Dreamland (21 page)

For a moment, Miriam was quiet. Dea turned back to the window. She watched the light sliding between the buildings, leaving long shadows in its wake. She could just make out the silhouette of distant peaks—either mountains, or more buildings.

“I'm sorry,” Miriam said at last. “I did my best. And in the end, it didn't matter, did it? He found us anyway. I don't know how.” There was a rustling as she stood. “Two of his soldiers came looking for you. I let them take me instead. I was hoping that once he had me back, I could convince him to leave you alone.”

Dea gripped the windowsill. “It was my fault,” she said, her tongue tripping a little on the words. But what did it matter anymore? She'd broken the rules, sure. But what her mother had done was far worse. “I walked my friend's dream. More than once. And then . . . I was seen. By Connor—my friend. And then the men with no faces came, and they followed me out of his dream, and everyone thought I was crazy. But I wasn't—I'm not. They followed me.”

Miriam put her hands on Dea's shoulders, forcing Dea to turn and face her. Dea tried to ignore the way the vines around her mother's wrists shifted slightly. “It's not your fault,” she said. “They would have found us eventually. There are as many monsters as there are people to dream them. That's why your father's so powerful. There are always more soldiers for his army. Even if they're killed, or defeated, more will come.”

“But . . . but they can be defeated?” Dea said. “They can be killed?”

Miriam shrugged. “The strength of the monsters is in their numbers. Individually, they're not difficult to defeat.”

“How?” Dea thought of the men and their wet, sucking breathing, the ragged dark holes where their mouths should be, and the way they reached for her with long fingers. It didn't seem possible that they could be vulnerable.

Miriam smiled faintly. “The monsters come from people's nightmares,” she said. “From their fears and anxieties, from all the things they don't like to think about. That's where their power is. That's what makes them so effective in the king's army. They
feed
on fear.”

“But . . .” Dea shook her head. She thought of the men with no faces: what they meant to Connor, what they represented. The way they transformed the air around them, freezing it, as if the whole world was stilled by terror. “How can I stop being afraid?”

“Pull out their teeth if they bite,” Miriam said, and for a moment Dea felt as if she were looking at a stranger. “Blind them if they have a hundred eyes. Give them faces, if they have none. Then, they'll just be men.”

Dea had a thousand more questions—about the monsters, about her father, about his army, and the war he had said was coming. About her monstrous birth, into the body of a dying child. About stupid stuff, like all the little scams her mom had run. But she found she couldn't ask a single one. She was so tired, she could barely think. “He says I have to decide,” she said. She couldn't bring herself to say
the king
. She definitely couldn't say
my father. “
He says he'll give me twenty-four hours.”

Miriam looked away, biting her lip. “He isn't—he isn't all bad,” she said. “He looked for you, all these years. He wanted you back.”

So what does that make you?
Dea nearly asked. Instead she
just hugged herself, squeezing so she could feel her ribs. Dream-bones, dream-skin. And yet: her real self. “Am I supposed to feel grateful?”

Miriam turned her eyes to Dea then: big, gray eyes, the color of a stormy sea. The eyes Dea knew best—even better than her own. “Of course not,” she said. Then, defensively: “I'm sorry, Dea. But I thought it was for the best not to tell you.”

“Yeah, well, now I know.” Dea's voice came out more sharply than she'd intended. She had the urge to cry and blinked rapidly. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

It was as if Miriam had been waiting for Dea to ask. Suddenly, she broke. She was crying, and Dea was horrified. It occurred to her that never, not once, had she seen her mom cry. “Listen to me, Dea. I want you to be happy. That's all I ever wanted.”

Dea knew, in that moment, that her mom wouldn't ask her to stay. And she didn't want to stay—of course she didn't. But the fact that her mom wouldn't ask her to, wouldn't
beg
her to, made her feel hollow, empty, as if she'd been cored out with a knife.

“He said he won't let me see you.” Dea was shaking so badly she could feel it all the way in her knees. “He said I can never come back.”

