Dead Dreams (7 page)

“Tell Pastor Perry I’m fine.”

Keith and I had never seen the practical benefits of church. I’d never boozed, slept around, or been too left-wing. And Keith? He was not the Casanova type, either. My little sister, Lilly, always tagged along everywhere my mom went, so at least Mom had one child left with her who was still in the faith.

“You should tell Pastor Perry yourself.” My mother definitely sounded annoyed.

“Maybe.” I yawned loudly.

“I’ll tell him to call you. How about that?”

“Gotta sleep, Mom.”

“Before I forget, someone called you this afternoon. Said he’s Sarah’s friend.”

“You gave him my cell number?”

“We can’t go about dishing your number around to strangers. I can’t even verify him as
your
friend.” Mom was beginning to sound as paranoid as Sarah.

“So, is there a name? A number I can call back?”

“I wrote it down.” I heard rustling in the background. “A Mr. Anderson,” she said. “Jackson Anderson. And here’s his contact.” And she rattled off a string of numbers. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, him.” I tried to sound casual, but my heart beat like a war drum. “Sure, I have his number with me, as a matter of fact.”

“Is he a new friend?”
Again, she’s all nosey
.

“He’s not a boyfriend, Mother.”

“Let me read you his number again, anyway.” Mother was pedantic that way. That was what happened when you were married to a brain doctor for thirty years, I supposed. Everything had to be precise.

Might as well indulge her. “Okay, shoot.”

“It’s 650-555-2441.”

I scribbled it down and hoped she heard the pen’s scratching on the notepad.

“Okay, gotta sleep, Mom.”

“Be nice to Pastor Perry when he calls.”

It was a good thing I’d written it, because when I checked Jackson’s calling card later, it was not the same number. Not even close. 650-500-7456, his embossed card said. Maybe he’d graced me with his personal contact. How special.

I tossed and turned the entire night, wondering about Jackson and why he’d tried to reach me. He must have found out I’d called him earlier. How? Had Sarah, having reached him, confide in him about the burglary, after all? Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Perhaps he’d insisted she inform the cops, hence her moodiness. I glanced at the clock. The green numbers said 12:16.

Finally, tired of arguing with myself, I slumped to the window for some fresh air. Outside on the street below, Jim’s light blue Crown Victoria sat. I’d only met him that morning, but something about Jim made me trust him. Funny thing about vibes—it was hard to tell if they were dependable clues.

I decided to call him.

He picked it up on the first ring.

“Jim, it’s Brie.”

“Hey, Cheese Girl.” He snickered.

“Ha! Ha! I know Sarah’s paying you, which technically means you work for her, but could you keep a secret?”

Silence on his side for two seconds. “Depends. It’s not a plot to oust her, is it?”

“Why would I spoil the great deal I have, huh?”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Remember, you can’t breathe a word to her.”

“Kid, I was a cop for twenty years. I know how to keep my gap shut.”

“Could you check out someone? He’s an attorney. I need to find his office address.”

“Practicing in California?”

I gave him Jackson’s name and the phone number on the embossed card. With his contacts at the sheriff’s office, Jim should be able to help. “Make sure it doesn’t get traced back to me, okay?”

He grunted. “All right. I won’t ask you what this is about. I’ll call you later, maybe before noon.”

When I laid my head on my pillow, I slipped into a fitful sleep, if it could qualify as sleep. In my dream, or maybe I should say nightmare, Keith visited me with his yellow Corvette. He drove up Emerson, and as I crossed the road he tried to run me over. I bolted up to my apartment, but when I stepped inside a masked intruder bashed me in the face with Sarah’s Louise Vuitton backpack, which felt as if it had rocks inside. I tried to scream but a hand reached out and gave me my cell phone, and a male voice kept saying, “Call! Call!” sounding almost like a crow cawing.

I awoke with a start and tried to make sense of the jumbled scenes. Rarely did I remember dreams, but this one had been so vivid I pinched my arm three times to convince myself I was actually awake and not trapped in the hellish room with the cawing cell phone man. My heart raced so fast it felt as if I’d sprinted on a treadmill. This was the second time I’d been plagued by a nightmare. How long could I last before my system collapsed due to sleep deprivation?

Once in junior high, I’d discussed dreaming with Pastor Perry during a Bible study at church. He’d shared his tragic experience. One morning, years back, he’d said, he had called his adult daughter, Sasha, after he’d had a bad dream about her. He’d begged her to stay in her apartment, but she’d scoffed him. That evening, Sasha had met with a fatal accident. A drunk trucker had flattened her car while she’d been carefully minding her business on Highway 101. Pastor Perry said he’d cried for days after, wishing he’d insisted Sasha heed his words. Even then as he told me his eyes had turned red. I asked what significance this had for our Bible study and he’d talked of Pontius Pilate’s wife. She had dreamed about Jesus and how Pontius Pilate needed to have nothing to do with Jesus’ death, but Pilate had not listened.

