Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (16 page)

Donovan checked outside the bathroom to make sure no one was in the room, then he locked the bathroom door and grabbed the note.

D.

I understand the burden of the dreams, and I've been concerned about your state of mind. It's important that you got out of your room today. Please take every opportunity you can to get out. Maintaining your strength and sanity is imperative to your survival and the success of your destiny. And remember, they'll ultimately replace you with your daughter if you should fail to effectively do their bidding.

Now is the time to take notice of the details of your dreams, Donovan, not just the work you do for the ORA, but for yourself. Notice the patterns in common in the dreams, locations, names, time of day, etc., and consider that perhaps there's more you can do than simply observe helplessly. As you know, the aftermath of signing the contract is devastating. Use your life and your talent to help in any way you can. You might not be able to stop the outcome, but you can ease the suffering.

They won't let you interfere with their work, but the ORA has one agenda only—maintaining their power and satisfying their greed. Do your part to help them succeed, and if you're smart about it, the rest of your activities will seem unimportant to them. And remember, all the experience you gain will ultimately serve you when the opportunity to destroy the ORA arises.

When it's time, I'll be there to assist you.

Dispose of this message immediately.

d.

Donovan felt resentful of the burden of this new expectation—to do something more with his life—but the message rang true. Being more than a prisoner controlled by the ORA was the only way he could see to survive long-term. But the realization that shocked him most was the fact that Becka could be trapped into the same prison. No matter how long it took, he had to do whatever was necessary to bring down the Order of the Red Angel to save his child from this fate.

The daily walk soon became a routine for Donovan and Easy, and as winter approached, they decided on a local park to avoid the cold wind of the beach. As they rounded the far end of the duck pond, Easy spoke casually in his rumbling bass.

"I probably shouldn't tell you yet, but in a few months they'll be moving you into a beach house. No more motel for you, pal. And it'll be big enough that you won't even know I'm there.” He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Donovan.

"And besides that, the head office is pleased with your progress and thought a reward was in order. Keep it up and they'll forward the letters to you, as well."

News of the house was enough to shock him, but the contents of the envelope left him speechless. Inside he found a small stack of photographs—pictures of his family. His eyes watered. Easy walked ahead on the path and sat down on a bench to wait, his big hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

Donovan shuffled through the photos, proud and amazed at how Becka had grown. She was smiling and tall, nearly nine years old now. His spirit lifted at the sight of her. She was going to be a beauty, just like her mother. But looking at Ally's photos made his heart ache. Though she was smiling, the pain and sadness in her eyes was devastating. She had the look of a woman lost and nearly broken but still doing her best for the sake of her child. Donovan understood that feeling too well, and a quiet rage rose up inside him for what Ally must be enduring.

Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Donovan knew he had to redouble his efforts to discover everything he could about the contract and the Order of the Red Angel. He had to stop them, but he knew there was little he could do for Ally and Becka immediately. He could, however, at least hold them in his heart as he sought a way to ease the suffering of others whose lives were devastated by the ORA.

Donovan began his new focus by keeping detailed records of his non-working dreams. At first he wrote them on random slips of paper, stashing them around his room, but eventually he asked for a notebook. Easy complied with his request and brought him a pocket-sized journal. To be sure that no one could access his records, Donovan kept the little journal with him at all times, stashed in a pocket or under his pillow when he slept.

In the months that followed, he noticed a pattern to his dreams, and with practice he developed a small amount of lucid control. Until the Contractor arrived on the scene, he could move around more freely in his dreams. This allowed him to quickly assess the times, dates and the locations involved. Although he had no control to stop the events from occurring-he had tried many times—he learned to quickly identify the likely targets for harvesting and brace himself for the horror of the exchange. The contract was always completed in his dreams; he only hoped that in real life at least some were unsuccessful.

He waited patiently for a local exchange to occur in his dreams, and he felt particularly drawn to the first one that surfaced. He soon enlisted the help of an unsuspecting Easy.

