Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (13 page)

The child's body was mangled in a bloody heap on the sidewalk, her small hand clutching a blue-haired doll. The woman turned toward Donovan and began to scream.

2.

"You need to get help, Donovan,” said Ally, as he sat hunched over the computer keyboard. “It's been more than six years since the accident. Seeing that little girl die was horrible for both of us, but this obsession is destroying you ... it's destroying us. You'd think it was Becka that died."

Donovan raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. Since the accident, his once carefully coiffed hair, like most of his life, was left unattended.

"You don't understand, Ally,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders, looking at him with disbelief. “Damn right I don't understand. We can barely make ends meet. It's been two years since you lost your job, and instead of finding work, you spend all your time online researching accidents. For what? You can't bring that child back.” With tears welling, she lowered her voice, looking toward her daughter sleeping on the sofa in the next room. “We used to be able to talk about anything, but now you're locked into some world I don't understand. Please, Donovan, I need you to get help. Now."

He felt like a monster, making Ally cry again. She'd been so patient, and she was right.

"I know, honey,” he said, looking up at her, the fluorescent light deepening the dark circles under her eyes. “I'll call someone soon. I won't let my research interfere so much. I'll turn things around, I promise."

Ally's jaw tightened as she swiped away her tears.

"How many promises does that make now, Donovan? Why is this one any different? I don't understand how..."

He watched his wife stop herself in mid-sentence, her expression shifting from anger to resignation. She took a deep breath and stared at the floor, speaking in a steady, determined tone. “I have Becka to think of now. She deserves a happy life, Donovan ... a stable life, and losing the house was the last straw. If things don't change, I'm done."

"What do you mean, you're done?” he said, a frantic pitch in his voice. “I love you, Ally. I love our baby girl. What are you saying?"

"You know I love you too, Donovan, but you've got to stop this obsession and find a job. If you can't do that, I'm leaving. That's what I'm saying."

"But I'm so close...” he said. He tried to stop himself, but it was too late. Ally shook her head and walked away. He was losing her, and his family was slipping away because of his fixation on the accident, the dream ... the contract. He couldn't tell her the truth, but how could he stop when he knew he was so close to a breakthrough? Something kept driving him—more than even the guilt, more than trying to prove his sanity. He rubbed the scar on the palm of his hand—he just needed a little more time.

After months of searching for her, Donovan still had no idea where Ally had gone with Becka. To ease the loneliness, he buried himself in his research, placing hundreds of anonymous inquiries about the contract on as many esoteric forums as he could find. With the exception of a few vague references to the contract, most of the replies were from strung out new age hippies talking about the astral plane or UFO nuts saying that the contract was a government conspiracy. He was beginning to think that Ally had been right; maybe he needed help. Maybe it had all been some bizarre fantasy. But what difference did it make? He'd lost everything already—his family, his home, his job.

His corporate contacts—so-called friends—had dried up with the rumors of his strange obsession. The head of his firm got a bogus report that he was trafficking in porn, which got him fired. But the truth wouldn't have made any difference, so he didn't fight the accusations. Secretly, he was glad to have more time to pursue the source of the contract.

Much of Donovan's identity had been his work, his ability to cut a razor-edged deal. But his family kept him sane and grounded, Ally and Becka's love filling the emptiness and loss left from his childhood abandonment. Now there was only the pursuit of ... what? An answer to a nightmare? A contract he couldn't prove existed?

When Donovan looked in the bathroom mirror, he saw the hollow-eyed face of endless insomniac nights staring back at him. The glare of the fluorescent light over the sink spilled out into the dreary motel room as he shuffled back from the toilet to sit on the edge of the bed. Looking down at his socks, the soles grimy from the dirty carpet, he decided he needed a drink. Just one. Maybe then he could ignore the pain of the truth, the choices he'd made. Maybe he could forget the child with the blue-haired doll and the dull ache of his vacant life without Ally and Becka.