“What happened to Pilate’s wife?” I’d asked.

“Church tradition says she became a Christian. At least, according to a second-century historian, Origin. And that possibly her name was Claudia, the Claudia mentioned in the book of Timothy.”

I wished I’d asked if the Bible recorded other dreams that warned people. But I was no pastor, or some biblical student. Could my dreams ever mean more than just a reaction to acid reflux, or an overactive imagination? Or maybe a paranoid and finicky roommate? If I had some time I could research about dreams. But who had that luxury these days?

I rubbed my eyes and dragged myself to the window. Jim’s car was gone. It was already five, and the sky was lightening. If I didn’t hustle I’d be late to open Stay Fit for the fitness geeks.

As usual, Sarah slept in, and I never saw her when I left for work. I stayed on edge waiting for Jim to call about Jackson the whole morning even as I was checking fitness enthusiasts into the Center.

At about eleven, Jim finally buzzed me. “So, what’s the scoop?” I asked.

“Did you run a background check on Sarah’s family before you took her in?” He didn’t sound friendly.

Red flags flashed all about me. At eighteen and a half, background checks did not rank high on my list of things to look out for in a roommate.

“So, they killed someone?
Sarah
killed someone?” Oh, mercy! My mother would pull me home by the ears. Or Keith, after volunteering to kidnap me so my parents could lock me in a tower and throw away the keys, probably in Loch Ness, would laugh all the way as he drove back to San Francisco. I can just see him and his drinking buddies joking about me in a downtown bar.

Jim cleared his throat. “Her brother, Todd, has been missing for the last nine months. He left for Europe and never came back. An uncle, their dad’s younger half brother, Stuart McIntyre, filed a missing person’s report in California and in West Virginia on Todd, even though Todd’s bank account showed he’s actively depleting his monthly trust funds.”

I wanted to get the name straight. “Stuart, like in the spelling Stuart Little?”

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s the rodent, all right. Anyway, Stuart accused Sarah of foul play, but the court dropped the case, naturally, and Sarah’s attorney, Jackson Anderson, accused Stuart of trying to get her into trouble, since Stuart stood to be benefactor of the fortune if Todd or Sarah ended up in prison, or ended up dead. So, Sarah, in order to steer clear of Stuart, has been in hiding from her uncle, or so my sources claimed.”

That was a lot to process. But it explained Sarah’s secrecy. “So is this Stuart in cahoots with Todd?”“Doesn’t seem like it. He must have filed a missing person because if Todd’s dead, he’d stand to gain, too. So, I get the feeling this Stuart is just keeping his fingers crossed for one of them to hit the grave before he does, which is unlikely. Or commit a crime he can prove.”

“So Todd’s not Sarah’s beneficiary if anything happened to her?”

“That’s the strange thing about that will. Todd
could
be the beneficiary if he stayed clean, and outlived Sarah. Stuart only gains if Todd’s found stained in the eyes of the law in any way. But the unfair part is, if anything happened to Todd, Sarah won’t gain a thing—it’s Stuart who’d benefit.” Jim let out a sigh as though the family saga weighed him down, too.

How much would I owe Jim for all the info? Did he charge like an attorney, by the one-tenth of an hour? I asked jokingly. Some attorneys bill two hundred every ten minutes—and that’s U.S. dollars, not Thai Bhat, mind you. I cupped my palm over my mouthpiece and whispered, “And what about Jackson?”

“Mr. Jackson Anderson’s an attorney. He was practicing in West Virginia but came here a few years back.”

“A few years back?” So he must have moved here first.

“Four years back, actually. He’s the McIntyre solicitor and has been so the last two decades. Apparently, he’s been advising Sarah on her financial matters for years. But, he advises on the entire estate, too, not just Sarah’s affairs.”

“And he’s not missing?”

“Who? The brother, Todd?”

“No, Jackson.”

“Who gave you that idea?”

“Never mind. Did you actually speak to him? To Jackson?”

“I got Jackson’s address and drove by the building on University Avenue in Palo Alto. His name’s there in the lobby directory. But, it’s high-security, and you need to get a pass from the guard desk to call on Mr. Anderson. But no, I didn’t realize you wanted me to speak with him. I didn’t check if he’s missing. Did you want me to contact him?”

“No, that’s all right. How much do I owe you for this work?”

“Consider it a bonus, kid. Pete mentioned you hold two jobs to save for college. I guess it’s costly to get to the Big Apple and get an acting degree. Maybe we’ll see you on the big screen someday, huh? Heard you won some awards in school for some plays.”