Dreamwalker Read online

  But repercussions there were. A personal vision showed her the dreamwalker, an innocent, unaware of his potential, and his pivotal role in Atlantic City. He stood in ignorance within St. Croix’s crosshairs. St. Croix would smother the spark the boy held before it fanned into a real flame, a flame hot enough to burn St. Croix’s operation to the ground.

  So her call to the Antelope begat rippled circles in destiny’s water. Did she now warn this boy named Pete, who lived over the restaurant blocks away? If not, she had just led a lamb to slaughter. But how much further would this path of intervention stretch out? There would be retribution for playing god with how life should unfold.

  Now, in the waning afternoon, she made her decision. If Pete failed, the flood gates that held back a reservoir of vice would surely burst. How could she live with herself then?

  She would warn Pete tonight. He had to get outside the city, before St. Croix ferreted him out.

  She’d have to manage the consequences.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DiStephano’s dinner rush came on like a juggernaut. By 6:00, customers rolled in through the door as fast as Mama D could seat them. Waitresses flitted between tables like pollinating bees.

  In the kitchen, paper tickets spun on the prep table carrousel. Dishes clanked and butter sizzled. The great dishwasher breathed billowed steam that mingled with the smell of baking lasagna. Papa D barked orders and created culinary masterworks on blue-rimmed china.

  For Pete, eight hours of non-stop work was an eight hour mental break. In the rhythm of wash, rinse, and stack there was no time to consider crossed palm trees, crossed snakes, or dreamwalkers trapped in palace towers.

  Mid-shift, an unseen drama played out past the door to the dining room. The low din of voices rose in recognition, like the swelling roar of the crowd as a champion entered a stadium. A loaded serving tray hit a table with a clatter.

  “Tommy!” Mama D’s voice called out. The kitchen door swung open. “Papa! It’s Tommy!”

  The DiStephano’s prodigal son had returned from across the Hudson.

  Papa broke into a grin and wiped his hands on his apron. Then a pot behind him boiled over. The water seared into steam as it hit the burner’s flames. His look soured, he muttered something in Italian, and swung back to the stove. He rearranged pots and adjusted burner temperatures.

  The kitchen door swung full open, and Mama D barreled in with her son in tow wearing a pinstripe suit.

  “Papa, you don’t come out to see your son? What’s with you?”

  Papa D dropped a huge pot of boiling ziti on the stove with a clang. He turned, saw his son, and let loose a big smile.

  Pete realized that Mama D was right. Pete certainly favored her son. Tommy had the same curly black hair as Pete, and while Tommy was a few years older, he matched Pete’s height. Facially, they were different, with Tommy sharing his father’s distinctive Roman nose and his mother’s eyes. No wonder Papa D hired him on the spot. He and Tommy could have passed as brothers.

  Tommy walked around the prep table and gave his father a big hug.

  “Come home for some real food, no?” Papa D said. He poked Tommy in the ribs. “You get too skinny with your city job.”

  “Maybe that lasagna I smell would work,” Tommy said, “but only if you’ve started listening to Mama and cut back on the garlic a bit.”

  He shot a quick wink to his mother, who stifled a laugh with her hand.

  Papa feigned outrage and waved a dismissive hand at Mama D.

  “She’s from Queens,” he said. “What does she know from garlic? You sit and eat.”

  Papa turned and spooned a wide corner of a tray of lasagna onto a plate. Tommy caught Pete’s eye across the kitchen in the dishwashing nook. He strode over to the stainless steel counter between them.

  “Well,” he said. “Who’s taken over my old haunt tending this steam-belching monster?”

  Pete wiped his hands on his apron and then extended one across the mountain of dirty plates.

  “I’m Pete Holm,” he said. “I just started here.”

  Tommy gave his hand a firm shake.

  “Long enough to know Papa’s a slave driver,” Tommy said with a smirk. Tommy looked the dishwashing area up and down. “God help me, but there is a part of working here that I miss sometimes. What’s your off night?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Pete said.

