Wildest Dreams

1

I slept by the fire.

Long enough for my clothes to dry. Two hours, maybe three. Not good sleep. Sleep haunted by too many dreams. Apart from a few vague and troubling images, I couldn’t remember most of them. But I remembered the last one all too well, the one that had brought me sharply awake.

In that dream Circe Whistler strode the grounds of her father’s estate, dragging the little girl she’d once been behind her-one hand fisted in the little girl’s hair, the other clutching a wrought-iron hammer with a bristling claw that looked like a monster’s fang.

The little girl screamed in pain and in horror of the woman she’d become. But dark-haired Circe did not slow her pace. She did not spare her younger self a glance as they crossed a wide lawn, empty and still, like a cemetery without headstones.

No headstones, but a freshly dug grave waited there. Open and deep, with Spider Ripley at the bottom shoveling dark earth at the very blue sky above.

Circe grabbed Ripley’s shovel and left his big hands empty and useless. She laughed at the crucifix hanging around his neck, and Spider shrank away to nothing. His neck narrowed, his muscled shoulders drooped. The crucifix slipped down the length of his body, knifing the turned soil like a miniature grave marker, and all that remained of Ripley was a white carrion grub snared in a tangled rawhide necklace, writhing to be free.

Circe brought the girl to her knees at the foot of an open coffin that waited at the lip of that grave. “We’re all alone,” Circe said. “Just like Hansel and Gretel.” The child screamed and struggled, but Circe was too strong for her. She forced the little girl into the coffin, slammed the lid, and drove spiked nails deep into the wood with the claw hammer. Then she slid the coffin into the grave and took up the shovel. Earth rained down, smothering boxed screams that didn’t end until I opened my eyes.

By the time I awoke, the embers in the fireplace glowed a dim yellow. Blackened ribs of wood crackled and collapsed as the fire slowly died. I didn’t want to think about the dream, or what it might mean. What was important was saving the little girl. To do that, I had to give Diabolos Whistler what he wanted. I already had his head, though he didn’t know it. I had to find his body, and join the two.

That was the deal I’d made with a dead man. His mortal remains for a little girl’s ghost, a ghost I still couldn’t explain. But I’d keep my part of the bargain. It was my only chance to rescue the little girl. I could only hope that Whistler would do the same.

If answers were to come, they would have to come later. I knew that much, just as I knew that those answers would come from the lips of a woman who boxed and buried a little girl’s screams in a nightmare I couldn’t escape.

I clicked on Janice Ravenwood’s flashlight and stepped outside. There wasn’t a star in sight, but at least the rain had slacked off. I made my way along the beach and into the forest. I saw no one-living or dead-at the bridge, so I kept moving.

Janice’s Ford Explorer was just where I’d left it. That wasn’t a surprise. I had the keys. Even if Janice were still alive, I didn’t think she was the type who’d know how to hotwire a truck.

I slipped behind the wheel and drove to the vacant lot and got Diabolos Whistler’s head. Next stop, the Cliffside Motor Court.

The NO VACANCY sign shone like a beacon, and the office door was locked. I knocked and kept on knocking until I roused the night clerk.

He wasn’t exactly fast on his feet. I said my name was Clifford Rakes, and that I’d lost my key.

He looked me up and down. My clothes were dry, but that was the only positive thing I could say about my appearance. Obviously I’d seen better days.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Ain’t everything.” He shrugged and gave me another key. I apologized for waking him and slipped him a twenty from Clifford’s wallet, which improved his mood considerably.

A pot of complimentary coffee sat steaming on the counter. I poured myself a cup.

“You don’t want to drink that stuff, Mr. Rakes,” the clerk said. “Let me make a fresh pot for you.”

I told him he didn’t need to go to all that trouble.

“As long as it’s black and hot,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll do the job.”

I used the key and entered Room 21 without a sound. Clifford Rakes was fast asleep. He didn’t look quite so pinched that way. I turned on the lights, but Rakes didn’t open his eyes.

He rolled over on his back and the waterbed kicked up a rippling wave. Rakes rode it with a satisfied smile curdling on his face, clutching a pillow in his spindly arms. Obviously, he wasn’t having a nightmare. I wondered who the lucky dream girl was tonight-Jackie Collins or Danielle Steel or Jacqueline Susann…or maybe Barbara Cartland.

Whoever she was, Clifford’s dream date had planted a tent pole under his blanket. I was surprised the little bastard had the energy-I imagined he’d had one hell of a day. Contract negotiations in the afternoon, no doubt accompanied by an instant advance from his publisher via Western Union to make up for his missing wallet. Larry King in the evening. Dinner and drinks for the whole damn house after that, with his publisher eating the bill.

Yep. Clifford Rakes had definitely earned a good night’s sleep. It was probably a good thing I’d thought to bring the coffee.

