface beneath it.

"He'll have a fit if the table is scratched," she said without thinking, and then flushed scarlet and sank into a chair with her hand over her mouth and her eyes full of tears.

"I don't think he's in a position to retaliate," I muttered, spinning the combination. It seemed different to me than the one I'd used earlier, but my brain couldn't hold onto either one so what did I know?

All of my protective instincts were on full-steam ahead now. I wanted her to have a good, satisfying revenge dream. The experience of beating the abuser down with her own fists or maybe a baseball bat would probably be therapeutic. But at the same time I had reason to know—both from watching other customers, and now for myself—that an awful lot of things could go wrong.

"Are you getting any sleep?" I asked her. She didn't look like it. In the dim light I could still see the dark circles under her eyes, the weariness in every movement of her body.

She shook her head. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Dead, like in the casket." She hesitated, then her eyes met mine for an instant before falling away, and she said in a rush, "They did his hair all wrong. It didn't even look like him. Jayden wouldn't believe…" She gasped, clutching her arms around her belly, as if  by squeezing tight enough she could hold herself together.

I needed to get out of there. So I pulled out the bottle and set it on the table in front of her, my obstinate streak making me put it right on top of the wood with a little bit of a thud. "Well, you're going to have to sleep if you want to dream. Otherwise it doesn't work."

For a long moment she stared, then reached out an index finger to touch, jerking away again as though it had stung her. "That's it?"

"That's it. Here's how it works. When you are ready for the dream you take it in your room and close the door. Open the stopper, go to sleep, and bingo. One custom designed dream just for you. You might want to make sure your kid is safe in bed."

Her eyes widened at that. "What if he walks in—you know—in the middle…"

"Won't know a thing, long as he's awake. If he slept with you, that might be a problem."

She shook her head. "No, no, he sleeps in his own room." Her hand reached out again and this time she picked the bottle up and carried it to her chest, where she held it against her heart. A pink color flushed her cheeks; her lips were parted, her eyes shone.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I said. I meant it.

I let myself out. She was too busy stroking that damned bottle.

 

 

I
spent the morning
cleaning. Normally I'm not much with the domestic stuff but I had adrenaline to burn. Besides, the state of the house really bothered me, and it was piled full of memories as potent as ghosts. Open an empty closet, and a memory would fall out. Dad and me, making pizza in the kitchen. Will and me, as kids, running everywhere, climbing trees, playing on the pond.

By noon I had the boxes all neatly stacked in the carport. I'd found cleaning supplies under the sink, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen and the bathrooms, and washed the worst of the stains off the walls.

My stomach was giving me a hard time, all that work without breakfast, and I put together a lunch from the basics I'd picked up for myself while I was in town. I was plenty hungry but the house wouldn't let me eat. So I stuffed my sandwich into a bag and went out looking for the tree I'd tagged as mine, early in childhood. Will had one, too, far enough away that we could be silent and alone when we wanted; close enough that we could laugh and talk on those other days.

The tree hadn't changed at all while I was away. The familiar branches waited to embrace me. The sharp fir scent, not so acidic as pine, cleared the cobwebs from my head; the roughness of bark beneath my hands, the globules of pitch and the tiny bits of moss calmed and centered my body.

My favorite perch is about halfway up, where it's hard to see me from down below but I can look out over the house and the yard, watching the road without being seen. Off to the right there's a mountain that is always bluer than the lake, just visible from here as a silver shimmer.

For the first time all day I felt safe and sheltered. Grounded. That tree was a good fifty years old, had been there since before I was born. The sun filtered through the branches and warmed my skin. There was just enough wind to rock me a little. Insects buzzed. I ate my lunch, and then nearly drifted into sleep. Not so good in a tree. I'd be bound to tumble down, scraping all of the skin off my body and breaking a bone at the bottom. So I dozed, but didn't sleep.

The sound of a motor startled me fully awake, and I watched the trail of dust follow a black, shiny pickup all the way into the yard. Marsh.

I waited for him to go into the house, not particularly wanting him to see me climb down out of a tree like I was ten. Not when the first thing on my agenda was to give him hell for his handling of the renters.

He was taking pictures of the kitchen when I bounced in the front door, primed and ready to start in with the lecture. When he saw me he put the camera down and gave me one of the smiles that had lured girls into his bed—or the back of his pickup truck—for years. And just like that, the words of my tirade vanished. Poof. Some men are like that. Even though inside my head I knew full well Marsh was nothing but trouble, my body had thrown a frontal lobe override switch and immersed me in a sexual fantasy that would put a porn flick to shame.

Marsh wasn't one to take his time. He crossed the room toward me, his gaze never leaving mine. A few inches away, he stopped and just stood there, lips tucked up in a smile, eyes burning with desire. "I've wanted you ever since tenth grade, Jesse Davison."

"Could have fooled me." I aimed for flippant, but my voice sounded hoarse and my knees were wobbling.

"You weren't paying attention. Too hung up on that Alderson loser to notice anybody else."

"You shut up about Will."

He grinned and leaned in to kiss me, but an emotion I didn't understand had bubbled up in response to his words, and I turned my face away. "You're an asshole, Marsh. I'm not interested."

"Your body says otherwise." He put a hand over my heart, letting it slide down onto my breast. "See? Your heart is beating like a trip hammer. Come on, Jesse. Play before work. What do you say?"

I put my hands on his chest and shoved him. Hard. "I'm not in the mood. What I'd like is for you to tell me how come all of this shit is still in my house, and why you told my former renters they could keep stuff in my barn?"

"Come on, Jesse. They
didn't
have a lot of time. What does it matter?"

"It matters! They showed up here last night. No warning. Seems like somebody should have told me about an arrangement like that."

"So I slipped up on the communication. It's no big deal, Jesse."

"It is to me. I want them out, today. And I want the keys to the padlocks on the barn."

He sighed. "You're a piece of work, you know that? What will it take to make you happy?"

"Are you deaf? What I just said. No negotiating. And no sex." I pushed him off me again. "Can we work now?"

"All right, all right. I'll get the rest of the stuff out myself and take it to them, okay? No need for them to ever set foot up here again. Don't have the keys on me, though. I'll have to get those to you later. Now—can we finish taking the pictures so I can get this house listed? You do want to sell, right?"

"Yes, I want to sell."

He headed up the stairs with me trailing behind him, a tangled mess of relief and frustration. As his hand touched the doorknob of my room, I belatedly remembered there was something in there I didn't want him to see.