Wake of the Storm - The Mason Storm Series Book One

Chapter 19

The house is silhouetted in black silence as I click on the TV in my bedroom for the second time today. There's movement on the screen, but nothing's registering. I just want to fall into a dreamless sleep, but I know that won't be possible. I turn off the TV, strip down, crawl into bed, and cave to the darkness.

I lie here in abandonment, playing the angles, letting denial push through my insides like a drug. My life feels like a busted carnival ride as I continue to toss and turn, from my right to my left, from my back to my stomach, and then again from the top. It's a merciless go-round that, over the years, I've gotten used to riding out.

Through the glare of the TV, I see the coy smile of my wife and wonder what she was thinking when I took that picture. I'm staring at her, as memories of conversations from that day play out in my mind. They're voices through a photograph that long ago went silent.

I feel the wetness of tears on my pillow when my eyes begin to fade, giving into the effects of another night of looking through the bottom of an empty glass. The nightmares are there, lying in wait, looking for a way in. They scratch at the back of my eyelids until I can see my wife in our backyard, just out front of my outstretched hands, holding our daughter and humming a melody.

I probe a little deeper and it's my mother and father now, driving in their old Cadillac. They don't look anything like my parents, but in my dream, it's them. I can't see myself, but I know I'm in the backseat. It's déjà vu all over again as I begin to understand where we are going. The sinking feeling of driving to my father's funeral lands in my gut, even though he's behind the wheel. I feel the burn of real tears in my eyes as I try to force myself awake. I know I'm in that foggy state of just barely unconscious when the dream changes.

I'm back in the ring and fighting. Faces from past homicides I've worked are in the crowd; people from both sides of the coin—killers and their victims. My father's in my corner, waving the white towel above his head and my wife and mother are in the front row, crying. The face of my opponent is distorted, but my sub-conscious recognizes his features. It's a monstrous face from my past; a killer who got away. He's laughing at me while I'm emptying my gun into his chest. I see the bullets in slow motion, crashing through his body, but he doesn't go down. I can't pull my eyes from his face; it's twisting and contorting into more faces from my past. The evil, penetrating laugh still mocks me, telling me they've won.

The dream again changes and I'm left standing next to pair of empty graves; two holes killing time and waiting for life's kickbacks.

I awake embracing my pillow like it's a lifeless body and I'm immersed in sweat. The salt from my tears make it hard to see the clock as I push away the imagery. As always, the remaining hours of the night are still there, but I know I won't fall back asleep. I never do. Mornings never sneak up on me. I'm always there, wide-eyed and waiting.

Dawn finally breaks through unpleasant with the sun creeping between the cracks of another sleepless morning. I lie here for a couple more minutes, praying to a God who has cast me aside, asking Him to just let me get through today in one piece. I have to force myself to let go of everything I'm holding on to and drag my lifeless body into the shower. I need to pull it together. I have to! I owe it to the dead and to those still left on this side of the curtain. The water pulsates down on me until the hot runs to warm, and finally, I shut it off at cold.

Today is the first whole day of a brand new case, and I coerce myself back to lucidity while I get dressed. The weatherman has pledged another day of record heat, so I opt for a pair of Diesel Jeans and a black Defy Direction T-shirt.

Downstairs, I wait for the coffee-maker to finish sputtering my only hopes of vigilance. I notice the message light blinking on the answering machine when I grab a cup from the dishwasher. I'm not exactly sure if it's clean, but . . .

I ignore the messages for one more day and head into my home office. Mail covers the credenza and faxes have overflowed, landing on the floor next to a desk that looks more like a battlefield. I have a part- time housekeeper, but I think she's scared to come in here. I somehow managed to put my cell phone on the charger last night and the message light is blinking on that, too.

It's Mia and I've just missed her. She reminds me of our meeting this morning with Davis, and tells me she's on her way back to the office. Her voice goes quiet when she tells me I've made the paper again.