“Dea.” Miriam reached for Dea's face again. “I'll always be watching you. I'll
always
look after you.”

Dea stepped away. She had nothing more to say. Now the hollow in her chest was a great bubble of grief, threatening to burst. “So that's it?” she said. “And I never see you again?”

“I want you here, Dea,” Miriam said. Her voice cracked. “Of course I do. But I can't . . . I've been selfish. You need to make your own choices.”

It was like being caught in a sudden autumn downpour: Dea felt freezing and sick and clammy. A thought occurred to her for the first time. “If I don't walk again—what will happen to me?” She would get sick, she knew. But how sick?

And how quickly?

Miriam's face clouded. Dea realized, in that moment, that Miriam didn't know. “You'll be okay,” she said, but without conviction. “I'll make sure you're protected.”

“Like you made sure I was protected before?” Dea said. It was petty, spiteful, but she couldn't help it.

“Go,” Miriam said, giving Dea a little nudge. “If that's what you truly want, then go. It will be hard.” Her eyes were welling up again. “I made a mess of things, didn't I? And you're so young. But I believe in you. You'll find a way—just like I did.”

Dea had been desperate to escape this world. But now, faced with the reality of leaving, she didn't want to.
You'll find a way—just like I did.
Would she have to go on the run? Become a criminal, like her mother? Shoplift food from gas stations and deodorant from pharmacies? “No.” She shook her head. “I won't go. I won't leave you. I don't want to.”

“Oh, Dea.” Miriam brought a palm to her eyes, as if she could press back her tears. “I'd like that. I'd like that so much. But you have to do what will make you happy. There will be sacrifices either way.”

Connor. Dea thought of the way his face came together like a puzzle when he smiled. She thought of Gollum, too, her wispy-wild hair and clothes that were always the wrong size. The way the sun burned through the summer haze and the snows that came in winter, turning the world to white. Little things, and everything.

“Listen.” Miriam was in control again. “You don't have to choose this minute. Go now. Think about it.” When Dea hesitated, she said, “I'm still your mother, Dea.”

The words were so ordinary—
I'm still your mother
—that they might have been back in Fielding, arguing over homework or whether Dea had cleaned her room. Dea wanted to throw herself into her mom's arms again. She wanted to stay with her mom forever, and she wanted to scream at her, to turn her back on Miriam and what she had done.

Instead, she said, “I love you.”

“Dea.” Miriam's voice broke, and when she looked up, Dea saw she was crying again. “I've been a terrible mother. But I love you so much. Never forget that. I'll be watching. I promise you.”

Dea turned and started for the door, but Miriam stopped her.

“Not that way,” she said. “This way will be quicker.” She was suddenly in charge again, piloting Dea forward, toward the window and the climbing vines.

“What are you—?” Dea started to ask, but she didn't finish her question.

Her mother threw something out the window—petals, Dea saw, crushed by her palm into small dark folds. In the air they unfolded like origami figures, like dark wings, merging together into a floating dark shape. A door.

“What—?” Dea started to say. But then Miriam pushed, and Dea pitched forward out the open window, falling into the bright thin air and the dark mouth of a door in the sky, rising up to swallow her.

Dea came joltingly awake, shouting, choking on the feeling of darkness flooding her throat.

She was back in her tent. She had no idea how; she had no idea what had happened. She fought free of her sleeping bag and wriggled out of the tent opening, taking deep, heaving breaths.

Had she dreamed it all? The walk to the gas station, the mirror, Aeri, the king, and her mother? No. She knew she hadn't. She never dreamed. Besides, she could still feel the pressure of her mother's hand on her back, could still hear the edge in her father's voice.
You have twenty-four hours to decide
.

It was near dawn. There was a splotchy red stain at the
horizon, a smear of sun bleeding upward, dispelling the dark. It was very cold. Dea's breath made clouds, and the ground was covered in a sheet of frost, fine as glass. When the wind lifted, it seemed to carry echoes of her mother's voice—and a faint rustling, too, as unseen animals moved together through the maze: rats, pucker-faced moles, possums fat as dogs, with long, naked tails.

