The Stuff of Dreams (9 page)

“So, if you plan on locking me up to prevent any trouble, I doubt that’s going to do much good.”

“Don’t give me any more of your speculation. This happens to be part of my job. I’m not letting my personal life get mixed up with business here.”

After remaining silent for a short while, D said, “You should let her keep on dreaming. No matter what those dreams may be.” And then he quickly added, “Or is it too late?”

Realizing there was something more to the Hunter’s words, Sheriff Krutz moved his horse to one side and turned his eyes to a little path that D’s body previously blocked. It was as if the very balance between heaven and earth had been upset. “Sybille . . .” he said, calling out the name of the beautiful girl on the path in a voice that was thirty years older, but carried three decades of emotion. The golden hair that fluttered in the breeze was like a blessing from the goddess of fall. Clad in a white blouse and a blue skirt with stripes, she was an icon of youthfulness that had utterly absorbed the four seasons. “Sybille . . .” he called out once more, as if trying to gently cup his hands around some treasured possession.

.

How’s that?” the old man in white asked, the silver needle he held still stuck deep into a blonde’s head. A colored cord ran from the end of the needle, connecting it to a monitor on a nearby cart.

The woman watching the monitor, also dressed in white, looked up and said, “There’s been a disruption in her brain waves. According to our data bank, we’ve got some leakage to the outside.”

“Not good,” the old man muttered as he pulled out the needle. “We can’t have
this
leaking to the outside. Give me a reading on what needs to be modified.”

“The seventh sector, point 989.”

The needle moved to the new position and sank in.

“It’s gone,” the nurse announced as the elderly hospital director wiped the sweat from his brow with one hand.

“Well, at the very least, we’ve made the necessary arrangements to eliminate dangerous individuals. Transfer Sybille to the isolation ward.”

A number of figures in white nodded in acknowledgment and dispersed in a flurry of activity.

The old man gently looked down at the placid expression of the girl who lay there sleeping. “I’m sorry, Sybille. I really don’t want to interrupt your sleep. No matter what happens to me, you should just go on sleeping. We’ll protect you.”

There was no way the tragic tone would register in her ears. As Sybille Schmitz slept, her face was peaceful, as if all had been forgotten.

.

I

.

D went into the holding cell in the sheriff’s office. Almost instantly, burdensome business took human form and started knocking on the office door. The first to come were those villagers who’d seen the sheriff bringing D in, the overwhelming majority of whom were women. When they asked what had happened, Sheriff Krutz told them they were interfering in official matters and sent them on their way. He also came up with a more personal reason—those who pressed for more substantial details were told the Hunter had picked a fight with him over the way he was caring for Grampy Samson’s meat beast out at his ranch. Making it a work-related problem as close to his personal business as he could, he was able to set the villagers at ease—there was that much more distance between the case and themselves. Less than thirty minutes after D was taken into custody, even the mayor paid them a visit. Explaining the situation, the sheriff tried to get him to leave.

“That’s not exactly what I’d call a very detailed explanation,” the intractable mayor said.

To which the lawman replied, “The truth is, I’m questioning him as to why we all had that dream about him.” And that did the trick.

.

D lay on his narrow cot, not moving a muscle.

“You’re an odd one, you surely are,” Sheriff Krutz said to him. Getting no reaction from the Hunter, but unable to keep his mouth closed, he continued. “This may sound funny, but I kinda get the feeling I’ve thrown royalty into my jail. Just take a look out the window. Every woman in town’s watching this place. We might not be able to get the door open with all the baked goods they’ve been leaving outside for you.”

“Why don’t you go to the hospital instead of keeping a watch over me here?” D suggested, opening his mouth for the first time since he’d been put in the cell. “There’s no way Sybille’s appearance isn’t connected to them treating her with that equipment. Or maybe—”

“Maybe?” The sheriff’s tone suddenly dropped. “Maybe what?”

“You said the village was peaceful long before you were born, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Ever had any big accidents or major problems?” the Hunter asked.

“Well, I can’t say that we haven’t. We are out on the Frontier, after all.”

“How many times have you nearly been killed?”

The sheriff furrowed his brow at the rapid-fire questions. Ordinarily he was the one who did the interrogating. Though the tables were turned, he knew there was no way he could correct it. With some irritation the sheriff realized that the bizarre question had started a chain of ripples in some dark inner portion of him. “What would you ask a thing like that for?” he replied. “I’m sitting here talking with you, aren’t I?”

“Whether you’re alive now or not isn’t particularly important,” D remarked softly. “What I want to know is how you’ve managed to survive.”

For a split second, the most virulent shade of hatred resided in the sheriff’s eyes. Vigorously lowering the blinds over the window, he walked toward the cell. Tossing his coat down on the floor, he tugged his shirt off roughly. His hard pectorals looked sculpted from clay, and the few long scars that ran from his chest down to his tight abdominal muscles left a huge purple X on him. There were also scattered round scars that seemed to be from bullets, with four of them on the left side of his chest and three closer to the middle of his belly.