  “Outstanding!” Tommy replied. He turned to his mother. “Mama, I’m filling in for Petey here tomorrow.”

  Pete resigned himself to the family’s predisposition to calling him “Petey.”

  “Oh no, Tommy,” she said, aghast. “You’re home for a rest.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “This’ll be fun. Right, Papa?”

  Papa D masked his initial elation at the idea with a calculated, stern face.

  “You no remember hard work anymore,” he said. “Soft city job spoil you. We work all night tomorrow. We clean grease traps after closing.”

  Tommy turned back to his mother.

  “See, Mama, nothing but fun.”

  Mama D threw up her hands and walked out. Tommy followed, laughing at her frustration.

  Pete reached down below the dishwasher and pulled the full trashcan across the wet tile. He groaned. He should have done this an hour ago when it was half-full. He didn’t enjoy the cross-parking lot drag followed by the Herculean effort to raise the can over the dumpster’s lip. He thought it could qualify as an Olympic event.

  He yanked the trashcan out the bag door into the crisp, cool night. He scraped it across the asphalt and launched the can’s contents into the dumpster.

  “Pete,” said a woman behind him.

  He spun around. The empty can hit the ground with a hollow thud. A diminutive black woman wearing dark pants and a calf-length, brown coat stood a foot away. The bright yellow scarf around her head glowed like a halo in the alley’s shadows.

  “I’m Prosperidad,” she said in a lilting, Caribbean accent.

  She seemed hesitant to make even that short an introduction. She shot furtive glances up and down the alley. The hair on the back of Pete’s neck stood up.

  “How do you know my name?” Pete asked.

  “That is not important,” she said. “What is important is that you are in great danger.”

  An unwelcome news flash delivered in a dark alley in a bad neighborhood of Atlantic City. He already had enough problems in his sleep.

  “From who?” Pete said.

  “Jean St. Croix,” Prosperidad said. “He knows you’re here somewhere. He’ll find you. He has connections everywhere.”

  This made no sense. Even his parents didn’t know he was here. “Who’s St. Croix?”

  “Someone you never want to meet,” Prosperidad said. “He controls the city’s drug trade. He’s not above killing anyone who threatens it.”

  Pete spread his damp, food-encrusted apron for better display.

  “I wash dishes,” he said. “How much of a threat can I be?”

  “Not the threat you are here,” Prosperidad said. She gave her head a quick toss over her shoulder. “It is the threat you are on the other side, dreamwalker.”

  Pete took an involuntary step back against the dumpster. The steel side chilled him through his damp shirt.

  “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

  “I see the hidden things,” she said. “Present, past, and future. What I see in your future, I do not like. I’m not supposed to intervene, but…”

  She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small spool of unsheathed copper wire. It glistened in the restaurant doorway’s floodlight.

  “For tonight,” she said, “this will protect you. Wrap it around the legs of your bed. Before you close the loop, tie off a steel knife along the wire, point resting on the floor. While
you sleep, no evil ones can enter your dreams, unless you seek them out.”

  She tossed the spool and Pete caught it with both hands. He looked down at this superstitious woman’s claimed salvation. Copper atoms beaten into strands. She might be able to see the future, but she clearly missed physics and chem classes in high school. He tried not to look skeptical.

  “Thank you,” he said. It sounded more like a question.

  “Then tomorrow,” Prosperidad said. Her eyes had the intensity of the true believer. “Get away from here. The city will never be safe.”

  “You know about the other side. Tell me, in Twin Moon City— ”

  Prosperidad cocked her ear to one side, like Cinderella as the clock struck midnight.

  “No time,” she said. “If you can, leave tonight.”

  Her coat swirled as she turned and skittered off into the darkness.

