Dreamspeak

DREAMSPEAK

The Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Norma Connor, 2012

Smashswords License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you want to share it. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Prelude: Winter

Chapter 1—Summer: Monday

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8—Tuesday

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11—Wednesday

Chapter 12

Chapter 13—Thursday

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17—Friday

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24—Saturday

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27—Sunday

Chapter 28—Monday

About the Author

Cabin Stories—Witness Tree

Prelude: Winter

His mother had taken to her bed with tranquilizers, she was so upset by his leaving the seminary; her crying and moaning drove him out of the house.

When he met the girl so easily, he was surprised. It was something he hadn't done before, hang around girls. He didn't have sisters. Women were a mystery, like his mother. But he had to find out. He pursued the girl in a shy, but steady manner, until she was leading him.

She taught him to live, for himself, for fun, for kicks. He tried it all, anything to stay close to her. She shared her life with him, though he shared little of his own, always brushing away questions, making jokes with his newfound sense of humor. She took him to a party with her true friends, as she called them.

It's in a church? he asked.

A special ceremony, a feast day.

For what? What religion? he asked. He had never dared discuss religion with her.

She laughed at that. I believe in the Devil, she said.

So did he. He thought his own weaknesses and doubts about the church might be fed by the Devil and, though he had backed away from the seminary, he still prayed. He prayed for himself, that he wouldn't be one of those, those odd ones shunned by his church. Now his sluggish mind struggled with images from his own recent past, soft comfort of robes, hard pressure on the padded kneeler, supplicant hands, a bearded face pressing warmly against his own.

The girl took his hand. Stay with me. Watch. It's powerful.

They went through a side door, left ajar with a small piece of wood taped over the locking mechanism. It was warm in the building after the frigid ride in her old, heater-less car. It must have been the spicy tea, laced with wine and herbs that she brewed in her yellow Japanese pot. He couldn't remember what happened next. Earlier this evening they had smoked and had sex. More than once, he thought. A temptation he couldn’t resist, now that he had discovered it.

He didn't know what time it was when they got to the church, couldn't remember if they'd slept, hardly remembered the ride here. She grabbed his hand, her small icy fingers pressed to his warm palm, pulling him through dark vestment rooms with empty shelves and cabinets, a closet-lined hall, then the inner sanctum, a cavernous space, echoing with mumbled greetings, crowded with shadowy shapes, candles everywhere, acrid smoke thickening the air.

A woman whose long braids were decorated with feathers shoved a cup in his hand. Drink.

Power of Satan, the girl said, downing hers in one swallow.

Hail Lucifer, the woman replied.

It was putrid and he choked, but he finished it anyway. If she could, he could. Some punch, he said. The smell, ripe and yeasty, lingered in his nose.

The girl had a glazed smile, her bright brown eyes shining like topaz gems under the crown of thick black hair. Come on, I'll introduce you. She pulled him along, her hand now warm and tight against his. She stopped every couple of feet to speak a name, first names only, he noticed. Hail Satan!

Hail the Power.

Her friends were his friends. Faces ran together in the dim light, a circle of round mouths, chanting. Sounds, not real words, he thought, but rhyme, a jumble of rhyming words. And music, from somewhere, the discordant twang of a harp or a zither. He looked for it in the shadowy smoky depths.

Lead us into temptation...

Hail, temptation.

Under his feet, dirty wood planking. His eyes watered from the heavy toxic fumes, his throat burned and he gulped another cup of punch. How had it come to his hand? The girl was drinking also. It must be good. The circle moved and he moved with it, trying to make sense of the words.

...temptation, lead us into temptation, lead us...

...temptation.

Temptation.

In the center of the circle he saw a figure in black placing stones in a smaller circle, arranging them with care, as though they were jewels in a massive broach. With each stone, the chant changed, words he couldn't understand.

As the music grew louder, a short figure in a black gown began lighting candles across a table at the end of the room. Six candles. Black cloths covered the table. A naked woman lay on it, stretched out on her back, her pale skin startling against the black. Yellow hair trailed over the side of the table. Her eyes were closed.

He thought she must be a statue, she lay so still. Or maybe dead. He tried to concentrate on that thought, to decide something about it. Dead. But his mind followed the shape of her naked breasts, limp, soft ovals, peach colored tips resting against her arms, which lay peacefully at her sides.

The music stopped. The chanting continued, a low machine sound. Ydob, ydob, doolb, doolb, ydob, doolb, dooooooolllbb.

He heard a cat. No, a kitten. Two kittens crying. Then the crying stopped. Luuuucifer, Luuucifer, Luucifer, HAIL Lucifer.

