Mama's Boy And Other Dark Tales Part 8

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, officer."

He disappeared as his window hummed to a close. Another man emerged from the driver's side dressed in a fine black suit. Body like a pro wrestler, skin satin black, he gathered up Donovan from the sidewalk like a rag doll. The diamond in the man's earlobe winked at the cop in the afternoon sunlight as he carried Donovan around the car, depositing him in the back seat. With the big man back behind the wheel, they slipped away into the weekend traffic.

Shaking his head, Mister Sungla.s.ses said, "Donovan, Donovan, Donovan. I've been looking for you. Where have you been hiding? Frittering away your life, I see ... a most important life, at that."

A cool gla.s.s was placed in Donovan's hands. Deeply thirsty, he managed to drink the sweet liquid in two greedy swallows, leaving some to dribble down his chin. Head lolling, he tried to focus his alcohol-soaked brain on what was happening, but soon the drink, the smooth ride, and the comfort of the soft leather seat put him into a deep sleep. After a long time drifting with a blissfully empty mind, he dreamed.

This time, instead of being a helpless witness to another death, he saw himself signing the contract, his bloodstained fingers smearing across the white paper at the scene of his wife's death. The picture suddenly slowed down, and his frantic actions came to a halt. For the first time, beneath the b.l.o.o.d.y fingerprints, he could see the contract: Terms and Conditions 1a. The life you have chosen to retain will heretofore be exchanged with a death of your choosing. If you are unable to make that choice for any reason, a death will be chosen for you.

1b. In signing this contract, you are agreeing that your own death will occur, at a later date, in a life exchange at the convenience and necessity of the Contractor. Before death, your services may be required at any time and in any form deemed necessary by the Contractor. Should you try to alter the outcome of this agreement beyond the bounds stated in this instrument, strict penalties greater than death will be levied against you immediately upon discovery [see section 3b for definition of penalties].

Liability 2a. The Contractor may not be held responsible for any life circ.u.mstances that may arise from your choice of life retention or death choice. Once this doc.u.ment is signed by the Customer and the Contractor, the agreement is final and no changes to this agreement will be considered. [For exceptions please refer to section 22r.]

Donovan's dreaming mind anxiously scanned the doc.u.ment for section 22r, but the sound of a slamming door jolted him awake. He struggled to go back to sleep, to the dream. He needed to read the contract, but he felt the waking world drag him to consciousness. At the click click of a turning lock he opened his eyes, startled to find himself lying on a bed, clean sheets tucked beneath his chin. With a slight chill on his scalp, he reached up to feel his hair was damp and cropped short. Still groggy, he pulled back the covers and put his feet on the clean carpet of an immaculate motel room. Making his way to the window, he peered out over the dark parking lot. A light in the tidy flowerbed around the wooden sign illuminated rough-cut letters, "The Devil's Den Motel, Eastville, Virginia-Open Year 'Round." The parking lot was empty, but the "No Vacancy" sign glared neon red into the night. of a turning lock he opened his eyes, startled to find himself lying on a bed, clean sheets tucked beneath his chin. With a slight chill on his scalp, he reached up to feel his hair was damp and cropped short. Still groggy, he pulled back the covers and put his feet on the clean carpet of an immaculate motel room. Making his way to the window, he peered out over the dark parking lot. A light in the tidy flowerbed around the wooden sign illuminated rough-cut letters, "The Devil's Den Motel, Eastville, Virginia-Open Year 'Round." The parking lot was empty, but the "No Vacancy" sign glared neon red into the night.

