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    The Dream Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #2
    The Dream Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #2
    The Dream Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #2
    Ebook396 pages7 hours

    The Dream Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #2

    By charles fisher

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    About this ebook

    Shannon is back, looking for a scientist who has threatened to destroy the planet by reversing the magnetic field with an electromagnetic pulse weapon. Her friends join her in the search as the clock ticks on Earth's destiny. A bit lighter than The Hurricane Killer, more humor and interplay with her friends.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishercharles fisher
    Release dateJan 7, 2016
    ISBN9781524299996
    The Dream Killer: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #2

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      The Dream Killer - charles fisher

      Table of Contents

      Headquarters, The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut | April 22, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 22, 1999

      Georgetown University | Washington, DC | April 23, 1999

      Bridgeport, Connecticut | The National Informant | April 24, 1999

      The Calvin Press | Stamford, Connecticut

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 24, 1999

      The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut

      Stratford, Connecticut | Spring, 1958

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 24, 1999

      Stratford, Connecticut | Winter, 1961

      Glen Cove, Long Island, New York | April 25, 1999

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 25, 1999

      Stratford, Connecticut | Fall, 1964

      Stratford, Connecticut | June, 1965

      Republic of Vietnam | January, 1966

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 25, 1999

      Princeton University | Princeton, New Jersey, 1966

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 25, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 25, 1999

      Georgetown University | Washington, DC | Fall, 1972

      Long Island, New York | April 25, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 25, 1999

      Georgetown University | Summer, 1976

      Long Island, New York | April 26, 1999

      Georgetown University | Summer, 1989

      Long Island, New York | April 27, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | Chicago-O'Hare International Airport | April 27, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 27, 1999

      Georgetown University | Winter, 1998

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 28, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 28, 1999

      The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut | April 28, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 28, 1999

      Bridgeport, Connecticut | The National Informant | April 28, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 28, 1999

      The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut | April 28, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 28, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 29, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 29, 1999

      Long Island, New York | April 29, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 29, 1999

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 29, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | April 29, 1999

      Stratford, Connecticut | April 30, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | May 1, 1999

      The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut | May 3, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | May 7, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | May 8, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | June 1, 1999

      The End

      Headquarters, The National Informant

      Bridgeport, Connecticut

      April 22, 1999

      I got a guy who ate his own arm, Rick Michaels smirked. He sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his massive chest, and stared at the other people in the room with a self satisfied look on his face. He also had some of the pizza he'd eaten for lunch on his face, but he didn't know that. Nobody was going to tell him, either, competition being what it was at the National Informant.

      Logan Harwood, owner and Editor in Chief, leaned forward onto his elbows, put his hands over his face, and shook his head slowly. He had never quite gotten used to the tabloid world since taking over the paper for his wife, who had inherited it from her father. He had been trained as a traditional journalist at Columbia, and the horrors and gossip of the rag sheets still amazed and sickened him.

      I don't believe this, he mumbled softly. How the hell can a man eat his own arm?

      This is great, Michaels grinned. You're gonna love this. He was a farmer, and lost the arm above the elbow in a tractor accident. He was reading a porn magazine while he was plowing the spuds, and fell off when the thing hit a bump. His idiot wife and two sons  couldn't get him to a hospital right away, so they stuck the arm in the freezer and clamped the stump off to stop the bleeding.

      Don't tell me any more, Harwood groaned. I don't want to hear this.

      "You have to hear it, Michaels said. You're the boss."

      Don't remind me, Harwood said, and poured himself a cup of coffee. When he thought  no one was looking, he slipped the cup under the conference table and added an inch of Irish whiskey.

      Anyway, Michaels went  on, by the time they got him to the hospital it was too late. The doctors said the arm couldn't be reattached because they froze the goddamn thing. Six weeks later, after the asshole healed up, he had a big fight with his wife. To get even with him, she made a meat loaf out of the arm and fed it to him for supper.