“I picked up part of this scar eight years ago, and the rest five years back. The color’s strange because the swords had poisoned tips. Two of the holes in my gut are from steel arrows; everything else is from slugs.” He turned his broad back toward D. Melted purple flesh covered him completely below the scapula. “All I’ll say is . . . I got burnt. I don’t mean to brag, but in twenty years I’ve only missed two days on the job.”

The sheriff held his tongue and waited for a reply from D, then suddenly he heard a knock at the door. As he pushed his arms back through his shirt sleeves, he turned to the intercom and asked who was there.

“It’s me—Bates.”

It was the same deputy who’d questioned D the day before. The position of sheriff wasn’t necessarily a full-time job on the Frontier, and the sheriff had—at his discretion—the ability to grant the title of deputy to anyone who requested it. Most of the time, Bates was just another villager. He’d been out patrolling the town, but now he was back.

“I hear you tossed him in the slammer,” the deputy said as he bounded in energetically. “So, was there something fishy about him after all? That’d mean that Nan was—”

“This has nothing to do with the Tokoff incident,” Sheriff Krutz said flatly. As Bates frowned in disappointment, he added, “I’m going out. You take over here. Keep a good eye on him. No matter what happens, don’t you dare let him out. His blade’s over there,” he said, his eyes indicating the longsword propped against the side of his desk. Then, grabbing his hat off the hat rack, he left. Not once did he look at D.

Bates whistled enthusiastically. “Finally acting like his good old self.”

“Is he the big hero in town?”

Still ebullient, Bates turned to the cells and said, “I suppose you could say so. Peace is good and all, but he was built to be zipping around taking care of business. Vampire Hunter or not, you’d be no match for him.”

Locking the front door, Bates settled into his chair with nervous excitement and turned toward D. He was so eager to share the sheriff’s glories he could barely contain himself. There’d been a showdown eight years earlier that he began to describe in utmost detail and with great respect.

It all started when a notorious group of roving criminals, the subject of warrants from the Capital, came to their village. Each of these villains had committed numerous murders, and each was heavily armed—packing both pistols and laser rifles. When a rider on a fast horse brought word from the neighboring village, Sheriff Krutz went out alone and waited for the three of them in the street. Until then, the three men hadn’t met any resistance, but when they stopped in front of him, the sheriff told them to go right back the way they came.

“He said the same thing he always does: ‘Don’t bother stopping.’ I was still a kid—had just turned twenty and was hiding behind a pillar—but it sent shivers down my spine. And what do you reckon happened next?

“Of course, the three of them started to get off their horses. ‘Don’t bother getting off,’ the sheriff told them. It was three against one. Even with the disadvantage they had of drawing on horseback, the odds were still against the sheriff.”

Bates continued, recounting that a heartbeat later, the battle began. The three of them reached for their holsters first, but Sheriff Krutz beat them on the draw. The blue flash from his sol gun reduced the face of the middle rider to flames. The sheriff rolled across the ground as roars and fiery streaks flew from the riders and tore through the spot where he’d been. Three times the blue beam flew off, and as soon as the last shot roasted the torso of the man to the left, one slug after another ripped into the sheriff’s belly. An instant later, the face of the third man was reduced to its constituent atoms, and the battle was at an end.

“And if you think that’s something,” Bates added, “What happened next was even more incredible. He went to the doctor’s without any help from anyone, had him put a bandage on the wound after the slug had been pulled out, and then went right back to work.”

Bates’s cheeks were red hot, and his eyes glittered. He was like a little boy boasting about his father.

Waiting a bit for the deputy’s ardor to cool, D asked an odd question: “What do you think of the Nobility?”

“What do you mean?” Bates asked with a grimace. “What the hell are you—”

“Do you hate them?” D’s tone was soft. The sound of it hadn’t changed, but the intent behind it had.

Bates realized as much. “Not really . . . I don’t like ’em or hate ’em. I can’t say as I’ve ever heard my ma or pa speak ill of them, and back in the old days we used to get along with Nobles in these parts. I don’t know how it is in other places, but they never caused us no harm.”

“Sybille was bitten by one,” the Hunter reminded him.

“Sure, but that was . . .”

When you thought about it, it was rather strange. Fear and hatred of the Nobility was handed down from parent to child, generation after generation. Yet this village seemed entirely cut off from that hatred—a fact that would have been startling to just about anyone, and probably considered miraculous by many.

D never got to hear the deputy’s reply because a ferociously spirited knock suddenly echoed throughout the office.

“Who is it?” Bates asked through the intercom.

“It’s me. Open up.” It sounded like Clements.