The candles took hold and flared, illuminating a crucifix above the naked girl.

HAIL LUCIFER!

Wrong, he thought, squinting through watery vision. The crucifix was wrong. Jesus' head was at the bottom, his crossed broken legs pointing up. They had hung the crucifix upside down, he thought with disbelief. A burning fear started up his spine. He shuddered.

Another figure dressed in black floated into view, its long cape fanning open, the faint flash of a horned design folding away as the figure came to stand behind the table.

His black-draped arms produced a gold chalice. A strong voice came from the depths of the hood, filling the circle with word sounds that rose in volume as the chalice was held high. Doolb, doolllb, dooollllb. The figure drank, taking the contents of the chalice into the blackness inside the hood.

HAIL, HAIL LUCIFER! The chorus rose as one voice.

With slow deliberate movement the figure brought the chalice out from the hood and gently set it on the naked girl, between her breasts. Reaching long fingers into the chalice, it sprinkled liquid until rivulets of deep red frosted the curves of her body. She didn't move. The figure in black offered an object up for view, then slowly lowered it. The metal flashed briefly in the flickering flames of the candles. An excited pitch rose in the harmony of unintelligible words.

Lead us into temptation, to temptation, the crowd murmured in unison, deliver us unto evil, unto evil, evil, evil, EVIL.

The young man blinked, fascinated, then yanked his hand from his girlfriend's grasp and lurched forward. No! No! Holy Mary, Mother of God.... NO!

Back to Table of Contents

Chapter 1

SUMMER: MONDAY

The over-sized square envelope lay on the car seat next to Cassie. The words JUROR SUMMONS leaped up at her like a threatening command. Pink, blue and green papers peeked out the top of the envelope. She knew the words by heart. The date in the box was today. Monday.

Cassandra R. Alexander. You are hereby summoned to appear before the Circuit Court of the nineteenth judicial circuit at or before 8:00 a.m. on the date listed in the box below to serve as a trial or grand juror.'

She shivered as the dream flashed in her mind. A moon-face expanse, a sudden splash through the ice. Gray water shimmering, exposed like the slick belly of a rolling whale.

The Mazda behind her honked, jarring her into motion and she jammed her foot on the gas pedal, charging through the light without seeing the street name. She had no idea where she was, had never been in Waukegan before. Searching for a place to stop, to get her bearings she remembered there was a map on the back of one of the pages.

A flash of red came from her left and she slammed on the brakes, provoking another storm of honking from the Mazda. A red sport car, low slung and wide fendered, cut across in front of her and swung into a narrow entrance. A prominent signboard read: Courthouse Lot. NO FREE JURY PARKING.

Jerk, she muttered, glancing at the clock, seven thirty.

The radio news blared. The search for eighteen-year-old Rochelle Davis, daughter of the prominent psychiatrist, hit a dead end again when an anonymous tip leading police to Wisconsin turned up no new evidence. Miss Davis was reported missing six months ago.

Cassie stared at the radio, remembering the extensive news coverage last winter, remembering the blond girl with a faraway dreamy look in her eyes. It had brought to mind her own eighteen-year-old daughter, Libby, struggling to find her way in an unexpected future. The pictures on television of the missing girl, along with all the gruesome speculations had given Cassie a sick, empty foreboding.

She wondered briefly if she should offer to help, but crushed the idea as self-serving and probably impossible anyway. She herself had never been tested, never really believed the dreams, except that one time. If there were others that were accurate, she certainly had no way to prove it.

While stopped at another red light, she found the map and saw the street diagram with meters where she could park free for the day. She circled two blocks and found an open spot. On the other side of the map was a placard marked Jury Parking to place on the dashboard. Free meters and per diem pay, she'd been told. Perks (?) for civic duty.

One of the pages said she was Juror No. 86-024939 in Color Group: Blue, whatever that meant. She stuffed the envelope in her purse, grabbed her sweater, a book of crossword puzzles and took off running. The sidewalks were crowded with people heading to work. She found herself rushing to keep up, wondering what would happen if she didn't make the eight o'clock deadline.

She raced up the broad concrete steps of the Courthouse and followed the signs pointing toward the jury assembly room. It felt like a new adventure, in spite of what people said about avoiding jury duty, people like her mother and her son, Peter. Maybe she was here because of what they'd said, in defiance of it. Besides, what else did she have going in her life anymore?

Maybe she was here because of the haunting, vague dream. The stupid, freezing, puzzling dream that came night after night, breaking her sleep into two distinct parts: the apprehensive unrest before the dream; then the fearful tossing afterward. It made no sense, not like any dreams she'd had in the past, even the meaningful ones, the ones she pushed from her consciousness whenever possible.