Standing there, bewildered by how he ended up at The Devil's Den Motel in a pair of new boxer shorts, Donovan remembered the hazy events that had occurred just before he'd fallen asleep ... and the contract dream. He felt a sudden urgency to write down what little he remembered before it slipped away completely. Grabbing the pen and notepad by the phone, he leaned over the desk, and with a trembling hand he jotted as many details as he could remember. But at the edge of his mind's eye he saw the b.l.o.o.d.y fingerprints smeared across the contract ... his wife's blood. But she was alive and Becka was alive. The depth of his sorrow for his missing family stabbed at his gut. As always, his concern for them was soon followed by the choking guilt for the small child crushed by the Oldsmobile. The sound of the woman screaming rang in his mind-looking directly at him from the crowd, she had pointed an accusing finger. "You did this!"

At the time of the accident, Ally had grabbed his hand and rushed him away from the scene, annoyed that the woman had singled Donovan out as the cause of the child's death.

"What's wrong with that woman?" she'd said. "You had nothing to do with that accident. How dare she blame you for her own negligence. If she'd been watching the child, that couldn't have happened." Seeing the upset on Donovan's face, she'd given his hand a gentle squeeze. "Don't give it another thought, honey. It's a terrible tragedy, but there's nothing you could have done. I guarantee, you'll never have to worry about our baby being put in such danger." She'd smiled at him rea.s.suringly and patted her pregnant belly.

Swooning with a rush of nausea, Donovan's thoughts were pulled back to the motel room. Grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself, he twisted around just in time to find the trash can as his stomach emptied itself in a hurry. With a final dry heave, the rhythm of his spasming stomach finally subsided, and he was left covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He waited, then stood up slowly, trying to avoid another swoon.

Donovan had no idea how much time had pa.s.sed since the incident in the park, but it was enough to leave him in obvious alcohol withdrawal. He dragged himself to the bathroom, and after rinsing his mouth of the rank taste of bile, he splashed handfuls of water on his face, trying to ease the pounding in his head. He avoided his reflection in the mirror. He needed a drink.

Stumbling back into the room, he searched for his clothes. He didn't care if they were clean or filthy; he just needed to get out and get his hands on a bottle. He checked the closet, finding several fine tailored suits and pressed s.h.i.+rts. Hanging beside them were new jeans, T-s.h.i.+rts, and a warm leather jacket. New shoes and sneakers sat in a neat row on the floor beneath the hanging clothes. Donovan fingered the soft leather of the coat, wondering who had brought him here. Then he recalled something the man in the black limo said to him before he fell asleep. "Donovan, Donovan, Donovan. I've been looking for you ... a most important life, at that." Now he remembered him-the slick black hair, the sungla.s.ses-the man with the contract.

A most important life? He balked at the irony. His life was a h.e.l.l he couldn't wait to drown again in a nice deep bottle of Jack, but any booze would do right now. Head still pounding, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a s.h.i.+rt from the closet. He dressed in a hurry and shoved his feet in the sneakers, nearly pa.s.sing out when he bent down to tie them.

Plopping down in a chair by the bed, he noticed paperwork lined up neatly on the side table: a bill for The Devil's Den Motel marked paid in full paid in full for one year; a bank statement in Donovan's name with a balance of $10,000; a debit card paper-clipped to the top with a note- for one year; a bank statement in Donovan's name with a balance of $10,000; a debit card paper-clipped to the top with a note-To be replenished monthly; and a business card for a private driver with no last name, just Easy Easy.

Already confused by his location, the clothes, the haircut, not to mention the fact that someone had undressed and bathed him, and now they were giving him money. As much of a relief as it was to be clean and out of the park, the whole scene was too strange. Donovan stripped the pillowcase from the bed and shoved shoes, clothes, and anything else he could fit inside the makes.h.i.+ft luggage for a quick getaway. As he shrugged into the leather jacket, the phone rang with a piercing old-fas.h.i.+oned bell, jangling Donovan's already frayed nerves. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone, if only to stop the noise. He answered without thinking, regretting it immediately.

"What?"

"Mister Hunter, I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I was instructed to check in to see if there's anything you need."

"Who in the h.e.l.l are you?"

"My name is Sienna, and I am your personal dream liaison."

