Mama's Boy And Other Dark Tales Part 7

"You asked for help, I answered. I'm in the business of checks and balances. It happens to be your lucky day, Mister Hunter, because it's time for a check to be paid and the balance returned. See that sickly child over there?" he said, pointing to the small girl with the blue-haired doll. Like everything else around them, the woman holding the child's hand was frozen in place, her other hand still reaching toward Donovan. Only the girl remained mobile, grabbing at her mother's rigid body, crying to be picked up. Donovan's panic deepened, eyes sweeping back and forth, trying to make sense of the bizarre scene.

"What's going on here?" His voice was low, laced with fear.

"It's a simple trade. That girl's life for your wife and child. The girl's about to die anyway, so it's actually quite a loss on our part. Sign here, please," he said with a benign smile, tilting the pen and doc.u.ment toward Donovan.

Shocked and confused, he looked from his wife to the crying child and back to the man in the sungla.s.ses. "How could such a thing be true? How could you expect me to..."

"You have 30 seconds to decide, Mister Hunter. If you're willing to let your wife and child die for the life of a kid that's practically dead anyway, I have plenty of eager customers waiting to take your place."

A smattering of raindrops began to fall around Donovan. The man, still perfectly dry, capped the pen and tucked it back in the leather brief. As he started to put away the doc.u.ment, Donovan grabbed his wrist.

"Wait, please," he said, jerking his hand away from the sudden searing burn. Barely noticing the white singe on his palm, he pleaded with the man. "Please, what do I have to do?"

"Just sign the contract and go on living your life. We'll let you know if there's anything further you can do for us. You have ten seconds."

Donovan looked down at his wife and the gentle swell of her belly beneath the rain-soaked cotton dress. They had waited so long for a baby; so many trials they had overcome, so many dreams and plans for their future together.

"Give me the paper!"

Ignoring the pain from the raw burn on his palm, he laid his wife's body gently on the pavement and took the doc.u.ment and pen in his trembling hands. For the first time in his life he signed his name to a contract without reading a word, his b.l.o.o.d.y fingerprints smearing the paper like crimson paint on white porcelain.

The man in the sungla.s.ses verified the signature, signed his own, and tucked the contract in his briefcase. He retrieved his pen, and with a satisfied grin he stood up and extended his hand. Donovan did not return the gesture.

Straightening his tie, the man said, "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Hunter. We'll be in touch."

Donovan watched as the man walked toward the crying child with the blue-haired doll. Swooping her up in his arms, he disappeared into the suddenly reanimated crowd. When the woman looked down and saw the child was missing, she looked back at Donovan through the pounding rain and screamed.

"No!"

Hot tears soaked Donovan's pillow. He woke with a start at the touch of a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right, hon?" asked his wife.

Still shaking from the memory of the accident, he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, breathing in the scent of her warm skin. With his back to her, she couldn't see his wet eyes. Clearing his throat, he kissed each of her fingertips then wrapped her arm around him.

"I'm okay, babe. Just a very bad dream. Go on back to sleep-everything's all right now."

He felt her round belly as she snuggled against his back. This woman had given him his life back; she'd helped him climb out of his alcoholic stupor during law school. And now she carried his child. With the loss of his parents at a young age, building a family of his own was finally filling the void that had swallowed him for most of his life.

Donovan listened to his wife's breathing return to the gentle rhythm of sleep, and he closed his eyes with tears of relief falling on his pillow to mingle with those from his nightmare. It had only been a dream. He drifted off to sleep, ignoring the sting of the burn on his palm.

The following day, Donovan and Ally had their usual Sat.u.r.day movie matinee date. They held hands and huddled together against the rain as they crossed the street to visit the quaint old theater in the center of town. With Ally, he could be different; he could leave the corporate deals and stress of his profession behind. Together they were like two kids chattering away. Lost in each other's company, they didn't notice the ancient Oldsmobile barreling through the stoplight toward them. At the last second, it swerved away. Cras.h.i.+ng up onto the sidewalk, it crushed the body of a small child as she pulled away from a woman's hand to see the kittens in the pet store window. The head of the elderly driver smashed through the winds.h.i.+eld of the car, killing him instantly.

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

"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 s.h.a.ggy 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. "d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 p.o.r.n, 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 ident.i.ty 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 s.h.i.+mmered amber in the palm of his shaking hand as he looked into the gla.s.s-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 gla.s.s. 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 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 b.u.t.ton. He was finished with the research, the dead ends, the guilt. He pressed the b.u.t.ton 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. I've been watching you, Hunter.

hunter: What do you mean, watching me? What do you mean, watching me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

dreamcatcher: Would you rather they died, Hunter? Would you rather they died, Hunter?

hunter: Who the h.e.l.l 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: h.e.l.lo, Hunter. h.e.l.lo, Hunter.

hunter: WHERE'S MY FAMILY??? WHERE'S MY FAMILY???

dreamcatcher: Do you want me to leave again? Do you want me to leave again?

hunter: NO! NO!

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

hunter: You told me you had information about my family. 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. 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? Candidate for what?

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

hunter: I'm sorry. I'll do anything you say. 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. 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 p.i.s.sed. "What the h.e.l.l?" 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??? Did you receive the audio file, Hunter? hunter: You know what's happening to me, don't you???

dreamcatcher: I have an idea, yes. 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. 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 pa.s.sed 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. Good, the audio entrainment worked and you've pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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. Who are you talking about? Help me, PLEASE. These nightmares ... it's like witnessing h.e.l.l 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. 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. 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. 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! 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 pus.h.i.+ng a baby stroller, with a child in tow, pa.s.sed 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, a.s.shole," 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-gla.s.s windows purred to a stop at the curb.

Hands on hips, standing over Donovan, the policeman spoke in a thick Brooklyn accent. "All right, I've had about enough. Chasin' you outta da park at night is one thing, but you're just bustin' my b.a.l.l.s now. People tellin' me you're stalkin' their kids. Get up, you piece of s.h.i.+t." He nudged Donovan with the toe of his black shoe. Unaware, Donovan continued whimpering his daughter's name. "Gonna make dis hard on both of us, are you?" said the cop. He squeezed the mic on his shoulder, calling for backup.

"Officer," a man in dark sungla.s.ses called from the back seat of a car idling at the curb. "Let me save you some paperwork. I'll take care of this gentleman for you. He's an old friend just having a bad day."

"I don't care who da h.e.l.l he is. He's scaring kids and taking up precious s.p.a.ce in my park. If he's not outta here in two minutes, he'll have a room without a view for da night."