"How about a road trip, Easy?” he said between sips of coffee. “We've been cooped up in this town too long."

Easy looked up from his breakfast and raised an eyebrow.

"Can't go too far without approval."

"How about we take a ride down to Norfolk to see if any of the big ships are docked at the naval yard. I've always wanted to see one up close."

With a mouth full of food, Easy chewed slowly, staring at him. His unreadable expression made Donovan nervous. Maybe Easy knew what he was up to, but finally he took a long swallow of orange juice, then nodded.

"Let's go."

Without another word, he tossed some cash on the table for their meal and headed for the door. Relieved and a little bewildered by the sudden departure, Donovan grabbed a piece of toast and followed Easy out to the car.

It had been so long since Donovan left the town of Eastville that the trip down the coast to the ship yard felt like a great adventure. As their black SUV cruised from the blue skies above down into the depths of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, Donovan reminded himself to stay focused. Since Easy had been so quick to leave for their trip, they'd arrive at the ship yard earlier than planned. He needed to stall.

Easy's deep voice broke into his concentration. “How about we check out Virginia Beach first?"

A little surprised at his good fortune, Donovan replied, “Hell yeah."

Virginia Beach was a nice diversion. Unlike the sleepy village of Eastville, there were lots of people and places to visit. After a pit stop at a little seafood hut and a cup of local crab soup—Easy was a bottomless pit—they were on their way to neighboring Norfolk. Their timing couldn't have been better, but as they approached the naval yard, Donovan began to feel anxious. When he saw the battleship, the memory of his dream was visceral, steeped in pain. The silent hulking mass cast an ominous shadow over the people waiting on the docks. Two distinct crowds had gathered: families embracing and saying their goodbyes, and others waving signs protesting the war. A contingent of armed Navy shore police stood between the families and the protestors. The SPs held a line not to be crossed.

Easy stopped the car and stepped out, his arms folded. Leaning against the driver's side door, he surveyed the scene. Donovan hesitated, then climbed out in a daze. He hoped that Dreamcatcher would be there to assist him, as promised. As he wandered into the crowd toward the clutch of families, an SP stepped up and put his hand on Donovan's chest.

"That'll be far enough, sir. Unless you have a military ID or you're accompanied by a family member who does, you'll need to step back."

"But I have to speak with—"

"You heard him, sir,” said another SP as the entire line of arm-banded sailors turned their attention toward Donovan.

A shout came from a protestor wearing a tattered green fatigue jacket. “Hey, it's still a free country, last time I read the Constitution. Let the man through."

"Yeah,” shouted others as the protestors moved toward the line of SPs.

Donovan looked around, bewildered by the scene. In his dream he was on the other side of the shore police line when the chaos started.

The man in the tattered fatigue jacket pushed forward, holding his American flag high. A young man at his side grabbed at his arm, trying to pull him back from the crowd of protestors.

"Come on, dad,” Donovan heard him say, just like in the dream. “You promised if I came this time there wouldn't be any trouble."

The man in the jacket wrenched his arm free. His face was full of fury at the SPs. “Support me, son, or leave me be. Sometimes you've just got to stand up."

The son stayed behind, head down in apparent resignation, as his father and the mob of protestors charged the line of shore police. As they surged forward, Donovan was pushed through the line of SPs. He stumbled forward and was spun around into a scene from his dream. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears.

A shot was fired and then another, followed by a screaming, scattering mob. Suddenly, there was an ominous silence. When Donovan opened his eyes he was frozen in place like the rest of the crowd around him. He watched helplessly as the man in the tattered fatigue jacket kneeled beside his dead son. Another man from the crowd was frozen in a crouch clutching his bloody shoulder, still holding a gun in his hand. The SP he had missed returned fire, while the gunman's bullet struck the son of the now weeping man.