Already, Dea had accepted what Miriam had told her about her birth, about where she belonged. The shock had passed and she was left instead with the dull ache of certainty, a feeling like the erratic skip of her heartbeat, both painful and familiar.

She had always suspected she was a monster; now she knew for sure.

And yet . . .

There was also a place, a world, where she belonged: an eternal world, vast as a dream, filled with strange cities and people and rivers coiled tight like snakes. She had a powerful father, a
king
, who kept thousands of monsters as soldiers for his army.

A father who wanted her back.

Twenty-four hours.

If she refused his offer—if she stayed here, in this world—he had promised her freedom. The monsters would no longer come for her; she could live like anybody else. Except that she wasn't sure what would happen to her if she couldn't walk again.

And she wasn't sure she could stand to leave her mother behind.

She knelt and began clumsily disassembling her tent, her fingers already stiff with cold, as the sun fought to free itself from the inky pull of the horizon. She had to move. She no longer
had any choice. She'd stayed too long in one place and had no doubt that people would soon start asking questions—already, she'd been recognized by the guy in the gas station. How long before another family came to explore the maze and caught her sleeping? How long before someone called the cops, and Briggs showed up and hauled her back to the hospital? Or maybe he'd just chuck her in jail, as punishment for trying to escape.

The wind fell away abruptly, leaving a stillness that was like waiting. And suddenly, Dea felt—she
knew
—that something was wrong. Something was moving in the maze—not an animal. Too deliberate, too
big
, for an animal.

A person, then.

Or—her breath hitched in her chest, and despite the cold, sweat broke out along her forehead—her father had lied. He had never meant to let her go. He was just playing with her. And he'd sent the monsters to drag her back.

She grabbed her backpack and slid it silently over her shoulders. There was no time to dismantle her tent or pack up. She straightened up and slipped quietly into the darkness of the maze, wincing when her feet crunched down on dried and trampled corn husks. Instantly, she sensed a shift, a change in direction. Whoever—or
whatever
—was coming for her knew where she was.

Two lefts, and then a right. She felt rather than heard them pursue her—felt the sick heat of their breath, like the gas expelled from a dying body. Another right. She turned to see whether the monsters were behind her and stumbled, barely pivoting around the corner.

‎She hooked a left turn and came to a dead end. The footsteps
were growing louder; she could hear heavy breathing, could practically see the monsters, rising up from the shadows, ready to grab her . . .

She turned and plunged desperately back the way she'd come from, a whimper rising in her throat. She thought she could hear them over the drumming of her feet, and the frantic slamming of her heart—slurping, sucking wetly through the holes in their nonfaces, tasting her. Her father had lied. He would never leave her alone. He would never let her be. She thought of what her mother had said—
give them faces
—but the idea skittered away. She couldn't stop. She couldn't face them. She heard a whimpering sound work its way out of her throat;
please
, she was thinking, to a god or an invisible protector or anyone who could help
. Please, please, please.

Another right. Distantly, she thought she heard her mom calling her name.
Dea. Dea. Stop. It's all right.
But she didn't stop. She imagined the maze from above, the tangled network of turns radiating outward. She was close to the parking lot. Then what? She didn't think, just kept running, desperate and panicked. The sun rolled into the sky at last, shifting the balance of the world from dark to light, chasing the shadows across the ground.

She caught a glimpse of the parking lot ahead as she approached the final turn, the tawny color of the gravel, so normal, so real. Hurtling left, she collided, hard, with a woman in a red jacket and fell back, gasping.

