The Devil's Dream: A Nightmare (19 page)

At least Art had his answer. There wasn’t any more wondering and there wasn’t any more need to use up his available capacity. They could put this off to some other organization and he could focus on finding Brand again.

“You know he’s going to say we’ll turn the lights on,” Art said, unsure why he was continuing the conversation now that he had what he wanted.

“Of course. You won’t though. Was there anything else you needed, Art? I’m a bit busy making some preparations.”

“That’s it.”

“Bye, then. Talk soon.”

* * *

“
I
t’s him
,” Art said.

“How do you know?” Gyle asked.

Art and Jake sat at Art’s desk, the plane ride to New York canceled. A speaker sat in the middle of the table, from which they both listened to Gyle.

“I called him. You can run the tape if you want, it’s uploaded. He says it’s not D-Day, but that he’s basically working out any possible kinks before D-Day arrives. He also says that the power is staying off, that no matter what we do, we won’t be able to redirect back to its original path.”

“For how long?” Gyle asked.

Art looked at Jake. “Forever is my guess. Until either we kill him or he shuts the sun off.”

Gyle laughed. “This is getting worse by the moment. Every time I pick up the phone and talk to someone, I get just a bit closer to putting a bullet through my eye. Now I have to tell the President we know it’s Brand and that the lights are going to stay off. I have to deal with hundreds of people dying nightly because, apparently, when we can’t watch television we turn into animals
and
I have to talk to you knowing each and every time that we are not any closer to finding Brand. This is a nightmare.”

The room fell silent for a few seconds.

“That’s not entirely true, sir,” Jake said.

Art looked back up, his eyebrows rising. Which part wasn’t true? Jake had shown up for the meeting because Art sent him a text, but that was all they had said to each other in the past day. In fact, Jake could have been vacationing in the tropics for all Art knew—he had seen no reports, received no phone calls, nothing.

“You speaking to me or Art?” Gyle asked from the speaker.

“You, sir. We may be a bit closer to finding Brand. I think I might have something to pull him out into the open, if we do it perfectly. If he believes us, and we don’t screw up on our end, I don’t think he’ll have much of a choice in the matter.”

T
he sharp smell
of sulfur opened Joe’s eyes.

Things were blurry, as if he was looking through goggles filled with water. He blinked, trying to bring the world into some sort of focus. Nothing on him hurt, but his entire body felt tired, weak, like breaking a pencil would be a monumental feat.

His eyes finally cleared and a lone man stood in front of him. There was a chair next to the man, a flimsy plastic thing.

“Mnuhh,” Joe said, not understanding that speech was beyond him until the word exited his mouth.

“No need to talk just yet. Just sit there and relax for a few, buddy.”

The man in front of him had been the man that sat down next to him on the bus.

What bus?

The Greyhound.

The Greyhound he had got on headed to Los Angeles. Then this fat man had sat down and stabbed him in the leg. Joe slowly gazed down at his leg, saw a little circle of blood just above his knee, but felt no pain from it.

Did he stab me?

Maybe. Maybe not. Where was he now? He tried, for the first time, to stand up, and realized his arms and legs had both been tied to the same type of flimsy chair that the fat man stood next to. Zip-ties on his wrists, forearms, ankles, and calves. Joe wasn’t standing up from here. He was, though, remembering what happened. Sally told him to take the bus, the bus to Los Angeles, and that someone would meet him with the information he wanted. Was that this fat man? Was that where he was?

He looked around the room, his head moving slowly, like the first time he ever tried pot. He was in an old bedroom; something out of the seventies, with wood paneled walls and green carpet. The smell of the place said that a lot of life had happened in between these walls and not a lot of airflow after. There wasn’t a bed though. Wasn’t a dresser either, only a closed window to Joe’s left.

“My name is Charles. Not Charlie, but Charles. Yours is Joe, right? Joe Welch, born Joseph R. Welch?”

Joe nodded, his eyes coming back to focus on Charles.