      Jesus, Harwood muttered, and sipped at his coffee. He couldn't help but notice that his hand was shaking badly. He set the cup down and looked around the table. What else do you have? Carl?

      Carl Kowalski flipped through his notes, an evil grin on his face.

      I got that beat, he said. I got a guy who lost his dick in a vacuum cleaner.

      You've got to be kidding me, Harwood said softly, looking away. Tell me you're kidding me.

      Hey, this is the tabloids, Carl said. What do you want us to cover, tea parties? This is front page stuff, you ask me. The cops got a 911 call from the guy's neighbor, who heard him screaming. When they got there, he was laying on the floor buck naked with the hose of a shop vac on his johnson. They had to amputate it. We have pictures, too. Carl closed his manila folder and stared at Rick Michaels defiantly.

      Harwood topped off his coffee with more whiskey and pointed at Ann Coleman, a tall, voluptuous  brunette of forty who had a journalism degree from Yale. She also had a sick, twisted imagination and a penchant for gore, mayhem, and human suffering. She had turned down an editorial position with the New York Times to go to work for the Informant, which showed where her priorities lay.

      You're next, Harwood sighed. "I'm afraid to ask what you have."

      I found a real psycho, Ann said triumphantly. Crazier than any of this other weak shit you amateurs dug up.

      Who is he, your last date? Michaels chuckled.

      Your last date had antlers, Ann  shot back. "I haven't spoken to him in person yet, but I did converse with him on the phone. He wants to end the world, and he says he has the means to do so. He's a very bad boy," she smirked.

      I like the dick story better, Assistant Editor Randall Greeves piped up in a bored tone.

      You would, Ann said. I've seen what you download off the web. This guy is for real; he went on for about ten minutes with all this technical jargon. It was very impressive.

      "What did he say?"  Harwood groaned. We don't have all day.

      "We don't have all month, if what this goof says is true. He has some sort of machine that will do something to the magnetic field. He claims it will flip the planet around so that the poles are at the Equator, which will melt all the ice."

      What kind of scientific principle does that involve? Harwood asked.

      How the hell should I know? Ann snorted. I'm a journalist, not a scientist.

      "That would be scien-tits, in your case," Carl Kowalski leered. Ann gave him the finger and dug through her paperwork.

      Here it is, she said. He calls it a pulse jolt generator.

      I find that hard to swallow, Greeves said.

      "I'll bet that's the first time you ever said that," Ann said.

      Very funny, Greeves sighed. Like your personality, your story sucks. Who else has anything?

      Two other reporters threw in their lot, but their finds were flimsy.

      All right, Harwood sighed. You do it, Greeves. I don't have the stomach for it.

      We lead with the dick story, Greeves said immediately, giving Ann a vicious look. She made an obscene gesture with her mouth and a pen, then went back to her notes. The arm story can be on page three, above the fold. That actress with the leaky breast implants is still on hold for page two. We don't have confirmation yet. Coleman, you can peddle your tripe to the lits. Any complaints, you can kiss my ass.

      I can't bend over that far, you dirty little fucking midget, Ann said.

      I hear you can, if a fifty dollar bill is involved, Greeves said.

      How about a title? Kowalski crowed, thrilled to come out on top.

      Horny Half-wit Humps Hoover, Greeves said with a wicked smile.

      How about Mechanical Mistress Makes Minced Meat, Ann said.

      Use mine, Greeves intoned snottily. Questions?

      Why bother, Ann said as she stood up. You never answer them. I still think you're making a mistake. This could be big.

      Once she was back in her office, Ann flipped grabbed her rolodex. The lits, as Greeves had called them, were writers who were willing to pay the Informant for unused story material.

      Little cocksucker, she muttered as her thoughts drifted to the imperious, mousy  bastard who had dumped her story like so much trash. I shouldn't even do this. This is a good story. She knew, however, that to defy the Assistant Editor's orders was to court disaster. He was related to Logan Harwood's wife, and had been with the Informant forever.

      Ann found the number she was looking for and began dialing the phone.

