Dreamwalker (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Pete took the field at a great disadvantage. St. Croix had all the information. He knew what Pete looked like. He knew where he lived and where he worked. Pete knew almost nothing of St. Croix. It was time to even the odds.

The young, cold day promised no further warming. It was well under fifty degrees and his light jacket proved near useless. At the far end of one street he saw a sign for the Goodwill Store. Perhaps he could solve his clothing issue and another as well.

Inside, he found a well-worn, black, hooded sweatshirt. He wondered, as he always had about thrift store clothes, if someone actually died in it. He didn't want to entertain that thought. He picked up the sweatshirt and a wide, gray, knit scarf, and was through the checkout line with five dollars left in his wallet.

Before he left the store, he donned the sweatshirt under his jacket and pulled the hood over his head. He gave the scarf a few twists around his neck and it loosely crossed over his mouth. He caught his reflection in the door glass. He doubted he'd be recognized, especially by a stranger.

Tyrone had told him that Island Cabs was in a warehouse on the west end by the bay. If the city's evil was going to have an epicenter, Pete's gut said that was the place to search. He put the casinos to his back and headed west. His VPD barely protested.

The closer Pete got to the bay, the more forbidding the neighborhood became. More derelict buildings, more trash spilled out of uncollected cans. He passed a decaying, closed school's playground, its chain link fence sliced in two and peeled back. Tough-looking young men played full contact basketball under a sagging, net-less rim. A few others stood at the sidelines, watching the streets through the action. The sign for Island Cabs rose one block over. The benchwarmers in the game were probably lookouts, ready to warn St. Croix if trouble was on its way. Pete wondered if he looked like trouble.

He did not. He walked along the cracked sidewalk without a second glance from the sentinels.

He paused at the next corner. The Island Cabs warehouse sat back from the sidewalk. The sliding door in front yawned open. A dismantled cab on blocks filled the back of the bay. The exterior wall bore the stenciled twin palm Island Cabs symbol. A new fence circled the property, eight feet high and still shiny, with a tangle of razor wire along the top. One cab idled in front of the open doors.

Pete needed to find a place to observe the building without becoming the object of attention himself. He crossed the street in front of the warehouse.

Behind the warehouse and the storage yard next to it twinkled the blue bay that separated Atlantic City's barrier island from the mainland. A dock jutted out into the water behind the warehouse.

Pete entered the storage yard's open front gate. A small outpost of an office had its shades drawn. Bare wires sprouted from the battered security cameras mounted on the building corner. A few rusted shipping containers lined one side of the lot. On the rest of the lot, flapping blue tarps covered a mixed bag of weathered, trailered boats. Peeling bottom paint and flattened tires testified to vanished summer dreams. These vessels didn't come here for storage. They came here to die.

Pete took a cautious walk to the end of the center row. Last in line lay a fiberglass runabout with “Sweet Sixteen” painted on the stern in faded gold letters. Bleached green canvas stretched across the aft two thirds of the boat. A dozen L-shaped tears flicked in the breeze where the canvas slowly surrendered to the elements.

Pete hoisted himself up over the stern and clambered into the cockpit. It was dark under the canvas, even with the tiny skylights torn in the cover. The boat reeked of mildew from whatever ripening remnants had accumulated in the shadowed corners. He sat down and his head just cleared the canvas cover. From here, he could watch Island Cabs, front and rear, unobserved. He settled in for a stakeout.

A few hours later, Pete had a list of things he wished he'd done before camping out in the cockpit. He wished he had some food. He wished he had gone to the bathroom. Most of all, he wished he had picked a cleaner boat. However, the longer he stayed without observing anything of importance, the more he feared missing something if he left. So he sat, a victim of his failure, an empty stomach and a swollen bladder vying for his attention.

Cabs rattled in and out of the parking lot, always pulling far into the warehouse to load or unload contraband well out of sight. However, nothing he saw gave him any insight into St. Croix's operations. The awful idea of sneaking in for a closer look raised its head.

The canvas cover shielded him from the brittle sea breeze and allowed the weak sun to warm the cockpit area into something livable. Staying in motion had kept his physical and mental exhaustion at bay. Now he felt their twin weights again. His head and eyelids grew heavy. He started to drift off. His eyes closed.

He snapped himself back to consciousness.

“No way,” he said. “No way in hell.” He felt for the copper wire in his pocket. “No nightmares. Not now.”

He shook his head and tried to slap himself awake. He lay back in the cockpit and massaged his legs to get his blood circulating. If he fell asleep now…

A low bass rumble vibrated the boat's hull. He sat up to investigate. A glossy black SUV with blinding chrome wheels pulled up in front of the warehouse. The driver cut the radio. The SUV's suspension rocked as Tiny stepped off the running boards from the driver's seat. His black double-breasted suit only accentuated his width.