"Look, I don't know who you are or what the f.u.c.k you're talking about, but I've had enough of this-"

"Mr. Hunter, for the safety of your wife and daughter I suggest that you cooperate fully. Any diversion from your contractual obligation will result in their immediate and painful deaths. We are keeping them alive and luxuriously cared for in your name, Mr. Hunter. Their comfort is not part of our legal obligation, but we're providing it as a special courtesy to you."

"Where are they?" shouted Donovan. "Where are my wife and daughter?"

"I cannot disclose their location. I can tell you that they are unaware of your circ.u.mstances, and they believe it is you who is providing for their luxurious lifestyle. They've been instructed that they are to have no contact with you, and in order to maintain your support, your wife must send periodic letters affirming the well-being of herself and your child. Per our contractual agreement, you will receive these letters-once they've been scrubbed of unacceptable details-to verify that your family is still alive."

Donovan's head pounded and he felt faint. He dropped down on the bed, ma.s.saging his forehead, drained by the confusion and the threat to his family.

"I don't understand what's going on here."

"You'll receive a package from a courier tomorrow afternoon. All the instructions you need will be in that package. If you have any questions following a thorough examination of the equipment and manual, you may call my answering service. I'll return your call as soon as possible. You'll find my contact information in the instruction packet."

In that moment, the years of stress, the threat to his family and the strange ordeal he found himself in all crashed in on him. Trying to hold back the tears, his shoulders shook with his m.u.f.fled sobs.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he said, his voice barely audible.

"Mr. Hunter, you'll want for nothing. Once you've completed a trial period and proven reliable, you'll be rewarded with greater freedom and everything you could ever desire. But in the meantime, you'll be confined to a five mile radius of your room and you will be accompanied by a trained companion whenever you leave The Devil's Den ... Motel."

Donovan was shaking. His s.h.i.+rt was damp with sweat. "I need a drink," he said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hunter. Alcohol will inhibit your ability to do your job. I suggest you get some rest. The courier will be arriving tomorrow, and you will be required to begin work in the evening. Good night, Mr. Hunter."

The dial tone buzzed in Donovan's ear. "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" He pressed the b.u.t.tons on the phone, dialing 911. The phone beeped at him with a busy signal. He tried again and the line clicked off. No dial tone; no busy signal. Donovan swept the phone off the table and it smashed against the wall.

Nausea squeezed at his stomach. Light-headed, he staggered to the door and gripped the handle-it was locked from the outside. He pounded and kicked the door until his hands and feet were bruised. He tried the window, but it was locked, too. Nearly blind with the throbbing pain in his head, he picked up the desk chair and threw it at the window, but it bounced back off the thick gla.s.s and hit him in the chest, knocking him to the floor.

Lying there panting in his pain and rage, Donovan closed his eyes and let the tears flow. Broken, defeated and completely lost, the sobs wracked his chest until he felt empty. Exhaustion finally released him from his waking agony and delivered him to a deep sleep where the pain of his dreaming world took over: * * * *

Sitting at an outdoor cafe, Donovan notices the steam of his espresso swirling above his cup. Everything appears vivid and strangely alive. A bright slash of morning sun s.h.i.+nes on the golden hair of the woman at the table in front of him. She feeds little bits of bright orange melon to the toddler in the stroller beside her; a tiny drop of juice glistens on the baby's chin.

"Zoooom! Open the hangar, Matty," says the young woman.

The child giggles as they play airplane with the food, his eyes bright with the game.

Chaos erupts suddenly as an old man collapses on a nearby sidewalk, his hat rolling into the gutter. He clutches his chest and the woman with him screams for help. The man gasps for breath and he reaches for her, but his arm falls limp to the sidewalk. The old woman cries, gripping his lifeless hand and bringing it to her chest.

"Morty! Don't leave me. Morty ... darling ... I love you. Please ... someone...?"

People gather around her and a man in a suit kneels down to help. Light glints off of his dark sungla.s.ses, then everything freezes in place, including Donovan. He can't move, and everything around him is silent except for the voice of the man in the suit and the crying woman.