      We'll see about you, you little pud gobbler, she said softly as she waited for the line to ring.

      Greenwich, Connecticut

      April 22, 1999

      ––––––––

      Shannon Flynn woke to the jangling telephone and threw her pillow at it. The receiver fell onto the floor, where it lay patiently waiting for her to gain full consciousness.

      This better be good, she grumbled as she swung her long legs over the edge of the bed. Two beer cans and a popcorn bag fell onto the floor, and her expensive silk teddy caught on the open drawer of her night stand and ripped as she knelt down to retrieve the phone. She tore it off and threw it into a  wastebasket, grabbed the phone, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

      Okay, she sighed into the phone. Who has the nerve to wake me up at nine thirty?

      "Well fucking excuse me," Ann laughed. I forgot. Rich authors don't jump out of bed at the crack of dawn.

      I don't know anybody named Dawn, Shannon mumbled. And even if I did, I wouldn't jump at her crack. Sorry, I like guys.

      I'll bet you aren't as sorry as the guys are, Ann said.

      Ask the one in the trunk of my car. What do you want, Coleman? I'm naked. This call just cost me a two hundred dollar teddy.

      Aw, poor baby. Greeves didn't like my latest story, and he wants me to peddle it. It’s a good story. You need any material?

      Shannon ran her hand through her long platinum hair and tried to focus her gray eyes on the calendar across the room.

      What's today? she asked.

      Thursday. What are you, drunk again?

      I resemble that remark, Shannon said haughtily. "I was just trying to figure out when my next deadline is. I know it's Thursday, bucket ass. I meant the date. I can't see the calendar."

      April twenty second, old timer. Your eyes failing?

      "Old timer this, you aged skank, Shannon laughed. I just turned thirty four. My age finally equaled out with my IQ."

      You want this deal?

      Depends. What is it, and how much do they want?

      A grand, like always. Cash flow for the pulp machine. I don't want to do it that way, though. This is a big one, and I'd like to jump on it myself.

      Now you sound like my last date. What do you have? Besides that nasty feminine itch, that is.

      Some guy who says he's going to short circuit the magnetic field and turn the whole planet around so all the polar ice melts.

      Damn, Shannon swore softly. "Don't you just hate it when they do that? Now what am I supposed to do? The power will go out, and I won't have anyplace to plug in my vibrator. There goes my sex life."

      "At least you have a sex life, Ann said. Power tools make my hair frizz."

      Where, on your back or under your arms? Shannon smirked.

      Farther down, Ann said. What I'd like to do is investigate this myself. You can help me. You're still a licensed private investigator, right?

      If I remembered to pay my fee, I am. What year is this?

      Wake up and smell the Summer's Eve, fish girl. You know what year it is. You want to help me check this out? If this guy is on the level, we're screwed royally.

      I've never been screwed royally, Shannon said pensively. I dated a prince once, but he turned out to be impotent. But if this really has your tampon in a knot, I'll help you out. I'm not doing much right now.

      "You don't have to do anything, judging from the sales of your last book. How many copies of that thing did you sell, anyway?"

      Three million, I think. Hey, you lock up the world's best selling author for murder and you'll sell books, too.

      I hear he beat you though, Ann said. Five million and counting.

      Indeed he had. Warren Vane, the world's best selling author and current resident of Creedmoor Hospital, had written a book about his life and serial murder hobby that was permanently ensconced in the number one spot on the best seller list.

      Yeah, and I talked him into writing it. Silly me. All right, she sighed, would you like to come down here? I make the criminals in Bridgeport too nervous.

      Sure, I like Greenwich. Every time I see  those mansions, it makes me cry.

      I do that when I see my mortgage payment, Shannon said.

      "You have a mortgage payment? What do you do with all your money?"

      Hey,  you'd be surprised how easy it is to spend five or six million bucks. Things are expensive down here.

      What a loser, Ann snickered. I'll see you at noon. Do you think you can manage to drag your dead ass out of bed by then?