He returned from the liquor store, shoulders hunched up under his coat like a thief trying to hide his crime. His hair, once a sleek blond crown, hung limp and dull, curtaining his eyes from the world around him. He locked the door and quickly poured two fingers of Jack. The bourbon shimmered amber in the palm of his shaking hand as he looked into the glass—it had been ten years since his last drink. All that time he'd kept his promise to Ally. He would have died for her. Now he simply wanted to forget her, forget it all.

As he took his first long, stinging swallow of whiskey, he knew it was done. There would be no future, no family, no need for answers. Resigned to his path, relieved in a way, he downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass. Its heat spread like vapor into his gut. Grabbing for the neck of the bottle, he heard a ping—an incoming email alert from his laptop.

He glanced over at the screen of the battered machine resting on his nightstand. The sender used the name
dreamcatcher
. He recognized the name from a single strange email years earlier, but he had never heard from dreamcatcher again. He reached over and clicked the message open—the action was automatic, which annoyed him. He was done with it all. He wanted no part of the pointless research, no part of anything but forgetting his past. But still the message drew him in, like a bad habit. It was cryptic, only an invitation to meet in a private chat room. With the burn of the liquor hot in his throat, Donovan resisted, aiming the cursor at the delete button. He was finished with the research, the dead ends, the guilt. He pressed the button and relief washed over him. Taking a hard swallow directly from the bottle of J.D., he closed his eyes and let his head fall back, enjoying the onset of oblivion.

Another ping from the computer. Somehow magnified, the sound grated on Donovan's eardrums. His head lolling to the side, he opened his eyes.

From: dreamcatcher

Subject: I'm waiting for you ... I know you're there.

Annoyed at the intrusion into his fragile peace, Donovan stabbed at the mouse and deleted the message. Within seconds, the computer pinged again, grinding on his nerves. Almost deleting it without looking, the subject line caught his eye.

Subject: I can help you. They're safe.

So many dead ends, so much loneliness. The bliss of oblivion beckoned, but could he miss the chance that someone knew something about his family? Feeling the old panic rise in his chest, he clicked on the message and found a link. Hands shaking, he signed into the chat room. Dreamcatcher was waiting.

dreamcatcher:
I've been watching you, Hunter.

hunter:
What do you mean, watching me?

dreamcatcher:
For years, I've watched you searching and I've noted your dedication.

hunter:
Who are you? What do you know about my family?

dreamcatcher:
I'm someone who can help with your research concerning the contract.

hunter:
I don't give a damn about the contract anymore. Where's my family?

dreamcatcher:
Would you rather they'd died on that street?

hunter:
What? How do you know about that? I've NEVER disclosed those details.

dreamcatcher:
Would you rather they died, Hunter?

hunter: Who the hell are you?

Flushed with fear and anger, Donovan's heart pounded as he waited for an answer, but no reply followed. Dreamcatcher logged off without another word. The cursor blinked, marking time while Donovan sat alone in the chat room helplessly waiting and praying for the stranger's return.

For weeks, Donovan checked his email and the forums nonstop in hope of receiving a message from dreamcatcher. The stranger's knowledge of the accident and Donovan's mounting fear for his family's safety had reignited his obsession. He'd been so close to letting it all go, but the chat room encounter had left him filled with dread and paranoia. Lying exhausted on the unmade bed, Donovan heard the familiar ping. More spam, he thought, but he dragged himself over to the laptop.

I'm waiting for you. Click Here ~dreamcatcher

Jolted from his stupor, Donovan clicked on the link to find dreamcatcher waiting for him in the private chat room.

dreamcatcher:
Hello, Hunter.

hunter:
WHERE'S MY FAMILY???

dreamcatcher:
Do you want me to leave again?

hunter:
NO!

dreamcatcher:
Then no more questions right now. Just do what I say.

hunter:
You told me you had information about my family.

dreamcatcher:
Follow my instructions and you'll get your answers. I know what you're looking for and I can help, but you have to prove you're a suitable candidate.

hunter:
Candidate for what?

dreamcatcher:
I TOLD YOU NO MORE QUESTIONS! Last chance...

hunter:
I'm sorry. I'll do anything you say.

dreamcatcher:
You'll receive an audio file. Listen to it with headphones before you go to sleep. I'll be in touch.