Pete's interest piqued. If hired muscle arrived in a seventy-thousand dollar SUV, it could only be to transport St. Croix.

From the opposite direction came the burbling lope of a powerful boat engine. Pete shifted in the cockpit to get a better view of the old dock behind the warehouse. A low, white cigarette boat nosed into the pilings, its engines coughing cooling water back into the bay. The engines stopped and Stoner climbed out onto the dock, impeccably dressed in a suit and shades. He secured the boat. He stopped at the edge of the dock, straightened his tie and jacket, and continued to the front of the warehouse.

St. Croix stepped out of the warehouse. Pete's first sight of the drug lord sent chills up and down his spine.

St. Croix's, leather duster billowed behind him as he walked, exposing dark pants and alligator boots, a twin snake medallion around his neck. The dreadlocks, moustache, and goatee sealed the deal. Except for the missing officer's cap, he was a dead ringer for Cauquemere.

Prosperidad thought she had the inside scoop on St. Croix. She didn't know the half of it. St. Croix wasn't in league with Cauquemere, he
was
Cauquemere. St. Croix's drive to get Pete out of the way made more sense. He was protecting his empire here, of course, but he was also protecting his empire over there. He was the twin snakes, one black, one white, one here, one there.

Tiny opened the back door of the SUV.

“Wait,” St. Croix commanded. He walked down the side of the building toward the dock. He intercepted Stoner a few yards from Pete's hiding place. Pete slid back farther into the shadows.

“The boat is ready?” St. Croix said.

“Yes, Boss,” Stoner replied. “All fueled. I'll have it ready to go tomorrow after sunset.”

“I'm taking her out alone tomorrow,” St. Croix said.

Stoner looked concerned.

“Boss, I know you trust Nieuport, but just to be safe…”

St. Croix shot Stoner a look that could freeze burning acetylene.

“Are you questioning me?”

Stoner recoiled. “No, Boss. You're taking her alone.”

“Come,” St. Croix said, turning back to the SUV. “We have a friend who needs a ride.”

Stoner followed a respectable two steps back. Tiny ushered St. Croix into the rear seat. The two bodyguards took the front. The SUV peeled out of the parking lot.

Pete relaxed and slid low against the fiberglass bulkhead. He'd found out more than he'd imagined possible. He checked the sun's position through a hole in the canvas. He only had a few hours of daylight left. He was holed up in a relatively safe, warm place. He'd stay here until dusk, when he could better return to Prosperidad's unnoticed.

It was his turn to warn her.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Her last appointment of the day left in high spirits. Prosperidad had told the woman her daughter's child would be born healthy. Those were prophesies she liked to deliver. Simple, positive, reassuring.

Prosperidad hummed a snappy Caribbean tune. She straightened the reading room, put away the candles, and tucked the fetishes back into their special places on the wall shelves. The day had been lengthy, starting early with a visit from Pete Holm. She'd felt the power within the dreamwalker, even though he didn't sense it. It was a demanding experience.

Prosperidad swept some talismans from the reading room table and placed them in a drawer. She blew out the two candles near the table's center.

For the first time that day, she heard her grandmother's voice inside her head.

Payment is coming due.

The front door of her house slammed open.

“I am closed,” she called out. “Who is it there?”

The beads to her reading room parted. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Jean St. Croix.

“Prosperidad,” he cooed, a disingenuous smile painted on his face. “I thought you would not mind if a good customer such as I dropped in without an appointment.”

St. Croix always made appointments, treating Prosperidad with deference, as one would an expert whose services were required. She sensed no deference now. The back of her neck tingled.

She gave a few items an overly nonchalant dusting.

“It would be better tomorrow,” she said, not looking St. Croix in the eye. “I can be rested and prepared. My vision will be clearer.”

St. Croix walked to Prosperidad's side of the table, still beaming that wicked smile. Stoner took up a position behind the beads.

“Oh no, dear,” St. Croix said. He pulled her chair out from under the table. He planted the legs on the floor with a sharp crack. “Your vision will be perfect for this session. Sit. Please.”

She sat and squared the chair with the table. St. Croix shoved it in hard. The table edge gouged into her ribcage. He stepped around to the opposite side and sat down. His gaze burrowed into her like a tick.

“I asked you about the boy,” he said. “The dreamwalker.”

Prosperidad straightened the tablecloth to mask her growing fear. “Yes, the boy from out of town.”

St. Croix leaned farther into the table.

“Have I not always treated you well?” he asked. “Have I not been fair in our dealings?”

“Of course.” What other answer was possible?

“As a tribute to that history,” he said, “I will give you the chance to be honest.” His smile widened, becoming more frightening than disarming. “Did you tell me all you knew about Pete?”