“You have had an interesting history, Joe. To be honest, much more interesting than probably anyone I’ve met. Dad was murdered by Brand. Wife and kid too. Now you have a habit,” the fat man pulled out the bag of coke that had been in Joe’s pocket, “and an obsession with Matthew Brand. I’ve been wondering myself what obsession is stronger, the one for this stuff in the bag or the one for Brand. Given that I’m someone who knows a bit about addiction, I’d guess that they’re running neck and neck. Two large horses and each of them running at top speeds. What do you think?”

Joe’s head lolled to the side a bit. This man had to know Joe could barely hold his head up, let alone answer. He was able to listen, though.

“What I don’t understand, where I’m coming up at a loss here, is why someone who is running around looking for the most wanted man in the world would suddenly become interested in sex-slaves. It’s not your fetish. So why?”

“Yahnn,” Joe let out, his tongue feeling like a large furry balloon, unable to function correctly at all.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re going to have time to talk. Go on to sleep, I’ll be back later.” The fat man turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him. Joe kept trying to look around, kept trying to stand up, but his attempts became weaker and weaker until he took Charles’ advice.

* * *

J
oe’s eyes
were open and he stared out what little of the window he could see. Moonlight shone into the corner and he saw a cloudy sky, but nothing else. The overhead light in the room was turned off and the door still closed. He heard people moving around downstairs, but was unable to shout at them. At some point during his slumber, someone shoved a gag in his mouth and a piece of tape over it. All he could do now was look out the window and breathe through his nose.

After a while he heard footsteps coming down the hall, large creaks moaning as the person moved.

The door opened and the light above flashed on.

Joe closed his eyes immediately, only to try and open them right after, slightly, enough to see who was in the room with him.

The fat man. Charles.

He walked across the room, put one hand on Joe’s forehead and the other at the edge of the tape, and ripped—igniting a flame across Joe’s lips. He reached into Joe’s mouth and pulled out the tiny cloth that had been shoved inside. Charles turned around, folded the cloth and placed it next to the empty chair. Then he pulled the gun out of his waistband and turned back around to look at Joe.

“I want you to understand something from the get. You’re in constant danger of death here. Your life means slightly more to me than a cockroach might mean to you, and that’s only because your first instinct is to kill the cockroach. I don’t want to kill you, necessarily. At least not yet, but the second you give me even the slightest inkling that I want to, a bullet from this gun is going in your head. You got that?”

Joe nodded, completely understanding what the man meant while having no idea what he needed to do to make sure that didn’t happen.

Except stay quiet. It would be hard to make someone want to kill you if you didn’t open your mouth.

“I took the five grand out of your wallet. That’s half of what you owe me. We’ll be getting the other half real soon or you’re going to make me want to kill you, okay?”

Joe nodded.

“Now, I’m going to ask some questions and you’re going to get one chance to answer me. I’m no mind reader, so I’m not going to have proof if you lied to me. All I can say is that I better not think you’re lying to me, or again, it’s going to make me want to kill you. Still with me?”

Joe nodded.

“Good. Now tell me, why did your put your neck out like this to learn about human trafficking? Sex slavery is what I think you called it.”

Joe squeezed his eyes together tight. The answer was sprawling. The answer started with a black kid being shot down in a trashy neighborhood twenty-five years ago and ended with the bag of cocaine that Charles had hid somewhere. An infinite amount of choices during that time, all of them leading Joe to this old house, in this stale smelling room, talking to this morbidly obese man.

“Matthew Brand,” came from Joe’s mouth.

Charles nodded. “Had you said anything else, and I pretty much mean anything, I was going to have a lot of cleaning up to do. Blood begins to smell after a few days and I like a clean house. Next question. Why do you think the sex-trade has anything to do with Matthew Brand?”

Joe sighed. Did he tell him that it was probably a cocaine induced hallucination in which he thought the easiest way for Brand to attain the people he needed was through an underground movement that not even the government really tried to track? Did he say that he wasn’t sure of anything, and that his mind had been slowly going to hell over the past six months, and this was a last ditch effort? A last hoorah to try and find Brand?

There was some logic behind the idea though—however small—and he might as well start with that. “He needs a lot of bodies. I...” Joe trailed off. “I don’t know. Maybe he got them this way. He’s not grabbing them off the street. He’s not hunting down people associated with his son’s death, because there aren’t enough of them left anymore. It just connected that this might be the way and now here I am.”