[dreamcatcher has left the chat room.]

Bewildered and shaken by the exchange, Donovan kept vigil at the computer for hours, nodding off until the next “you've got mail” ping would wake him. After dozens of spam messages, the audio file arrived at one minute before midnight. In his bleary-eyed state of too much drink and not enough sleep, he hastily downloaded the file, almost deleting it. The message had specific instructions for listening and emphasized that it was coded to only be listened to once. Following the directions, Donovan set the laptop beside him on the bed and turned off the lights. Plugging in his headphones by the glow of the blue screen, he lay back on the pillow in his rumpled clothes and clicked play.

Expecting to hear verbal instructions filling him in on his family's disappearance, the only thing he heard were long, discordant tones that turned into quiet ambient music. Donovan was pissed. “What the hell?” he snarled into the room, but since the file would work only once, he kept listening in case something else followed. Nothing did, only more strange mellow music. Within minutes, his aggravation unexpectedly melted away and much needed sleep overtook him.

That night the dreams started.

dreamcatcher:
Did you receive the audio file, Hunter? hunter: You know what's happening to me, don't you???

dreamcatcher:
I have an idea, yes.

hunter:
Catastrophic dreams! Every night for weeks. Someone always dies and I'm frozen and can't do anything to stop it.

dreamcatcher:
Good, the audio entrainment worked and you've passed the test. There must have been an error in their records to have let you disappear from their radar, but we've been waiting for you.

hunter:
Who are you talking about? Help me, PLEASE. These nightmares ... it's like witnessing hell every day. I'm so tired, but if I sleep, I dream. I can't live like this. I thought you were going to help me find my family.

dreamcatcher:
It may be the only way to save your family, Hunter. Pay close attention to the details of your dreams.

hunter:
I don't understand.

dreamcatcher:
Keep hunting for answers, but stay out of sight! It's important that you don't bring attention to yourself. Study your dreams, watch the news, and maybe, as your mind clears, you'll remember the fine print from the contract. We have reason to believe it may be vital. That's all I'm privileged to say at this time. Good luck, Donovan, and goodbye.

hunter:
Wait!

[dreamcatcher has left the chat room.]

Plagued by the dreams, Donovan's depression was crippling. He became a recluse, hardly leaving his room. In less than a year, he burned through what little money he had, most of it on alcohol. Eventually, he was evicted from the motel for not paying his bill.

Hocking his laptop for cash to buy liquor—his only solace—he took up residence in the city park. In a drunken stupor, the chill of the coming winter didn't seem to matter. After weeks in the park, evading the vagrancy patrols, he slumped semi-conscious on a bench, vaguely aware of a foul odor—his own. A warm snap brought people to the park: roller bladers, dog walkers, couples holding hands, and parents with their children. Donovan was watching the parade through a haze of drink and exhaustion when a mother pushing a baby stroller, with a child in tow, passed in front of him. They were a blur until the little girl, illuminated by a slant of afternoon sun, glanced at him and giggled.

"Look, mama. That man is drooling like Mikey."

Her glowing red curls caught Donovan's attention as the mother tugged the child away with a disgusted backward glance.

"My baby girl!” Donovan began to shout, his words slurred. “Becka, come to daddy, honey. Becka...” He pushed himself up from the bench and stumbled toward the little girl. The mother scooped her child up and pushed the stroller ahead as she ran, shouting for help. Donovan continued his drunken pursuit until a roller blader collided with him, knocking him hard to the ground.

"Watch where you're going, asshole,” shouted the teen. Hardly missing a beat, the boy continued on his way.

"Becka ... Becka,” Donovan whimpered with his face pressed against the grit of the sidewalk. His clothes soiled, greasy hair fell across his face. A police officer approached on foot while a black sedan with smoked-glass windows purred to a stop at the curb.