Tortured Dreams

My plane landed in Kansas City. Everything I owned was packed into seven large containers and three suitcases, the containers were mostly books. The suitcases were clothes, computer equipment, CDs and DVDs. Lucas had called Goodwill to have my furniture picked up.

  Lucas and Xavier had flown most of my belongings back. It turned out the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit had their own plane. We had not flown back with them. I had a suitcase, Nyleena, an ID card and a set of keys.

  In theory, I had a job to do before I went to my new apartment. I had to go furniture shopping. This was an easy fix. Nyleena stopped at a furniture outlet store on the way.

  I ordered a bed, a couch, a two person dining room table and two chairs, a recliner, an end table and three book cases. Nyleena frowned at me as I handed them my debit card. I understood her frustration. But my somewhat odd and compulsive behavior triumphed over her disapproval. They made arrangements for delivery.

  That was going to be a nightmare and a half. Nyleena called the apartment building to tell them about the delivery while I drove. We had one more stop to make.

  “Aislinn! Nyleena! Thank god, you are both ok!” My mother squealed as we entered her living room.

  “Hi mom,” we both said in unison. It didn’t seem to matter that she was actually Nyleena’s aunt. She was “mom” to everyone. She was the mother that everyone loved and adored.

  “What are you doing here?” My mom asked. Nyleena had moved her to KC when I had gone off to college. My father had a good pension and an even better life insurance policy. She worked two days a week now as a librarian at a local municipal library.

  “I came to get my car,” I told her.

  “Your car?” She frowned for a second.

  “Yep, I’m moving, no, moved back?” I made it a question.

  “Where are you staying? Do you want your room?” She was suddenly in motion.

  “Nope, I’m doing some consultant work for the Marshals mom, so I have an apartment in Nyleena’s building for the next six months. That will give me plenty of time to find a place.”

  “Are you sure?” She asked.

  “Yep, I’m sure. If I don’t find a place at the end of the six months, I may come back for a while, but…” I shrugged at her.

  “Always so independent,” my mother gave me a smile. “So, I heard about your latest adventure.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you did,” I told her.

  “Malachi came and told me everything, including that you were all right and that the Marshal Service wanted to use you for a case.”

  “How’s he treating you?” I asked her.

  “Same ol’ Malachi,” even Malachi called my mom “Mom”. I wasn’t sure anyone except me knew her first name.

  My mom disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a glass of tea, a glass of milk and two pieces of pie. She set the tray down in front of us. I got the glass of milk; Nyleena the tea. We both took them and the small plates of pie.

  “Secure housing is probably a good idea for you,” mom said as I forked in another chunk of the apple pie.

  “That’s what I think,” Nyleena agreed.

  “It will be interesting.” I said.

  “You aren’t happy to be back?” Mom asked.

  “Oh, I am. Washington wasn’t working out either, but…” I shrugged.

  I had this enormous sense of impending doom when I lived close to my mother. She knew it. I had told her many times that if anyone with a gun ever showed up on her front door, she was to shoot first and ask questions later. My family was stuck in a pattern of violence. I couldn’t imagine anyone gunning down the 63 year old woman who baked pies, had grandchildren and loved SyFy Original Movies, but weirder things happened all the time.

  “Aislinn,” my mother pursed her lips together. “I’m a big girl, capable of taking care of myself. Sometimes, more so than you. I may not be as quick with a knife or eager to retaliate in self-defense, but I’m not an idiot and I’m not feeble.”

  “I know, I know,” I finished off my pie. “But I feel I put you in unnecessary danger.”

  “Non-sense. My family has never put me in unnecessary danger.” That was a point that could be argued either way. I dropped it.

  “Anyway, since I’m going to be living in the area, I figured I might as well get my car,” I said.

  “Do you need help with furniture or clothing or anything?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah, she needs cookware; we’ve gotten the rest of it.” Nyleena quipped.

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list tomorrow. I have to go to the store anyway.” Mom said.

  “Thanks, mom,” I said to her. My mother always made me feel sad. “How are the kids?”

  “Growing like weeds, you will hardly recognize any of them.” She grinned and got up. She grabbed a couple of pictures and showed them to me. My nieces and nephews were indeed growing like weeds. It had been a few years since I had seen them. They had gotten to be teens in that time.

  My sister was 18 years older than me. She was 31 with a husband and three kids when she died. Her best friend was in an abusive relationship and had just found out she was pregnant. My sister had slipped over while the boyfriend was at work. They were leaving when he returned home early. He emptied an entire clip from a .45 into her. She died instantly.

  My father was dispatched to a shots fired domestic disturbance. When he arrived, he and his partner were both gunned down by a semi-automatic as they made their way to the building. The gunman shot my sister’s friend with the semi-automatic too.

  Four years later, he was released. Not because he wasn’t guilty, but because he had been high on cocaine and found a loop-hole. My brother, seeing the pain my mother went through over that release, took a sniper’s rifle up to the roof of a building and shot him in the head. At the time, my brother had been 33. He had been married with four children and a fifth on the way.

  That should have been the end of the story. But it isn’t. Feeling empowered and half-mad with grief, my brother took vigilantism to the extreme and started popping off prisoners inside the fence. He was convicted under the then new “Mass and Serial Killer Law” as a mass murder and sentenced to life without parole inside The Fortress.

  Their exes still make sure that my mother and I have contact with the children. Hell, my sister-in-law refuses to divorce my brother and is now an advocate for wrongful imprisonment due to severe emotional distress. Which is ironically, what got the murderer released in the first place.

  My mother stopped visiting my brother at The Fortress because he asked her to. I have never been. I’m not on his approved visitor’s list. He wouldn’t add my name. I was seventeen when he went to jail.

  My parents didn’t raise us wrong. We were just touched by lots of tragedy. It happens.

  My mother was still chattering away about the grandkids, when I snapped back into the conversation. She stopped and frowned at me.

  “I hate when you turn off like that,” she scolded me.

  “Sorry, I try not to, sometimes, it just happens.”

  “We really need to get going anyway. Thanks for the pie and I’ll make sure that Aislinn visits you now that she’s home. Also, here’s her address.” Nyleena scribbled down my apartment number. “I’ll put you on the security list for her as well as me.”

  “Thank you, Nyleena. You two girls stay safe and keep your heads down,” my mom stood up, hugged us both and handed me the keys to my car.

  “In the garage?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she answered. One tear formed, slipped from her eye and was deftly wiped away. If you hadn’t been staring at her, you wouldn’t have noticed. It was a trick she had perfected.

  I entered the garage, alone. There were two cars. One was a Nissan Pathfinder, newer model, painted black. The other was a 1969 Dodge Charger. The Charger was mine. It got about 12 miles to the gallon, made lots of noise and wasn’t exactly inconspicuo
us. However, my dad had started building the car for me when I was eight. When he died, my brother finished it for me. It was built with their blood and sweat. I had fond memories of handing both of them wrenches, nut drivers, oil, whatever they needed.

  It took a couple of turns before the motor cranked. It whined before settling into a deep, bass rumble that could be felt in your body. I listened to the rumble and sighed. I loved being home; I just wasn’t sure about the circumstances.

  Chapter 10