I slipped the plastic lid off the cup and chucked the steaming black contents in the little bastard’s face. Clifford screamed and sat up too fast. A sloshing tsunami surged beneath him, and the ensuing wake that rebounded off the footboard threw him back. His head cracked hollowly against the waterbed headboard, but I’m sure he didn’t even feel it. He was too busy pawing at his singed cheeks.

“Oh, no…” Clifford said, and, “Oh, God…” and, “My face! Oh, my face! Oh, Jesus! You’ve burned my face!”

“Calm down,” I said.

“But my face! You burned-”

It was definitely time to cool the boy off. I pulled the K-Bar and eviscerated the waterbed. Water burbled up from the wound. I grabbed Clifford by the hair and gave him a good dunking.

He was spluttering stale water when I finally pulled him out. In a second he got his eyes open, and I knew right away that Clifford wished he’d kept them closed because he was trying to scream and hyperventilate at the same time.

I dangled the iron box before him. Diabolos Whistler smiled through the bars, his dead grin alive with ants.

“This should cut short the introductions,” I said.

“Please,” Clifford said, and, “Oh, God-”

“Don’t start that again. Unless you want to look like our friend here, you’d better shut up until I tell you different.”

I gave the iron box a little shake as punctuation, and Whistler’s head seemed to nod in agreement. Rakes retreated to the far corner of the gutted bed, gasping like a hyena on nitrous oxide.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to cut him a bit of slack. He’d compared me to Charles Manson. He’d accused me of bedwetting and animal mutilation. And he’d done it on national television.

“Please,” he said, one more time, and I came around the bed and hit him hard with the pommel of the knife.

“I told you to shut up.” I dropped Whistler’s head on the night table. “It won’t do you any good to talk to me, anyway. You said so yourself-there’s no reasoning with a sociopathic religious avenger. That was the profile, right? You can’t talk sense to a human juggernaut. You can’t cut a deal with Charlie Manson.”

Clifford’s lips quivered. He opened his mouth. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to try.

“No, Clifford,” I warned. “I make the deals. You go along with them, or else I’ll use the other end of my knife. I’ll add your head to my trophy case. I’ve always got room for another Philistine journalist, you know.”

That did it. A sour stench rose from the waterbed as fear emptied Clifford’s bladder and bowels. He pursed his lips tightly, his face flushed with embarrassment, and didn’t say a word.

“You’ve got to calm down now,” I said. “I mean, really. What would Barbara Cartland say if she saw you like this?”

He gasped. “How do you know about that?”

“I did a little profiling of my own, Clifford.”

I tossed his wallet at him, and recognition flared in his eyes. “You’re the guy from the pay phone-”

“Now you know me.”

Clifford stared at me for a long moment. He’d screamed and carried on. He’d even shit himself, but now he was getting a little bit of a handle on the situation. The wheels were turning upstairs. After all, he was starting to think of money. If he looked at it right, a situation like this could mean a cash bonanza. Crime writer faces down serial killer…like that. He’d be set for several weeks on Geraldo, if nothing else.

“But why come here,” he asked. “Why-”

“No, Clifford. It’s my turn to ask the questions. I only have one for you, really. For your sake, I hope you can answer it. Do you want to try?”

He nodded.

“Good.” I lifted Whistler’s head off the night table and stared at it. “I got to thinking about what you said on television. About trophies…and completion.”

Clifford nodded some more. Hell, he hadn’t stopped nodding.

“I’ve decided that you’re right,” I went on. “About completion, I mean.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Whistler’s head isn’t enough. I won’t be happy until I have the full set. That’s why I want you to tell me where they’re keeping the old man’s body.”

Clifford sighed in relief. This was obviously a question he could answer. “None of the local mortuaries would handle it,” he blurted. “Their reputations, you know. They thought that they’d lose business and-”

“Don’t give me the MacNeil-Lehrer version. Keep it short, like Headline News.”

Now I was speaking his language. “Okay,” Clifford said. “There’s a guy south of here in a little town called Owl’s Roost. Whistler’s people really twisted his arm, and he took the job. He told a stringer for the Enquirer that he was going to hit them for a good chunk of change and-”

“How far is Owl’s Roost?”

“About thirty miles south. Maybe thirty-five.”

“Good boy.” I smiled. “Now, there’s just one other thing we need to talk about.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t like the things you’ve been saying about me, Clifford. It’s as simple as that. You hurt my feelings. I think you need to develop a lower profile.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Just this-if I ever see your face on television again, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you.”

“You can’t be serious-”

“I’m dead serious. Remember that, Clifford.”

I hit him again, and this time he went out like a light.

He splashed down in the gutted bed. Water poured from the frame. The carpet was already a soggy mess. Soon the bed would be empty, and the floor would be a swamp.

I stood over Clifford. Killing him would be easy.

If I hurried, I could drown him in the gashed mattress…or I could simply cut his throat.

But if I did that, Clifford Rakes might come back to haunt me.

Literally.

It wasn’t much of a decision. I tied him up instead.