      I'll try, Shannon yawned, and hung up.

      Ten minutes later, as steamy hot water washed the slumber from her body, Shannon reflected on what Ann had said. Magnetic field. Short circuit. Melt all the polar ice. Gee, I wonder what that would do to the ocean level.

      Shit, she sighed as she turned off the water. We're going to have to check this out. I can't swim worth a damn.

      Ann turned onto Horseneck Road and followed it to Serenity Way, where she stopped at a guard post blocking the street. A white gloved, preppy looking  young man phoned Shannon to verify the appointment, then waved Ann through.

      First right, he said. All the way to the end.

      I know where it is, Ann said, and continued on her way. The guard immediately came out and poured some absorbent onto the small puddle of oil her 1957 Chrysler 300 convertible had left, staring malevolently at her as she drove away.

      There were two houses on Fairview Drive; Shannon's limestone mansion, which had been built for Douglas Fairbanks in the thirties and was perched on a hill overlooking the bay, and a monstrous Greek revival masterpiece rumored to be occupied by one of Hollywood's biggest stars. Shannon's gate was open, and Ann drove up the long, curving driveway leading to the house. Two men from a landscaping service were trimming some shrubs, while another crew worked at opening the Olympic size swimming pool for summer use.

      What a dump, Ann sighed as she shut the big car off. Shannon emerged from the house dressed in short shorts and bunny slippers, an aluminum roasting pan in her hand.

      Here, she said, handing the pan to Ann. Put this under this leaky old piece of shit you drive before it bleeds to death all over my driveway. Why don't you buy a decent car? You make lots of money working for that scumbag paper, don't you?

      This happens to be a collector's car, Ann snorted as she shoved the pan under the Chrysler. "I spent forty thousand dollars having it restored. It's worth  three times that much now. It just has a leaky gasket, is all. I haven’t had time to get it fixed. And the Informant is not a scumbag paper, I'll have you know."

      Oh sure, Shannon scoffed. Your last lead story was about a kid who exploded his baby sister in a microwave oven after she pissed and shit on him. Real high class stuff you print.

      Did you like the title? Ann giggled. Greeves, in one of his better moments, had labeled the story Pee, Poop, Pop.

      Why do you work for that rag? Shannon asked. You can do much better than that.

      "I don't want to do better than that. I like tabloid journalism. Besides, I make good money. Not as much as you, of course, she said, waving at the panoramic scenery of Shannon's magnificent six million dollar estate, but I don't have to work if I don't want to."

      I do, Shannon sighed. Let's go inside.

      As they headed for the house, one of the shrub trimmers stared blatantly at Ann's lush body as she walked by. See that? she giggled, elbowing Shannon. I've still got it.

      You do? They sell cream for that now, Shannon laughed as they went into the foyer. "Hey, maybe you can get him to trim your bush."

      Very funny, Ann said.  They sat down in Shannon's imposing, but mostly unused  kitchen. I still don't understand how you manage to piss away all that money you make. You should get some people to handle your finances.

      I have them, Shannon said. They're called credit card companies.

      What on Earth could you possibly need to buy? Ann exclaimed. It looks like you have everything anybody could want.

      I had to buy this, Shannon grinned, and slipped off a solid gold Rolex with a diamond studded face and bracelet. You ought to get one of these. Only forty five grand. Ann looked at the extravagant piece of jewelry and pushed it back to Shannon.

      No thanks. I have a twenty dollar Timex, and it works just fine.

      Figures, Shannon said. You never would spend a nickel, would you? Why not?

      I'm not trying to replace my life with trinkets, Ann said softly. Shannon looked away.

      That's not fair, she said. That's a cheap shot, and you know it.

      Sorry, but I'm a journalist and  call them the way I see them.

      Then look elsewhere, Shannon said. I'm perfectly happy alone.

      Sure, Ann sighed. Anyway, I didn't come here to play radio shrink. You want to see some of the shit I got from this nut? It's pretty wild stuff.