She never told him Pete's name.

“I tell you all I see,” she equivocated. “The visions are not always as sharp as we would like.”

The smile vanished from St. Croix's face. He slammed his fist against the table. The candlesticks bounced.

“Lying bitch!” he screamed. “You tried to save the boy. You defied me.”

Tiny materialized in the rear of the reading room. He slipped behind Prosperidad. His hands clamped down on her shoulders like a thousand-pound backpack.

St. Croix reached into his boot and pulled out the knife. He leaned across the table and pressed the blade's point against Prosperidad's chest. The tip pricked her skin.

“I should kill you for your deceit,” he said. “I have killed for far less. Should I do that now?”

Prosperidad cringed. St. Croix never responded to pleas for mercy.

St. Croix eased the weapon from her chest. Some of the anger left his face.

“Perhaps I can stay your execution,” he said, “if you tell me where the boy is now.”

Destiny will win out,
she heard her grandmother say.
Your intervention has brought you nothing but pain, and the future continues on course.

“I don't know where he is,” she pleaded.

Her technical truth didn't convince St. Croix. He pushed himself back from the table.

“Perhaps a change of venue will jog your memory,” he said. He waved Stoner in from the doorway.

Stoner stepped forward and grabbed one end of the table. With one quick heave, he sent it flying across the room. It crashed into the shelves on the wall. Talismans scattered on the floor.

St. Croix gave the room a disgusted perusal and went out the back door.

Tiny and Stoner grabbed Prosperidad under her armpits and lifted her off her feet. Tendons in her shoulders popped. Her chair hit the floor and one leg snapped. They hustled her out the back door and into the waiting SUV.

Several hours later, Pete used the cover of darkness to slip behind Prosperidad's shop. The house was dark and silent, the back door ajar. The hairs on the back of his neck went to attention. He peered in.

“Prosperidad?” he called.

He rationalized that she'd just stepped out to run an errand or to visit a client. He didn't buy a word of it.

He entered and snapped on the kitchen lights. They sent a shaft of light through the reading room's open door. Pete didn't like what he saw. He stepped in and turned on the lights.

The table leaned up against the wall like a drunken sailor. The strange contents of the shattered shelves behind were strewn around the floor. Prosperidad's chair lay on its back, two feet in the air like stiffening road kill.

St. Croix had her. Pete didn't need any voodoo soothsaying to figure that out. St. Croix had been on his way here while Pete sat in the boat and waited for the safety of darkness. Pete could have warned her.

St. Croix would pump her for information, about Pete's whereabouts in the present and unfolding actions in the future. After the risks she'd taken to help him, she'd put up a fight.

But St. Croix's evil had no boundaries. Strong and committed as she was, he'd push until she broke. And if she passed out during the process, he could no doubt meet her on the other side as Cauquemere with tortures even more horrific.

Pete gave calling the police brief consideration. But there was no evidence St. Croix had done anything, and a man with an extensive drug operation probably had connections in the police department. Pete tossed the idea.

Two rescues. Two worlds. No help. Last week he was worried about an accounting exam.

His joints ached from a day cramped up in the cold, fetid boat cockpit. He felt like he hadn't slept in days, and mentally, he hadn't. He needed a place to crash tonight, to check on Rayna's progress recruiting in Twin Moon City, and perhaps to spend a few hours nowhere, some place where neither his conscious nor subconscious would be doing any processing. Time to rest.

Tyrone's was out of the question. But this night promised to be even colder than the last. Prosperidad would want him to stay here, but some chivalrous part of him refused to go upstairs and violate Prosperidad's private space. He eyed the small, narrow couch in the waiting room. Compared to living like Philadelphia Johnny, it would be the Ritz Carleton.

One bad break away from being Philadelphia Johnny. How did he get into this so deep, so fast?

He pulled the copper wire from his pocket and bound the couch legs in a protective coil. He tied it off in a loop, pulled the knife from his sock and slipped it tip-down into the loop. The last thing he needed tonight was another nightmare dream with Cauquemere directing.

He lay back on the couch, knees uncomfortably bent skyward. His eyes felt gritty, his muscles exhausted. He began a mental search for a location to meet Rayna. She couldn't sense him when he was shielded in the mansion. He sure didn't want a straight return to Twin Moon City. He needed a spot they could relax, even if just for a few moments.

Other thoughts charged through his mind and he was too mentally spent to ride herd on them all. Prosperidad. Tommy. Legacy House. Waikiki Simon. So much had happened in so short a time. Visions, ideas, and the rescue plan all raced around in his head.

His overcharged mind kept sleep at bay for hours. He shifted fitfully on the couch, unable to get his mind or his body to relax. His anxiety worsened each minute, knowing each moment of insomnia was one more Rayna spent alone in Twin Moon City.