Civic duty be damned! The explosive words came from behind her. She stopped and turned a flushed face toward the man coming at her in giant strides. What the hell did government ever do for me, but cop the top forty percent off my income? Son of a… He wore a gray plaid suit with a slightly garish yellow shirt, something Paul wouldn't be caught dead in. She grimaced at the thought of Paul and her breathing fluttered like a stalled engine.

The big man pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand. He mouthed a continuous spiel of words, as though he were selling something. In fact, he looked like he could sell cars, used cars she decided.

Jury duty? he snapped in her direction.

She nodded and jumped back out of his way.

"Me, too. No sane lawyer is going to allow me on a jury. You have any idea know how much hanky panky goes on in your business when you're gone for a few days?"

She shook her head, walking faster to get ahead.

You’ve been called before? He fell in step beside her.

She shook her head again.

Well, I sure as hell have and I've always managed to get out of it. The court clerk tells me, ‘we all have to serve. It's an honor and a duty.’ I say, bull...! He stopped talking and turned with a sudden, disarming grin. You know what I mean.

At the door to the Assembly Room, he paused to allow Cassie to enter first. Hey, honey, you're flashing, he said, touching her shoulder.

She backed away, annoyed at the casual honey reference.

Here, I'll fix you.

She stepped further back, mashing someone's foot. A grunt came from behind her.

Sorry, Cassie mumbled, regaining her balance.

Hey, no kidding. It’s not a line. Your blouse is really hanging open. He laughed, opening his hands innocently.

She threw the sweater over her shoulders, gathering its’ sleeves in a knot over her chest. Turning, she hurried back to the ladies' room they'd just passed and struggled to reach the buttons half way down her back. Losing it, going out half dressed. Checking her hair in the mirror, she saw that the cowlick in her bangs had overcome the hair spray, giving her that horsey forelock she hated. On top of that, the bits of gray at the temples were glowing this morning. Time for a makeover.

Shoot, she whispered. Time for a makeover a year ago.

The big man was still standing by the door to the assembly room. He waved at her as though she couldn't find her way back on her own. There was no getting around him. She had to go in.

Table right there. He directed her physically with a gentle nudge. I wasn't trying to startle you, he said, as they stood in front of the woman manning the computer. About the buttons, I mean. I thought you'd want to know.

She shrugged.

When they had been properly filed on the green screen, the woman pointed to a rack of badges, each one labeled with the word juror. Your personal number is printed on the back of the badge. Wear it at all times, she called after them. Return it to the correct place on the rack before you leave the building at the end of the day.

Cassie did as she was told and took a seat. He was a Mr. Ross Fairchild she’d heard. He remained talking with the woman by the computer, though people were still crowding past him, trying to get in. The woman glanced up and down with an irritated frown.

Rows of folding chairs filled the room. About half the places were taken, people spacing themselves out the way they do in airports and waiting rooms. The Today Show rumbled on a television at one end of the room. Several people milled around the soft drink and coffee machines. Others were reading newspapers. It felt like the seedy Driver's License place in Chicago where she'd waited hours to get an Illinois license when they'd moved here.

How about it, Alexander?

Cassie was reading a pamphlet on court procedures that she'd picked up from the rack by the badges. She looked up at the mention of her name.

The man in the yellow shirt touched her arm, produced another friendly grin and sat down beside her. Alexander, talk?

Talk, Mr. Fairchild?

"Ah, you do speak, Ms. Alexander. I was wondering."

You're not much for letting anyone else get a word in, not that I have anything to say.

He feigned shock. An honest woman.

She smiled just enough to be congenial and opened the crossword book. Three of the puzzles were virtually complete, except for a couple unknowns. She always finished the entire book before looking up the answers.

I guess I'm trapped. He touched her arm again as he pulled a small phone from his breast pocket.

She moved a fraction of an inch. Trapped? By me?

He punched some tiny buttons with the tip of a gold pen and put the miniature phone to his ear, looking at Cassie as he spoke. Yeah, Barbara, I'm stuck here. At least for the morning. Give me Jake's number.

Cassie had seen the No Cell Phone Use sign as she came in. Apparently Fairchild didn’t think it applied to him as he grunted thanks and started punching in another number. She returned to her puzzle, tapping the page with her pencil. Six letters. Museum supporters.

Goddamn civic duty, Jake, he said. I'm going to miss the meeting. Tell Waters I'll give on the environmental if he'll get the city off my back. Hell, the contract looks good enough to me. Stop trying to fuck things up.

Donors? Cassie thought.

