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A stone of dread began to form at the base of his throat.He tried to cry out, but nothing came.And in the brooding silence of the church came a soft sound, like a bed sheet flapping in the breeze; as the fuel ignited, flames began to dance at the base of the maple wood confessional.
And the man of God began to burn.
CHAPTER ONE
“Please turn over your paper and begin the exam.Good luck.”
Okay, Kate Valentine thought.So it was the old test dream.Predictable but, compared to the other kind of dream, a stroll in the park.
How was this possible, though?How could she beinthe dream as her seventeen-year-old self, conscious of the last remaining pimples on her chin, uncomfortable about her still-flat chest and her endless legs, forever chewing the sleeve of that huge, pale gray hoodie.How could she be that person, and at the time be aware she was just dreaming it?
At the front of the room, a revolving cast of male authority figures.“Hot” Mr.Hopwood, ninth grade history teacher.Gabe Levine, the grad school professor who’d taught her Aramaic and cajoled her into joining the Bureau; Director Gladesmuir – her boss’s boss, who’d welcomed her to the unit with a rather overwhelming gift basket of bath and beauty products, but barely acknowledged her since.
At the signal, Kate would turn the page and commence the examination; as the last student she’d sit, finish a whole week later than all her classmates.The questions might be written in a code she couldn’t decipher, an ancient Near Eastern language she didn’t know, or they might disappear from the page.Meanwhile, the wall-clock was buzzing like an alarm, and she was trying to tell the man at the front that she had taken this exam twenty-one years ago.Taken it, passed itcum laude, spent years in academia before joining the FBI.She didn’t need to be back in the classroom.She was going to leave.But every time she tried to do that, something prevented her.There was no door.Her legs refused to work.The desk imprisoned her, trapping her in a Chicago classroom where it was June 29th, 2005, forever and ever.
This time, the dream took a new turn.In answer to her pleas, the man at the front pressed a switch, and the whiteboard rolled up to reveal a window.On the other side of the glass was a fuzzy, out of focus scene, gradually becoming sharper.Her heart began to pound as the details solidified.This was the execution chamber at the William C.Weidt Correctional Facility in Wedmore, Pennsylvania.Strapped to the long, slim gurney in the center of the room was a man, slight and wiry.He turned his head to look at her and his eyes grew larger, just as everything else shrank away.
And then, in one of those jump-cuts unique to the dream world, she was the one on the gurney, straining against the belts around her arms and her waist and feet.Above her: him.The eyes boring into her soul as he squeezed her throat with those hands.Rough and cold, reptilian.His stale coffee-breath mingled with the sweet, piney, medical scent of the room.Her vision blurred, sparks of light at the peripheries giving way to a thick, gray fog and pulsing pain.
She shot up in bed, a word half-formed in her mouth.Please.
She was dripping wet, t-shirt and shorts sticking to her, the pale cover of the comforter bearing a dark stain.The first few times, she really thought she’d wet the bed.But it was pure terror soaking the sheets.Different than everyday perspiration: brackish, lingering.She loathed it.
At one point, she really thought the Denton dreams had gone away.And then, maybe eight, nine months ago, in the run-up to the appointed date, his name hooked her attention on the radio, then in the corner of a newspaper… Harmless, almost.Toothless, amid the noise and light and the distractions of the daytime.Monsters in the dark.
It was ten years since she’d pleaded with Robert Denton for her life.The bruises were long gone.The scars reduced to a network of faint, silvery lines on the inside of her arms, noticeable only if she took a long, hot shower.
Five-oh-four.
Why was it always five-oh-goddamned-four?She thought about taking a shower now, but hesitated.Something about being in the bathroom, unable to hear above the roar of the water made her feel more vulnerable and naked.Alone with the lingering traces of the dream, and the all-too-real memories behind it.
She hated being afraid like this.Reduced to a child’s bedtime rituals: checking doors and windows, looking inside the cupboard under the stairs, even –Christ– even texting Mom to say goodnight.
Was this how it was going to be now?It was October, six months since they had put the needle in that sick bastard’s arm and she still feared him, still waking in the night, soaking wet and pleading.
Screw you, Denton.
She’d had enough.He was gone.His ghost had zero permission to be in her bedroom, in her head.
She looked out the window; bluish dawn light was chasing the darkness away.The kid from the ground-floor apartment was doing stretches by the gate.Tall and shy and serious, he was out there every morning, rain or shine, shadow boxing, readying for a run.She knew that because, every morning, she was looking out of the window at five-oh-four.
She pulled on sweatpants and the old, gray hoodie, stopping by the mirror for a moment.Kate was tall and slimly built, with reddish-brown hair and a nose that people described as cute.This chilly Tuesday morning, she thought she looked especially pale, her freckles more pronounced, her simple, practical, bob-cut hair needing something, but she didn’t know what.If it was like the rest of her then it just needed sleep.Weeks and weeks of it.
Running helped; it emptied her mind.Even better than running was the feeling of having run.Thegood tired, as her dad had called it.Kate was fed up with feeling drained and strained, that gritty feeling in her head after another night of shitty dreams.She wanted the good tired.
She took the track that led around the old canning factory, up the hill and along the ridge to the stream.Enjoyed the cool autumn air on her skin, the fresh smell of fallen leaves and damp grass, salty top-notes from the ocean, less than ten miles away.The light sound of her feet on the ground.If only she could hang onto those simple things, all day.
“When my door is closed, my mind does not travel beyond it.” So said her hero, al Khalil ibn Ahmad al-Farahidi, inventor of cryptography.That guy understood, she thought, twelve centuries ago.Keep it simple.Eat what’s on your plate.Don’t overthink.
It was a pity al-Farahidi didn’t heed his own advice.One day, legend had it, he was walking to the market in Basra, so preoccupied with his plans for a secret accounting system that he walked smack into a pillar and died.
Keep it simple.But also look where you’re going.
She smiled to herself, nimbly leaping between rocks as she crossed the little stream.When she landed on the other side, she realized her cellphone was ringing.
She glanced at the screen before answering.Marcus Reid.
“Hey.”