"I can make it so that your husband will be fine, Missus Schwartz. Please sign here," he says, holding out the contract and the pen.

The old woman's reply is m.u.f.fled as she sobs, her expression a mixture of confusion and grief. The man points his pen in the direction of the blond-haired woman and the toddler. A piece of airplaning melon is still on the fork between them. In a confidential tone, he rattles off a quick explanation, then Donovan clearly hears him say, "You have 30 seconds to sign or the deal is off."

Donovan panics. He wants to call out to the old woman-to warn-her but like the rest of the bystanders, his body is rigid, his voice mute. Missus Schwartz glances at the woman and child and back to her husband's limp body. Her shoulders drop as if all the strength has gone out of her, but she reaches for the pen and with a trembling hand she signs the contract.

"Thank you, Madam." The man in the sungla.s.ses retrieves his pen and puts his own signature on the contract. "A pleasure doing business with you." He stands up and walks away, leaving the bewildered woman behind.

The scene suddenly returns to chaos, the crowd coming back to life. No one else seems to notice the man in the sungla.s.ses walking away through the crowd. Donovan jumps to his feet, but before he can reach the old woman, her husband coughs and sits up on the pavement, rubbing his chest. His wife wraps her arms around him.

"Oh Morty. I thought I'd lost you." She glances back over her shoulder, and Donovan follows her line of vision.

The airplaning melon is no longer on the fork and the toddler in the stroller is struggling to breath. The young woman is frantically trying to put her finger in the child's mouth to clear his throat.

"Come on, Matty. Spit it out, honey." She fumbles with the stroller buckle, trying to release it.

Turning bright red, eyes bulging, the child thrashes in the stroller while the woman screams for help. Donovan reaches for him, but in a flash of eye-searing light he is wrenched from his dream and back to the motel room in a ragged heap on the floor.

With aches screaming from all parts of his body, Donovan rolled over on to his back, shaken by the dream. It was so vivid ... real, like the dream of Ally's death so many years ago. His head pounded, making thinking difficult. He needed a drink, and to do that he needed to get out of the room. Taking a breath, he braced himself and climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain and nausea still plaguing him. In the quiet of the room, Donovan heard the sound of crickets and caught the scent of moist sea air. He glanced around and realized the singing bugs were outside his room, and someone had left the door open.

With a surge of adrenalin, he wasted no time rus.h.i.+ng to the bed to grab his makes.h.i.+ft luggage. When he lifted the stuffed pillowcase, he noticed a folded note as it slipped to the floor. Afraid to stop long enough to read it, he shoved the paper into the pocket of his jeans and hurried to the door. Forcing himself to quiet his breathing, he peeked through the crack in the door. From the edge of the horizon he saw the pale pink light of dawn creeping into the sky, but the red blaze of The Devil's Den's No Vacancy No Vacancy sign continued to bathe the empty parking lot in its glare. With no cars and no sound other than the crickets, Donovan made his escape. He pushed the door open and ran along the building beneath the wide overhang of the roof. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he picked up speed and skidded around the corner of the building, running headlong into a giant of a man. The man appeared unfazed, but Donovan felt as if he'd hit a stone wall. sign continued to bathe the empty parking lot in its glare. With no cars and no sound other than the crickets, Donovan made his escape. He pushed the door open and ran along the building beneath the wide overhang of the roof. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he picked up speed and skidded around the corner of the building, running headlong into a giant of a man. The man appeared unfazed, but Donovan felt as if he'd hit a stone wall.

"Good morning, Mister Hunter," said the man, his voice the belly-rumbling ba.s.s of a kettle drum. He reached out and clamped his dark fingers like a vise on Donovan's shoulder.

"Steady there," he said.