      "And that from a woman who writes stories about decapitated husbands whose  severed heads are mailed to their mistresses. This must be good."

      Hey, he asked for it. That was a good story.

      Warren Vane would be proud of you. I hear he reads your shitty paper every week, and he's a  psycho serial killer.

      That's the best recommendation a tabloid writer could hope for. Here; take a gander at this. Ann pushed her notes across to Shannon, who perused them carefully. When she was finished, she pushed them back to Ann.

      I don't understand this, she said quietly.

      Who does? Deranged human minds are beyond understanding.

      No, dimwit, Shannon said, "I don't understand your notes. What do I look like, Edward Teller? I'm an ex-cop and a mystery writer. What do I know about the magnetic field? All I know is I sit here and cry if the cable TV goes out."

      All right, Ann sighed. I'll have to find an expert who understands this stuff. I have a vague grasp of what he meant, but it wouldn't hurt to check it out further before we go look for this guy.

      Why did he call you, anyway? Why not call the government?

      "We call it the I told you so  syndrome. People who intend to do something drastic like this will often call the tabloids, because they know we'll print the story in a heartbeat whereas the so called responsible media won't. The government would sit on the story while they had the FBI check it out, so he wouldn't get any publicity. Everybody will dismiss it as horse shit when we print it, and then he can laugh when it comes true."

      "But you aren't going to print it."

      Not yet,  but if I can develop the story Greeves might change his mind.

      "It probably is horse shit, Shannon said. But what the hell, horse shit is my middle name. Maybe I can get a good book out of it."

      Are you in? Ann asked eagerly.

      Sounds like something I said to my last date, Shannon muttered. Yeah, what the hell. I'm in.

      Good. I'll call some of the local colleges and see if I can dig up a professor we can talk to who knows about this crap.

      Don't call Sacred Heart, Shannon said quickly. I'm not.......welcome there.

      Oh really? Ann said. I can't imagine why. What did you do now?

      They invited me to give a talk to one of their creative writing classes. The professor grabbed my ass,  and  I put him in traction for six weeks.

      You always were a lovable sort, Ann laughed. No Sacred Heart, then. Are there any other institutions of higher learning where you aren't welcome?

      Well, there was this one incident at Yale, but he's probably over it by now. I hear penis flesh heals rather easily.

      Jesus, Ann sighed. Let's go get some lunch.

      All that penis talk made you hungry, huh, Shannon grinned. I'll drive.

      Shannon took Ann to a restaurant on Greenwich Avenue, where formally attired waiters brought them little sandwiches with the crust removed.

      This is some joint, Ann smirked.

      Why don't you move down here? Oh, I forgot. You're a cheapskate.

      "Cheap this, you dirtbag. I like Bridgeport just fine. I was born there."

      That doesn't mean you have to stay there. What's the big attraction, other than the fact that the Exxon Valdez you drive doesn't have to burn that much gas to get your lumpy ass to work in the morning?

      Bridgeport has attitude, Ann said. Like me. You, of all people, should appreciate that. You have attitude, don't you?

      That's mental illness, Shannon said. Don't confuse the two. So how's your sex life? Getting any lately?

      The last thing that got laid in my house was new carpeting. Men just don't understand me.

      They understand you, they just can't take the smell. Try some Lysol on that thing, and you might score.

      "I don't see men lined up in front of your digs."

      They can't get past the leg hold traps. Besides, none of them knows what to do with a cattle prod and a jar of duck sauce.

      You're too flat chested, Ann said solemnly. You should get implants.

      Yeah, right. I can just about stand up now. You, on the other hand, should look into electrolysis. And speaking of electricity, just what do you intend to do if this guy who called you is on the level?

      Buy a new bikini, and move to Iceland. I figure that's where all the good beaches are going to be.

      Did you keep his number?

      He didn't leave one, but I got him on caller ID. He said he'll call me back.

      Yeah, right, Shannon snickered. "Like all the other guys who ever told you that. I hope you have call forwarding to the Home for Spinsters Who Can't Get Any ."

