(12) The Dream Is Over
That was what he kept saying to Vee, concerned Vee with her arms about him, and he the little boy lost, or now found but still shaking from his terror. The dream is over. No its not. The dream is over. We can recapture it, we’ll work on it together. Desolation, desperation, whatever it was, he woke up feeling it in his bones.
Showering was a chore, shaving was a pain, his kitchen was a crime scene, although the ambulance people had done a great job of mopping up. He’d stood over the dead man, disgusted, angry, with a deep ache of sorrow at the damn tragedy of it all. Of course, that was supposed to be him down there, the interloper, the annoyance, the fly in the ointment. His would-be assassin lay in a heap at his feet and he knew his vision had saved him. He’d been saved for a reason, his crusade was approved, well thought of. Somewhere by somebody. There was someone up there looking out for him. Jordan would know who. He should call him. But where was he? Somewhere far away on a client’s money. Italy? Spain? Somewhere Mediterranean with ancestral homes, maybe castles, riddled with obstreperous ghosts. Probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed. And what about the ghost here? The house seemed to roll out the welcome mat for them. Was this gangster roaming the halls now? Had Lara already taken him under her wing? Well she was trying but not getting very far. The call had come while she was at her parents, and she’d responded as she’d done before: apologising for eating and running and switching locations instantly. Once you got the hang of it, it was a breeze. Harry had shown her.
Andrew went looking for The Randy. He’d been the consummate pro the night before, taking everything in stride, trading tales with the cops as Andrew gave his statement. He found him in the conservatory, looking surprisingly beatific, a small detail in a Renaissance painting. Nice spot you got here, he grinned. Andrew nodded, taking a seat beside him. A quiet, unexpected and welcome, hung between them.
Minutes passed with Andrew enjoying them but expecting The Randy to open up any moment. But it was Andrew who eventually broke the silence. Were they out to kill us? Randy thought not. Forcible removal was their agenda. Making them disappear was smarter than leaving them lying around. Andrew could see the logic in that. Sorta.
Randy asked if Andrew found himself in over his head. Yeah. He intimated that the worst, believe it or not, might be over. Really. There was often, if not always, a lull after such a burst of action. A retreat, a retrenching of forces. Their flank had definitely been exposed. Hmmn. The dead one will have a record, the car will be traceable, even if the plates were stolen, which they probably were.
We might not have to do anything, the whole thing could unravel all by itself, I’ve seen it before.
That kinda takes all the travel and adventure out of it somehow. You know, no cheeseburgers and shakes at Harvey’s while we scout locations or whatever.
Randy nodded, chuckled, and moaned about no more work for him. I hear you man.
The exchange had lightened Andrew’s mood, and he asked if Randy’d had a shower yet. Do I smell stinky? Andrew apologised for the implication and promised to make some coffee while the cleansing process was underway. Randy peered at him and then said Sure. Handing his guest a fresh towel and preparing the coffee while he completed his morning toilet helped to overcome the foreboding that events were conspiring to eject him from his happy home. He was back in the saddle, inches from the dead man’s memory, and it felt uncomfortable but necessary. He wondered if he could remember what Jordan had told him about cleansing ceremonies. Burning sage? Swinging censers of incense?