The grip tightened, a painful bone-crus.h.i.+ng pressure. Donovan's eyes watered as he tried desperately to twist out of the man's grip, but instead he soon found himself begging on his knees in the effortless control of a black man in a tailored suit with shoulders as wide as a yoke. The contents of the getaway sack lay spilled on the sidewalk.

"Going somewhere, Mister Hunter?"

Donovan moaned in agony, waiting for his collar bone to snap at any moment. He glanced up, and through the pain he saw a wink of light flash from a diamond in the man's earlobe. The grip on his shoulder released and he collapsed to the sidewalk. He lay there panting while the man stood there calmly-he hadn't broken a sweat.

"I'm afraid you can't leave the premises at this time, sir, but if there's anything I can get you, I'm here to help."

Donovan couldn't refrain from laughing at the absurdity of it.

"Help? You d.a.m.n near broke my shoulder."

"I apologize for restraining you, Mister Hunter, but if you had left the grounds without an escort, the penalty would have been death for you ... and for your family. I was protecting you from a tragic mistake." The big man extended his hand to help him to his feet, but Donovan ignored it and stood on his own.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" he asked, rubbing his aching shoulder.

"I'm Easy, your personal a.s.sistant. It's time to return to your room, Mister Hunter, so I can order your breakfast."

In protest, Donovan refused to touch Easy's offering of fried eggs, thick crispy bacon, and plump pancakes topped with a dollop of sweet melting b.u.t.ter. His mouth watered at the smell of the food and he almost succ.u.mbed to a taste from the basket of fresh strawberries, but he was a prisoner. Although he knew in his heart it was futile, he felt the need to show his defiance.

At midmorning Easy knocked on the door, but Donovan didn't answer. He lay on his bed with his back to the door, his head still pounding from alcohol withdrawal. After a minute, the big man entered to remove the breakfast dishes.

"Hmm ... Mister Hunter, you're just lucky G ... uh, my mama isn't here. You'd get her starving children lecture for sure." He picked up a piece of the thick cold bacon and had a bite. "Mmm ... shame to let such fine food go to waste. Anything else I can get you?"

Donovan didn't answer, but on his way out Easy pulled a bottle of Excedrin from his coat pocket and left it on the table along with the basket of strawberries.

Lunchtime pa.s.sed with no sign of Easy. And as the dinner hour approached, Donovan tried hard to ignore his ache for alcohol and his hunger pains, but the sweet scent of the strawberries drifted around the room, intensifying the gnawing in his empty stomach. His hands shook as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the Excedrin off the table, downing three with a handful of water from the bathroom sink.

Wiping his hand on his jeans, he felt the crinkle of paper in his pocket. He pulled out the note that had fallen on the floor during his attempt to escape. He sat on the bed and unfolded the paper, trying to steady his hands.

Donovan, I'm sorry they found you. I'm doing what I can to help, but for now your fate is to do as they say. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. When the time is right, your destiny will be fulfilled.

They're called the Order of the Red Angel or the ORA. They've enslaved the dreamers for millennia. Utilizing the dreamers' gifts, the Contractors use coercion to force the exchange of the soul energy of innocents as payment to their master for eternal life and power in the earthly realm. You're from what they call the Bloodline, Donovan-a harvester of dreams-a dreamer. You and your kin have the special gift that the ORA both fear and covet. You can guide them to their prey, but you also have the power to destroy them. As with all things to do with heaven and h.e.l.l, there is a balancing force.

After the death of your parents, they carelessly lost track of you. We've been watching and hoping they'd never track you down, but with the conception of your child your combined energy was exponential and you were quickly identified even before her birth.

I wish we could protect you from what lies ahead, but you must endure the dreaming for as long as it takes and learn everything you can about the process. You'll witness the suffering of many, but you need to remain strong. You're the key that could end this cycle of misery. The contract is the final link and one we don't have access to, but we believe, in time, you will. There is always a hidden balancing clause in dealings with the Order-it's the rules-and this is what we must discover.