      He'll call, Ann said. This is important to him. It's probably all he lives for.

      Some life, Shannon sighed. "Waiting to see if anyone will pay  attention to your threat to wipe out the human species. This guy must really have a small one. Eat your sandwich, huh? They have classy people waiting for these tables."

      Shannon pulled her Rolls Royce Corniche convertible out of the parking lot and headed  for Mason Street. Soon the big automobile was wending its way south on the Post Road.

      Nice car, Ann said. Not too ostentatious. Just like you.

      You should know, Shannon grinned. Nothing about you sticks out, especially your chest.

      I have more than you, stick girl, Ann laughed, as the warm Spring breeze played at her hair.

      Shannon looked away for a few seconds to inspect some tulips in front of a church, then turned back to the road. When she saw what was in front of her, she screamed at Ann.

      Hold on! she bellowed, and yanked the wheel hard to the left.

      A dark haired  man,  wearing a red flannel shirt and driving  an ancient red Pontiac half a block in front of the Rolls, had thrown a cocker spaniel puppy out the window. It cart wheeled across the road, then started to crawl  across Shannon's lane, dragging its little legs behind it.

      The Rolls swerved wildly to the left, then Shannon cranked the wheel all the way to the right. The big car groaned from the effort, its tires screeching madly on the pavement. All Shannon saw was a garbage truck looming up in front of her as the monstrous car careened back into the southbound lane.

      Duck! she yelled, and the $300,000 mass of British extravagance slammed into the back of the truck with a sickening crunch. People began to run out of nearby buildings; Shannon  turned quickly to Ann.

      Are you all right?

      I think so, Ann mumbled. "What the fuck was that?"

      The red Pontiac! Get me a piece of that cocksucker's plate number! she yelled, and dove from the car. Ann reached for a pen and got several of the Pontiac's plate's digits before it took off down a side street.

      Shannon ran back and grabbed the dog, who was whining and yelping in pain. She ran back to the car, where an amazed and shaken garbage truck driver was waiting.

      You all right, lady? he exclaimed.

      I'm fine, Shannon said as she leaped behind the wheel and handed the puppy to Ann. I'll be at the Rolls dealer in about half an hour if you need me. Got any damage?

      No, he sighed. You got it all.

      Good, she grunted, and jammed the car into reverse. Hang on, Coleman, she yelled, and floored the accelerator. The car whipsawed wildly across the Post Road and wound up facing north. Shannon put her foot to the floor and took off with another roar of incinerated  tires.

      How's he doing? she called out.

      Who, me or the dog?

      The dog, asshole, Shannon said.

      I don't know, Ann said, as she looked down at the animal. He doesn't look so good.

      Wait until you see what  I do to that bastard who tossed him, Shannon snarled. You get his plate?

      I got most of it, Ann said. Hurry. He stopped moving.

      Shannon pulled into the Greenwich Veterinary Hospital, grabbed the dog, and bolted into the waiting area. Some bastard threw this dog out of a car, she gasped as she handed over the small furball. The nurse on duty grabbed the puppy and ran into the back. Shannon collapsed into a chair as the adrenaline surge washed  over her body. Jesus Christ, she mumbled. How could anybody do something like that.

      Five minutes later, the vet came out.

      He'll be all right, he said. His hip joint was dislocated. I suggest you leave him here for a day or two.

      Good, Shannon sighed. You call me when he's all right. I might be busy for a few days, so you keep him here until I get back to you. Here's my number. She handed over her card and threw her Visa on the desk. Whatever it takes, she said as the nurse ran the card through the machine.

      He isn't yours, though...... the vet said.

      He is now, Shannon said. She turned for the door, all the energy drained from her body. Outside, the smashed Rolls sat ticking in the lot, a spreading puddle of antifreeze beneath its shattered front end.

      Nice move, animal lover, Ann chided. "You wrecked a two hundred thousand dollar car for

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