“I don’t want to kill you yet, and that’s a good thing, Joe. What do you want with Brand? What are you going to do if you find him?”

“I’ll kill him,” Joe said.

“How?”

“However I can.”

“No one else has been able to. Why are you going to be any different?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’ll kill me. I don’t really have a choice anymore though, except to try and find him, to try and kill him. That’s all I have left.”

Charles sat down in the chair, leaning his massive arms forward until his elbows reached his knees. “You don’t have much then and I don’t know anyone that would willingly end up here in your position. Maybe this
is
all you have left. You’re not a cop. I knew that before I ever agreed to bring you in, but I don’t know if I completely believe you. I believe that you think you don’t have anything left, but that’s very different than actually hitting rock bottom.” He leaned back and stroked his bare chin. “Although watching your wife’s murder might bring a man pretty close.”

A minute passed without anyone saying anything. Joe didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t going to sit here and justify the past four years of his life to this man, to try to convince him that there wasn’t any other path Joe was willing to take. He didn’t know if that’s what the man was waiting on, for Joe to give more reasons, more conviction. Joe didn’t have it in him.

“I’m asking, because, if you haven’t hit rock bottom, there’s no sense in going forward with this. You have to be willing to die, friend, and if you’re not, I don’t have much use for you.”

Joe still said nothing and the fat man looked at him, staring directly into his eyes without blinking. He stood up, gun in his hand, and walked the three feet to Joe with a surprising quickness, placing the gun against Joe’s forehead.

“You’re ten seconds from dying. What are your thoughts? One...two...three...”

Joe closed his eyes, listening to the numbers count higher.

“I miss my wife,” he said.

“Four...”

“I know I won’t see her again, but I miss her.”

“Five...”

“I wish I had known my son.”

“Six...”

“More than the year he was here, known the person he would become.”

“Seven...”

“Eight...”

“I wish I had killed Matthew Brand.”

“Nine...”

“That’s it.”

“Ten...”

Joe felt the gun press down on his head as the fat man pulled the trigger.

Instead of a resounding boom and a single moment of exquisite pain, only a dry click filled the room. The fat man took a step back and put the gun down to his side. Joe opened his eyes, staring at the ground, realizing he was still alive.

“A lot of men piss their pants at that click,” Charles said. “You managed to hold your bladder.”

Joe didn’t look up, his mind nearly blank, besides a numb thought that he had just looked at death.

“I don’t know if you’re there, but you’re close enough. I’ll introduce you to Brand; I think you might change your mind about wanting to meet him when you do. That’s when we’ll see what you know about rock bottom.”

* * *

J
oe walked down the stairs
, his legs not quite sure they could hold him up, grabbing the railing. The house was indeed old, probably built in the sixties or seventies, but last remodeled for sure in the seventies.

“Everyone is out getting dinner right now, but they’ll be back soon. You and I should get acquainted first anyway. Take a seat.”

Joe looked at the living room, one of those nineteen-nineties big screen TV’s sat in the center, turned off. He went to a love seat and sat down. Charles sat in a large chair which seemed to be well built for his oversized body, not creaking in the slightest as he positioned himself on it.

“You and I are worlds apart, and yet, not that far either. Brand killed your dad, your wife, and your son. He killed my brother.”

Joe’s eyes widened.

“It gets a bit more interesting. My brother’s name was Jared Manning, and Brand slit his throat while Jared sat in his patrol car, looking after one of the people they felt sure Brand would come for. Brand came for her, killed my brother, three other cops, and then took her. A lot more news attention was put on the woman than Jared or any of the other cops, but they died the same as everyone else involved. My brother was a cop and I’m a drug dealer. We went down different paths, I guess you could say.”

“I’m not looking for the drug trade.”

“And you haven’t found it. What you’ve found is a drug dealer who’s connected. This right here is my mother’s house, or was, and is my house now. The people that are coming back are the people I’m connected to. You’re kind of a Godsend, to be honest, Joe. I wasn’t sure how we were going to go about doing this before, but now that you’re here, we may be able to get some work done.”