"Oh my god, what have I done? Oh, Tod,” he said, stroking his son's hair. “I should have listened. Oh, my boy. Oh my sweet boy.” Tears fell heavy from his eyes, dark splotches lost on the boy's blood-soaked T-shirt. “God, help me,” he wept, his shoulders heaving.

"God doesn't seem to be here at the moment, Mister Clark, but I am,” said the well-dressed man in the sunglasses. “I can assure you that this tragedy will never occur and your son will live a long and healthy life.” He held out a pen and a fresh contract. “All you need to do is sign here and we'll be done."

"Who the hell are you?” said the man through his tears. He noticed the frozen scene around him.

"Today, you could call me your guardian angel ... or at least, Tod's. I'm also looking out for Seaman Urbancik over there.” He nodded toward a fresh-faced young man in his starched white uniform and sailor's cap. He was frozen in place, shielding his mother from the gunfire. Their likeness was unmistakable. “You see, Urbancik over there will be killed shortly after he's deployed. He'll be critically burned in a chemical accident aboard ship, but he'll remain conscious for hours, suffering unspeakable pain while waiting for the decontamination crew to do its job.

"But together you and I can save him from that horrible fate and give your son a second chance. It's up to you,” said the man in the sunglasses. “You have thirty seconds to decide."

He checked his watch and held the pen and contract out for the man to sign.

"How could you ask such a thing?"

"Just doing my job. Twenty seconds to save your only son,” he said, tapping his watch with the pen. “You know he only came today because he was worried about you. How will you live with yourself knowing he died because of you ... and how will you explain it to his mother?"

"Fuck you,” mumbled the man in the jacket, but he reached for the pen and scribbled his name on the contract. Mister Sunglasses added his signature and the young man on the ground took a breath, coughing and gasping as his heart began pumping once again. The sound of another gunshot split the air, and the crowd screamed as Seaman Urbancik collapsed to the ground, red blood blossoming across his uniform, his mother screaming, “Scotty! No!” She clutched at her dying son in a frenzy, with no regard for her own safety in the midst of the mayhem.

The Contractor tucked the document into his breast pocket and walked toward a shaken Donovan. As he passed, he made a pretend finger gun and shot at Donovan with a wink.

"Good show, huh, Mister Hunter?"

Donovan felt sick. More dazed than when he arrived, he somehow managed to escape the chaos without being stopped by the shore police. Angry and confused why Dreamcatcher never arrived to assist him, he was relieved to see Easy waiting in the idling SUV not far from the scene of the exchange. He climbed in, laid his head back against the headrest, and the realization hit him.

"Oh my god, you knew why I came here, didn't you?"

Easy nodded and pulled away from the curb. Donovan turned his head away. It was a long silent ride back to Eastville.

Instead of the punishment he expected after his appearance at the Norfolk ship yard, he was moved into a sprawling beach house on the Chesapeake Bay and told by his liaison, Sienna, that his spending account would now be unlimited, within reason, of course. He was confused by this development, but he intended to use it to his advantage. Remembering the name of the slain seaman in Norfolk, his change of status inspired him. He scoured the Internet for information and soon tested the financial waters of his new spending account with success.

"Hello, Missus Urbancik?” said Donovan over the phone. “This is Steve Montoya of the Sid P. Cobain Foundation."

"Yes?"

"We recently heard about your son's passing, and we'd like to offer our sincere condolences for your terrible loss."

"Thank you ... Mister Montoya, was it? But this isn't a good time..."

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I won't keep you long, ma'am. I just wanted you to know that we'll be offering a scholarship in your son's name to a needy student. We understand that your son Scott joined the Navy mainly as a way to pay for his college education. With your approval, each year we would like to provide an alternative that Scott didn't have to a deserving student in your hometown. We've created a trust for this purpose, and if you and your family would like to be part of the selection committee, you can let me know when the time is right for you."

There was silence of the other end of the line.

"Again, our deepest condolences, ma'am. You'll be receiving some additional information in the mail. Thank you for your time."