  Prosperidad’s weird warning rang with just enough truth that Pete couldn’t dismiss it. But he couldn’t leave Atlantic City. The strange summons to be here had been specific, the path made clear at every turn. The city held a mission he had to complete. And his connection to Rayna had never been stronger than since his arrival. Coincidence or not, he would not risk breaking that.

  Pete stuffed the spool of copper wire into his pocket and grabbed the slimy handle of the empty garbage can. He slung it up and over his shoulder. He mounted the steps and pulled open the restaurant’s back door.

  Warm air rushed out against the chill night. Bright kitchen lights illuminated the stained concrete path to the dumpster. The sweet smell of bubbling marinara overwhelmed the stink of the outdoor trash. Pete passed through the too porous barrier that separated the gray world of Tyrone, Prosperidad, and illicit drugs from the DiStephano family’s vibrant niche.

  Prosperidad hurried back home. She scanned right and left, wary of some Island Cab shadowing her. If St. Croix didn’t buy her feigned ignorance of the dreamwalker’s identity, he would surely have her tailed.

  The street was clear. She breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she could be more than a passive observer of her visions.

  She turned left at the corner. The sea breeze caressed her face. It smelled of salt and home. Everything was going to be okay.

  In the shadows of the alley across from DiStephano’s, the dim light of a cell phone lit Stoner’s face as he dialed. Prosperidad was a block away, well out of earshot. He put the phone to his ear. One ring.

  “Well?” St. Croix demanded.

  A laughing couple entered the bright, lively Italian restaurant across the street.

  “No problem, Boss,” Stoner said. “I found him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The DiStephano family dynamic transformed with Tommy back under the roof that night. Mama D doted on her son and paraded him before the customers. Papa kept the same focus on his work, maintained the gruff facade. He still grilled items to perfection and added spices by the grain. But his step bounced a bit as he shuttled between prep table and stove. Each time Tommy entered the kitchen, Papa turned to douse a celebratory grin.

  Tommy spent the end of the night in the kitchen. He stripped off the jacket and tie, flipped up the cuffs of his white dress shirt and joined his father. The two slipped into an easy, familiar duet. Between them, empty plates become frames for works of gastronomic art with precise amounts of entrée, pasta, and vegetables. The waitresses traded good-natured barbs with Tommy at each pickup.

  The night flew by.

  By closing, Pete saved a near feast for Tyrone and his sister. A half pan of tonight’s special lasagna remained, good for a few dinners. He sealed it in cellophane and slipped out the back door at midnight.

  Tyrone waited for him in the dumpster’s shadows, shivering in his sweatshirt, probably the only outer layer of clothing the boy owned.

  “Hey,” Pete said. “How’s it going?”

  “None too bad,” Tyrone answered, rocking back and forth to stay warm.

  “You are going to love this lasagna,” Pete said. “Everyone does.”

  Pete handed him the lasagna and a bag of rolls. Tyrone’s eyes fell away in embarrassment as he took the food.

  “Tyrone, I’m just helping you take care of your sister until your mother gets straight. It’s no big deal.”

  Tyrone looked him in the eye with a determination worthy of a much older man.

  “I owes you, man,” he said. “An’ I’m good for it for sure. This ain’t no handout.”

  An idea struck Pete.

  “How about paying me back with some information?” he said. “Tell me about Jean St. Croix.”

  Tyrone looked at Pete like he had asked for an envelope of anthrax.

  “Jean St. Croix?” Tyrone said. “Whatchoo want with him? That brother’s got the bad mojo like no one else. He’s done eat up with it. He runs a tight crew that deals any drug you can think of. And cross him? Your life ain’t nothing to him.”

  “Where does he do business?” Pete said.

  “Those Island Cabs you see all over, that’s his office. Delivers better than Domino’s. Gots drivers all over, all the time. Word is there’s hundreds of them driving out of a warehouse on the west end. He’s into witchcraft and shit to keep it all humming.”