“Dea?” The woman pulled off her hood. It was Kate Patinsky. “It's all right, Dea. It's just me.” She put her hands on Dea's shoulders. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Dea took long, deep breaths as the fear drained from her,
all at once. Kate Patinsky. She was the one who'd been calling Dea's name—Dea had simply been too panicked to recognize her voice. No monsters had leapt. She took a deep breath and looked behind her. Nothing. Nothing but a faint wind moving through the withered corn, stained russet in the new dawn light. Nothing but the glitter of frost and the dazzle of a new day. Kate Patinsky's was the only car in the parking lot, a small VW patterned with a fine spray of dirt and salt.

And it hit her then: she really
was
free. Her father hadn't lied to her. The monsters wouldn't come after her again. She nearly laughed out loud, nearly took Kate's hands and spun around for joy.

“I'm all right,” she said, gasping in the cold air, tasting the truth of what she said, sweet and new and unfamiliar. “I'm fine.”

Kate Patinsky looked as if she didn't quite believe her. “Come on,” she said. “You must be freezing. And hungry.”

Only then did it occur to Dea to be suspicious. Kate might have been sent by Briggs. She didn't seem like she was on the cops' side—she'd helped Dea escape the motel, after all—but that didn't mean anything. Maybe Briggs had promised he would give her information for her book if she found Dea and brought her into custody. Dea didn't move, even after Kate had opened the passenger-side door and gestured for Dea to get in.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

Kate made a face, as if it were a stupid question. “How do you think?” she said. “Connor told me where to look. Well, Connor and Eleanor.” It took Dea a few seconds to remember that Eleanor was Gollum's real name. “Neat little trick, calling Gollum and then hanging up right away. She was scared
shitless. Thought something terrible had happened to you. She called Connor, and he called me. He would have come himself, but he has to be careful. His uncle's basically tracking him.”

Dea's sense of freedom immediately dissipated. Maybe the monsters would leave her alone. But they would still exist for Connor. They would still torture him almost every time he slept. Wasn't that what her father had said?
The monsters will stay in your friend Connor's nightmares. And his memories, of course.

And she had less than twenty-four hours to choose.

Dea licked her lips, which were dry. She was cold.
And
hungry.

“Where are you going to take me?” she asked.

Kate paused in the act of climbing into the car. “To Connor,” she said, with a smile that seemed mostly sad. “Where else?”

Kate stopped at the local gas station for provisions, but insisted that Dea stay in the car. “Just in case,” she said, patting Dea's leg. Dea assumed that she meant that the cops were on the lookout for her. While Kate was gone, she flipped down the vanity mirror, half-afraid that she would see a terrible face staring back at her, half-wishing to see her mom. But she saw nothing but her own reflection, her hair sticking up at crazy angles, a bit of mud streaked above her left eyebrow. She scrubbed it off and raked her fingers through her hair, wishing she didn't care that she was about to see Connor looking like a deranged homeless person. She wondered if her mother could see her, if somewhere in that other-world a mirror showed Dea's face, her breath misting the glass. She flipped the mirror back up.

Kate came back to the car with Styrofoam cups of coffee that were more like jugs, plus some packaged donuts and a lukewarm breakfast sandwich.

“Sorry,” she said. “Shitty selection. Dig in.”

Dea didn't care: she ate the sandwich and all three donuts, feeling only a tiny bit guilty that she hadn't saved one for Kate. When she was done, she leaned back, enjoying the taste of powdered sugar on her lips and the look of the lightening sky, the momentary sense of calm and safety. “Why are you helping us?” she asked finally.

Kate steadied the car with one hand while she ripped open sugar packets with her teeth. “I was always a sucker for a Romeo-and-Juliet story,” she said, and then punched down the window, spitting out a few ragged corners of paper.

Dea blushed.

“We're not . . . I mean, it's not like that,” she said, speaking louder over the rush of the wind—a wind so cold it was like metal, straight through the gut.

Kate didn't seem to have heard. She rolled up the window again. “Besides,” she said, her face turning serious. “Connor has something I need.”

“What do you mean?” Dea asked.