They have your child, and she is already exhibiting signs of the special abilities of the Bloodline, so her fate too is in your hands. Signing the contract helped keep her alive not only for you, but for the ORA. It was a well-orchestrated trap.

I've risked a great deal in this communication. My ident.i.ty must remain secret or we'll have no way of a.s.sisting you when the time comes. Destroy this message immediately after reading it. It may be a long time before I can contact you again, but rest a.s.sured I'm watching and doing all I can to help.

Stay strong, Dreamcatcher A knock sounded at the door and Donovan crammed the note back into his pocket. After his usual minute delay, the big man entered the room.

"A package has arrived for you, Mister Hunter." He put a large box on the table, and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. "Inside, you'll find your equipment and instructions for tonight's session. I'm to make sure you follow through with your work. If you have any questions, you're to call your liaison, Sienna." He turned to leave and looked back over his shoulder.

"Supper?"

Donovan felt the presence of the note in his pocket like a hot piece of iron. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. That's the only way to keep your family safe. Don't resist. He sighed through his nose. He sighed through his nose.

"Yes, supper ... please."

The big man smiled; not smug, but seemingly relieved. "What do you feel like eating?"

"Anything."

And Donovan noticed the pain in his head had begun to subside, but at the thought of food his stomach growled loud enough for the big man to hear it.

"I'll make it something quick," he said with the hint of a smile as he left the room, locking the door behind him.

Donovan dug the note out of his pocket and rushed to the bathroom. Taking one last quick read of the contents, he tore the paper into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. He kept flus.h.i.+ng until all traces of the note were gone. At the sink, he washed his face in cold water and realized that Dreamcatcher was right. For the sake of his family, this was his fate. He dried his face and crossed the room to open the package the big man had left behind.

Inside was a new laptop, Bose headphones and a small binder of instructions. After a quick skim of the instructions, it seemed simple. Use the headphones and listen to the recorded music which contained embedded brain pattern coding to a.s.sist in detailed dreaming. Record every element of his dreams in an encrypted email and send it to his liaison. Eventually he wouldn't need the encoded music to reach the dream state, it said, and from the vivid state of his cafe dream early that morning, Donovan suspected they were right.

Donovan's new life began that night, if it could be called a life. He did as he was told: he dreamed; he recorded; he reported, night after night, knowing that he sealed the fate of innocents by providing the Order of the Red Angels with the location and details of their prey. He wondered how often the contracts were signed, hoping they resisted often ... unlike he did.

For months, he never left his room. Easy offered field trips to the sea, dinner at the local crab house, a matinee at the little cinema downtown, but Donovan sank into a stupor of depression. The only thing he wanted was a drink.

When his mood started to interfere with the quality of his dream reports, Easy stepped in.

The knock on the door came early one morning, before his normal breakfast wake-up interruption. As usual, Donovan had fought sleep because he always dreamed when he slept, but his depression left him unable to do much else. He never reported his private dreams, sticking only to the deal of his nightly obligation.

"Rise and s.h.i.+ne, Mister Hunter," said Easy, his tone not a request, but an order.

As the big man pulled the drapes back and let in the bright morning sun, Donovan moaned.

"Go away, man. I've done my part, so leave me alone."

"Apparently there's some concern about the quality of your work. Besides, you're rotting away in this room. By the stink in here, that's not far from the truth." He waved a hand in front of his face. "Have you had a look at yourself lately?"

"f.u.c.k off."

The big man raised his eyebrows, and without further conversation he ripped the covers off of Donovan and proceeded to pull the sheet off the bed with his reluctant charge still on top of it. Donovan fell like a lump to the floor, wearing only his boxers. He didn't move, so Easy strode into the bathroom, filled a cup with water, and without hesitation poured it over Donovan's head. He spit and cursed at the big man, then grabbed the sopping covers and pulled them tight around his body.

"I know you don't want me to wash and dress you, Mister Hunter, so please shower and get dressed. I'll be back in twenty minutes. We're going for a walk."