  The pieces fell into place. Island Cabs symbol and Cauquemere’s medallion in Twin Moon City were variations on the same theme. The similarity was no coincidence. He doubted there were “hundreds” of Island cabs, but he gave credence to Tyrone’s claim of witchcraft. It backed Prosperidad’s revelations.

  “You ain’t gonna mess with him, is you?” Tyrone asked. The fear in his voice was genuine.

  “No,” Pete lied. “Just confirming some things.” He changed gears to move the conversation away from St. Croix. “Your mother isn’t back?”

  “Nah,” Tyrone replied. “No word at all.”

  “How far away do you live from here?” Pete said.

  “Three blocks. Corner with Culpepper. Ain’t far.”

  “Well, get back over there,” he said. “Don’t wake your sister when you get in. I’m off tomorrow, so I’ll see you here again the night after. Stay out of trouble.”

  “You the one talking ’bout St. Croix,” Tyrone said, shaking his head. “You stay out of trouble.”

  Tyrone tucked his head, cradled the cube of lasagna like a football, and began a lazy jog back home.

  An hour later, the last dish was stacked. The floor was bleached and mopped. The stainless steel shone. Papa and Mama sat talking with Tommy in the dining room. On his way to the door, Pete saw a long carving knife lying on the prep table’s wooden top. Prosperidad’s spool of copper rode heavy in his pants pocket.

  The idea of winding copper wire around his bedposts like a homemade generator was absurd. Silly superstition.

  Pete took one more step to the kitchen door and stopped again. He looked back at the knife.

  But how could it hurt?

  He palmed the knife and slid it into his work boot.

  He told himself he did not believe.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There might have been something to that copper wire after all.

  His intent tonight was to scout Twin Moon City and get a good look at Cauquemere’s palace. Instead his dream that night began in safety of the mansion foyer, the one place hidden from Cauquemere. On the downside, the mansion also separated him from Rayna, and he longed to see her again. He wished he could take her here, or better yet, let her find her way here when he was awake. In the real world, he’d give her a key.

  That was a thought. This was his dream. Maybe he could bend it a little. He had left a “reflection” of himself in Twin Moon City and had sealed the tunnel behind him on the way out. Perhaps he needn’t be just a passive participant. According to Rayna, a dreamwalker brought power into this dimension. If there was anywhere he ought to be abl
e to prove that true, the mansion was the place.

  When he left the reflection the other night, the knowledge of how to do it just came to him. The same way when he sealed the tunnel. Ignorance, then epiphany. It was as if he remembered how to do it, but he never had the knowledge to begin with.

  The idea for giving Rayna a key came to him that same way. Could it be…

  He pulled open the front door. Beneath the knob, a bright gold key protruded from the keyhole. He extracted it.

  A large tri-foil head topped the heavy, polished skeleton key. The shaft was slender as a pencil and about as long.

  As he walked back through the mansion, the key warmed and trembled in his hand. He spread his fingers and let the key rest in his palm. It wiggled against his skin and then rotated on its center axis until the tip pointed at the front door. Pete moved his hand back and forth. The key spun like a compass needle, the tip always aimed at the mansion’s entrance.

  Just what he needed to give Rayna. It would lead her to the mansion, even if she didn’t know where she was going.

  He stuffed the key in his pocket. It went cool and inert.

  He approached the trap door to Twin Moon City. He just needed a team of subconscious miners to have re-excavated the tunnel. He pulled open the door.

  Apparently, the miners had put in some overtime. The tunnel was back. Blazing candles lit the way into Twin Moon City, and he hoped, Rayna. Pete descended the ladder and sprinted down the packed earth hallway.

  This time, instead of opening at the city’s edge, the subterranean passage ended abruptly at a solid earth wall. A wooden ladder went straight up into the darkness.

  Pete pulled a candle from the wall and used its meager light to illuminate his ascent. Eight feet up, he came upon a door in the shaft wall. He plunged the candle into the earth behind him. He turned the knob and pushed open the door.