“What’s your business here?”

“Well, it sure ain’t with you. I need to see that Hunter you’ve got locked away.”

“Hey, I’m busy now,” Bates said into the microphone.

“Hell, so am I. Hey, I’ll have you know I pay my taxes and all. That sure as blazes gives me the right to go into the sheriff’s office.”

Bates clucked his tongue. “Gimme a second,” he replied, and then turning to D he added, “Looks like you’ve got trouble. But relax. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

D didn’t move an inch.

When the door finally opened, Clements took his sweet time coming in, a pair of lackeys trailing behind him. While the man’s brown double-breasted suit didn’t merit particular attention, Bates’s eyes were drawn to the weapon he had tucked under his arm. It was a three-foot-long cylinder about eight inches in diameter—a large-scale impact cannon.

“Were you thinking of taking out a Noble’s tank or something with that?” Bates asked with his right hand resting on the old gunpowder-driven automatic handgun that was tucked in the holster at his waist.

“Aw, shit, no! We’ve just been out playing army. Me and my boys here, that is.”

“Don’t try anything, Clements. He’s still a suspect in the—” Bates started to say, but then he remembered he didn’t know exactly what charge the Hunter had been locked up for, so he just rolled his eyes instead.

“Hold it right there, Bates. Reach for the sky!” blustered one of the lackeys.

A muzzle so huge a child’s head could fit inside it pointed in his direction. Bates brought his right hand away from the grip of his automatic. “C’mon, Clements. Don’t be stupid. You do this, and the sheriff and me won’t let it stand.”

“Well, the rest of the village will sure as hell let it stand. You think they’re all just gonna sit around doing nothing after some bastard they don’t know from a hole in the wall killed one of their own?”

“In that incident, Tokoff made the first move. Nan saw it.”

“You think that counts for shit?” Clements said, licking his lips. “That little bitch’s at the age where she’s got an itch only a man can scratch. All this guy’d have to do is nibble on her earlobe and she’d tell us whatever he wanted her to.”

“What the hell’s possessed you? Have you taken complete leave of your senses? You start swinging that cannon around in here and you’re liable to take out the next three houses to-boot!”

That last remark had an unexpected effect. A thin film covered Clements’s eyes, and for a few seconds he just stood there. Then he was suddenly back to his usual self, and he barked at his dumbfounded lackeys, “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Take care of business!”

“Stop! You commit a murder in the sheriff’s office, and they’ll execute you, sure as shit,” Bates yelled. He then tried, unsuccessfully, to get between the weapon’s muzzle and the holding area, catching a severe blow to the cheek. The unpleasant sound of steel connecting with bone seemed to cling forever to the side of the impact cannon.

“Okay, now that there’s no one to stop us, you can kiss your ass goodbye, pal!”

Still not having moved in the slightest, D said to the sneering Clements, “You had a dream about me, too, didn’t you?”

“Kill him.”

At Clements’s rather softly spoken command, the two bewildered lackeys threw the switch on the impact cannon. The bars of the cell flew inward, and a shock wave that could have sent a charging five-ton beast snout-over-tail reduced D’s bed to dust as it hammered a mortar-shaped depression into the floor.

D, unscathed, danced through the air.

With the slight sound of another discharge, a section of wall over six feet in diameter collapsed. The hem of the Hunter’s coat fluttered out as a cloud of dust suddenly rose up and struck the outer surface of his garment. Had D’s coat not absorbed half
of the force of the blow, the shock wave that rebounded in the direction of the two lackeys would have killed them instantly. Instead, the pair sustained internal injuries as the force slammed them against the floor and bruised every inch of their bodies.

Having been struck both inside and outside by the shock wave, the set of steel bars that comprised D’s holding cell began to break, shooting bolts everywhere and collapsing outward. With nowhere to escape, Clements let out a scream when he realized he was pinned under them. In no time at all, the air was crushed out of his lungs, his flesh and bones cracked and popped under the strain, and the agony was enough to cut his cries short.

“I’m going to take a little nap,” D said, having just devastated three foes without lifting a finger.

“Okay,” Bates said dazedly from his spot on the floor. He no longer had a clue as to who was the victim in the situation. He couldn’t even remember the last words out of his mouth. Raising a bloodied hand to his brow, he repeated, “Okay. Pleasant dreams.”

.

II

.

The sheriff arrived at the hospital, his heart grown as heavy as lead. As he got closer to the hospital, it became clear that gravity was tugging at it harder and harder.

“Sheriff—” the nurse at the front desk called out to get his attention, but his feet kept moving. “Sheriff, the director says he needs to talk to you.”

“I’ll get to him later,” he replied tersely, advancing down the hall. His heart was growing heavier, and yet it was beating faster than before. Somehow he seemed to know that even after he reached her room it wasn’t going to get any better.