When Kate glanced at her, she looked sad. Sad, and tired, like someone who'd spent most of her life seeing shitty things and trying to smile her way through them. “Memories, Dea,” she said gently.

Dea stiffened. Even if Kate was helping them, she didn't like to think of Kate poking and prying around for the sake of her book, trying to suck Connor dry of information like a mosquito feeding on blood. “He doesn't remember anything,” she said shortly.

Kate only frowned. “Maybe,” she said. For a moment, she was silent. Then she said: “Can I tell you a story?”

Dea knew she had no choice, so she said nothing.

“When I was three, my mom was killed by an intruder. Shot three times, point-blank range. Nearly took her head off.”

Dea was so stunned she couldn't even squeak out an
I'm sorry
. Whatever she'd been expecting Kate to say, it wasn't that.

“We were living on the South Side of Chicago—a bad neighborhood. My mom was a single mother, only nineteen, liked to party. She worked as a stripper to keep the lights on and everybody knew it. Probably half the block knew she kept cash in her closet. I was staying with my grandma, like I always did on nights she worked. Some junkie busted in, shot my mom, snatched the money, and ran. Wanna know how much he took? Four hundred dollars. Four hundred dollars, for a life.” She laughed, but it was without humor. “The cops caught him a week later trying to pawn some cheap shit jewelry one of my mom's regulars gave her. He spent ten years in jail.”

“Good,” Dea croaked out.

“Lucky,” Kate corrected her. “Extremely lucky. The guy wasn't connected to my mom, didn't know her, wasn't even a regular at the club. They made sure of that first thing. They grilled every single guy she'd ever screwed—and God rest her soul, there was a long list—and every guy who'd come through the doors at Pole Dancer's in the past two months. Poor fuckers. All they wanted was a good lap dance and suddenly they're on the hook for maybe killing someone.”

Again, Dea could find nothing to say. She'd never heard anyone speak the way that Kate did, and she couldn't reconcile the story with the woman who sat next to her in a bright red anorak, drinking a coffee with a billion sugars, her cheeks red
from the cold. Maybe, Dea thought, she and Connor weren't the only ones with horrible secrets and dark, twisted paths. Maybe everyone was walking around carrying ugly monsters and dark little corners, nightmares and broken pasts.

“Do you know how hard it is, Dea, to catch a murderer with no connection to the victim?” Kate asked. Dea knew she wasn't expected to answer. “It's nearly impossible.” She paused, letting the word sink in. “Fortunately for the police, it's also incredibly rare. The vast majority of women are killed by their partners, or by ex-partners.”

“Connor's dad didn't do it,” Dea said quickly. “He was away on a business trip.”

Kate sighed, as if Dea were failing to see a very obvious point. “I didn't say he did. And Connor didn't do it, either. I know that.” Her voice softened. “His fingerprints were found on the gun, though.”

Dea felt her face heating up. “It was his father's gun,” she said quickly. “Maybe he was allowed to play with it. Maybe the real killer wore gloves.”

“Maybe,” Kate said neutrally. Again, Dea had the sense that she was missing something. “Look, the point is, Connor's mother wasn't killed by a stranger. Sure, a window was broken. But it was a safe neighborhood, and nothing was stolen. The baby was killed but not the older brother, whose fingerprints were found on the gun. And why wear masks inside the house? Why bother with masks at all?”

The sun was slanting hard through the dirty windshield, making Dea's head hurt. She felt as if she were climbing slowly along the ladder of Kate's words, trying to make sense of them.
“They didn't want to be recognized,” she said.

“Right.” Kate hooked a right turn abruptly, at a sign for Chapel Hill Housing Development, and pulled over, throwing the car in park. Across a bare-scrubbed hill, Dea saw big blank houses with walls orange in the sun, many of them just skeleton structures. It was going to be a perfect day. “But recognized by who? Connor's mom was the target. Connor's brother was just a baby. He wasn't going to talk.” She turned her eyes to Dea. They were a brown so dark they were nearly black. “So who the hell were they afraid of?”