Fairchild nudged her arm again. Easels, he said, punching in another number. Nodding at him with a small smile, she penciled in the letters. It worked. Now the a fit in 121 down: satay, Asian appetizer.

Me again. Call Waters, make with the nice words. I want this deal, Barbara. He punched out without another good-bye. 143 across is Iberia, he said.

The clue was It borders France. She nodded once before writing it in. Thank you, Mr. Fairchild.

Save my seat. He was off up the center aisle, pushing through the crowd.

As he went through the doors under the sign for rest rooms, she got up and moved next to a young woman on the other side of the aisle. If there was one thing that ticked her off it was people who put their noses in her crossword puzzle. Paul used to do it, just to irritate her when they'd had some inane disagreement.

The volume on the television rose as one of the clerks started a video. The responsibilities and duties of jurors are.... The narrator spoke in the unemotional tones of a sixth grade health teacher beginning a class on sex education. Don't make an independent investigation. Never inspect the scene of the crime except under supervision....

From the general disregard in the room, Cassie decided most of these people, like Mr. Fairchild, were not planning on ending up in the jury box. She wondered if he'd even come back. He was probably inventing another excuse about how important his time was.

Don't discuss the case during trial...if anyone tries to influence you...it is your legal duty to report this to the judge right away.

When the tape was rewound and started over, Cassie returned to her book. She glanced at a young man who took the seat on her other side and saw Fairchild standing at the end of the row, gesturing at her with that familiar grin. She shrugged.

The room gradually quieted as an imposing gentleman in a black robe entered. He had a full head of steel gray hair and the lean look of an active person. His deep-set eyes scanned the up-turned faces patiently. Bony hands strung with blue veins and knotted tendons rested on a monstrous silver and turquoise belt buckle that protruded through the folds of his robe.

I'm Simon Schumacher, judge of the county of Lake, State of Illinois, etc. etc. He produced a gruff chuckle and the assembled chosen responded, as though the television monitor had a laugh track. It's an honor to be citizens of a country that allows all of its people to participate in the judicial system, a free country of citizens with rights. That includes those who have gone astray of the law and require judgment. They need your services and it is good of you to participate in the system and do your duty. Thank you for coming.

He cleared his throat, as though to scrape the gravel from his voice. The clerk will...

I'd rather take my chances with a Ouiji board than this civic minded group of my peers. The words were a shallow whisper behind Cassie's ear. Fairchild again.

Judge Schumacher finished his dissertation and briefly described the selection process; a lottery plucked from bubbling ping pong balls deep in the belly of the computer.

Like the draft in the old days, Fairchild whispered. Civic duty, Russian roulette style.

Cassie swung around in her seat. Be quiet, Fairchild.

Seventy-eight, called the clerk.

Cassie was startled and remained facing the man behind her, her gaze caught on his dark eyes.

His glance shifted to her badge and he grinned with childish delight. Is that your lucky number, cookie?

She jumped up and started toward the front of the room, flushing as he called after her. Keep those buttons buttoned, flash.

Pretending not to hear, she followed the old man in the uniform who led the first fifteen numbers out of the assembly room.

Back to Table of Contents

Chapter 2

The woman next to Cassie remarked softly, Lucky us. First numbers out of the box.

Cassie felt lucky just to get away from nutty Fairchild.

Maybe it'll be a big juicy case, like my first one, the woman continued. Child molester. Gawd, I had nightmares. Kid in a bucket down a well.

How horrible, Cassie said. Boy down a well. I remember one little boy,....only no one would listen.

The group moved through the dim hallway and started up a flight of concrete stairs.

The photos they showed us, the woman said with relish, baby boy burned with cigarettes, girl with broken ribs.

Cassie didn’t want to hear it and gained two steps on the woman as they rounded the last turn on the second flight. She shouldered next to a man in a white suit. He was humming in time to each step. The group behind her was breathing heavily, setting up little whooshing sounds as they came through the heavy steel door onto the fourth floor.

Their footsteps were muffled now as they moved down a wide carpeted hall lined with double doors of light colored wood. They were quiet, respectful, as though filing into church. She could hear the white-suited man's soft humming, a tiny choir of one. Two policemen stood waiting opposite the open doors. They nodded at the bent old man in the uniform who led the prospective jurors into the courtroom.

The walls were paneled in the same wood and reflected the high fluorescent beams softly. Tightly woven carpeting buffered the sounds of jostling people as they settled on a bench at the front of the courtroom. Organ music would have been appropriate. A raised platform held a series of desks of ascending heights, like lofts of bleached oak waiting for the white-robed singers. The judge sat at the