Wake to Darkness. Maggie Shayne
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he stared at the photo, realizing it had come through several hours ago, a car blew its horn behind him and a new text message popped up, this one from Rachel’s phone. Ordered Chinese. What’s ur ETA?
He went through the light, then pulled off the road so he could reply. The other vehicle flew by him, and he secretly hoped for a speed trap up ahead.
20 min, he texted back. Want me 2 pickup?
Sent kids. C U soon.
On my way.
He looked at the phone for a long minute. Okay, there was some interesting stuff going on in his sappy regions at the moment. Stuff that bore further mulling.
He clicked the button to make the shot his background image. It made him feel good to look at it, and Rachel’s books were always saying when something feels good, pay attention to it. It was good advice, even if she didn’t always practice it herself and claimed to think it was complete bull.
He looked at her face, her full mouth wide open in a shout but somehow managing to smile at the same time. She’d relived a murder last night—lived it from the perspective of the victim. But today she was raising hell in the snow with her dog and his nephew. Yeah, maybe she didn’t think she practiced what she preached, but he was pretty sure he’d just been given photographic proof that she did.
He put the car back into gear, and headed onto the highway and back toward home.
* * *
I had more fun that day than I’d had since I got my eyesight back—not counting my one-nighter with Mason, which was the most fun I’d ever had. Ever. By the time the younger generation had been thoroughly exposed to the genius of Joe Dante through Gremlins and Gremlins 2, we had spent close to four hours in front of Mason’s gigantic TV. The sixty-inch HD was his country home’s one concession to modern design. Everything else looked rustic, even though he was wired for sound. He had the fastest internet connection I’d seen—essential, he said, for gaming. And his nephews loved their gaming.
We’d pigged out on Chinese, stashed the leftovers, and then re-pigged out between the two movies. We topped the evening off with warm chocolate chip cookies—the kind that came in preperforated squares you just broke apart and threw into the oven—and milk, because there was no point to warm chocolate chip cookies if you weren’t going to dunk them in milk.
And then, as the credits rolled, I looked around and realized I wasn’t in Mason’s living room anymore. I was lying on my back on the floor staring at the ceiling of a room that wasn’t familiar to me. The light fixture above my head had a ceiling fan attached—but Mason doesn’t have a ceiling fan—ivory-colored blades shaped like palm fronds or something. It wasn’t running. I tried to get a better look around me, because my current view only gave me a glimpse of the ceiling and the upper two feet of the walls. Oddly, though, I couldn’t turn my head.
Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit, it’s another dream.
Something blocked out the light, and something else kicked me in the side, rolling me over so my right cheek was pressed to the floor, my right arm underneath my body.
Wake up, dammit. Wake up!
I felt something tear my blouse up the back, and I knew what was coming. The blade would be next. The cutting. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scrunch my face up in fear, but I couldn’t move at all. I felt the warmth of tears welling in my eyes and spilling over, running along my nose and onto the floor.
If you can’t wake up, then look. See what’s around you so you can remember.
Hardwood floor under my cheek. Mint-green paint on the walls. A brown sofa with wooden claw feet and a crocheted blanket with too many colors to count. Black, white, orange, red—
The blade sliced a path of fire across my back and lower left side, and every ounce of reason left me. Inside, my mind I was screaming. But I couldn’t even open my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. I lay there, completely helpless as the knife cut deeper, and I prayed for death to come fast.
It didn’t.
4
1:00 a.m. Sunday, December 17
Mason had dozed off on the sofa. The kids had taken every other seat in the room, Jeremy in the reclining chair, Misty in the overstuffed one that matched the sofa and Josh was in a beanbag chair on the floor. Leaving him and Rachel the sofa. He didn’t know if it had been intended or not, but they’d taken opposite ends, partly because the corner between the arm and the back was the most comfortable spot on any couch, but mostly because they didn’t want to get too close to each other. In his case, he didn’t want to slip up in front of the kids, absentmindedly start rubbing her leg or something. You could get into a movie to the point that your body sometimes acted on impulse without bothering to check in first. That was how you could crunch through an extra-large tub of popcorn in the theater, only to look down later and wonder who ate your snack.
Like that.
He didn’t know what her reasons were, but he kind of hoped they were similar.
So he’d fallen asleep. And it looked as if they all had, except for Rachel, because she wasn’t on the couch anymore. Sitting up and frowning, Mason scanned the room for her.
She was on the floor, facedown, with her head turned toward him. Her eyes were open—wide open—and there were tears streaming from them. Something was wrong with her. Her entire body kept going rigid, then relaxing, then rigid again. Her dog was beside her, whining and pawing at her shoulder.
Mason swore and dropped to his knees, rolling her over onto her back, moving on sheer instinct. “Rachel, what’s happening? What’s going on? Can you talk to me? Rachel?”
He heard the kids stirring as he shook her, trying to rouse her. “Rachel?”
She blinked, then her eyes flashed even wider as she sucked in a sudden desperate breath that must have filled her lungs to bursting. A nanosecond later she opened her mouth to scream, but he clapped a hand over it to keep her from scaring the hell out of everyone and put his face right in front of hers. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay.”
She pulled away, scuttling out from under him. Then she sat up and reached around to her lower back, pushing up her shirt and running her palms over her skin. She was breathing fast and hard, her face damp with tears and sweat. And it was hitting him that she’d been having another dream.
“You’re at my house, Rache. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
“My back is bleeding.”
“No, no it’s not.” On his knees, he moved closer to her, ran his own hands all over her back, up and down her skin, then brought them around and showed her. “See? There’s not a scratch on you.”
She closed her eyes in obvious relief. “It wasn’t me.”
Josh was still asleep, thank God, but Jeremy was up now. Misty, too, standing beside him. “Was it another nightmare, Aunt Rache?” she asked. She looked scared to death for her aunt.
Rachel nodded. “Yeah.”
“Can I get you something? What do you want me to do?”
“I’m fine. I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay,” Misty said.
Jeremy crossed the room, opened a built-in floor-to-ceiling cabinet that was original to the house, reached to the top shelf and took down a bottle of Black Velvet and a tumbler. He poured and brought the glass to her.
“Thanks, kid.” She slugged it back in a single gulp and set the glass down. Mason made a mental note to ask his nephew how the hell he knew where the liquor was kept. Tomorrow. It was one-something in the morning, and he needed some privacy with Rachel.
“Why don’t you two take Josh up to bed? Misty, there’s an empty bedroom up there you and Rachel can use for tonight. Jeremy