Sweet Dreams Read online

  He stirred from his hibernation on Monday morning to the smell of coffee and bacon drifting into his bedroom. He got out of bed with a moan and wandered into the living room in his boxers. “Good morning, Mr. Weston.” Geoff looked at the wild tangle of hair that wrapped his head and face and laughed. “You look like a bear who just awakened from hibernation.”

  Kirk grunted. The guy was always chipper. If it was going to be like this every morning he stayed at his place, there could be a problem, like a slug in the jaw. He shuffled toward the kitchen. “I’m not yet sure if it is good or not, but it’s definitely morning.” He sat on a wooden stool that faced the kitchen counter and rubbed his eyes.

  Geoff placed a cup of black coffee in front of him, followed by a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. “You feeling better?” He sat on a stool next to him, sipping from a mug that said, “Don’t Drink And Drive—You Might Hit A Bump And Spill Your Beer.”

  “Much better. I… Uh… Hey, what happened to my place?” He jumped up. Something was definitely wrong. He liked to live comfortably, but now the apartment looked as if it was a set for a television sitcom. Suddenly, he noticed the smell of bleach and pine, lemon and something else he could not place.

  Geoff laughed. “I cleaned, and I must say it wasn’t a pretty experience. You should get a maid.”

  “Cleaned!? My place was just fine the way it was. How am I supposed to find anything now?” Grumbling, he returned to his breakfast.

  “I did your laundry and put your clean shirts in the closet. You’ll find your pants folded in the dresser.”

  Kirk swore. “Man, you’re some kind of nutcase. I thought my ex was bad.” He wolfed down his breakfast, then reached for more eggs and bacon. “But if you keep up this cooking, I’ll hire you to be my maid.”

  Geoff stood to wash his plate in the sink. “I don’t think you have the money to hire me.”

  “What do you mean? I’m loaded.” Kirk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Geoff arched an eyebrow and began washing the skillet.

  Kirk shoved a final forkful of food into his mouth. “Forget the dishes. We’ve got to get down to the station to see if we can give my boss man a heart attack.” He headed for the door.

  Geoff grabbed his coat and followed Kirk to the parking garage.

  Kirk straddled a Harley Davidson motorcycle with a sidecar and grinned. “Geoff, meet Sandra, my woman.” He loved the beat up old hog, and now he was back in the saddle with her.

  He pointed to the sidecar and laughed devilishly. “That’s where you ride.”

  Geoff eyed the small box for a moment, then stepped inside, folding his long legs like a lawn chair to sit.

  Though the motorcycle had sat silent for over a year, it roared to life on the first kick. A cloud of thick, black smoke billowed from the tailpipe.

  Geoff gagged and coughed.

  * * *

  MARK HEADED STRAIGHT FROM work to the firing range. After taking off-ramp 109, he checked the directions Bert had written on a piece of paper. He made a right and headed out of the city. Ten more miles.

  He could not remember the last time he’d shot a gun, but it had been a long time. He’d hunted a few times in the Colorado mountains with his dad, but they never got much. It was more like hiking with a gun than hunting.

  When he got out of the car, a cutting wind blasted him in the face and snatched his breath away. He shivered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea in cold weather.

  He heard a yell and saw Bert standing in the doorway, waving his arms above his head. He hurried toward his friend.

  Bert pulled him inside the warm building. “I know what you’re thinking. This is crazy. But you’ll be happy to know they have an indoor range in the basement. We’re only allowed to shoot pistols there, but it’s still a hoot.”

  Mark unzipped his coat. “Good. I was thinking we’d have to be insane to shoot in this cold.”

  The building was made of large logs, with cracked, white chinking between them to keep out the wind and the mice. A huge, deer-antler chandelier hung from the ceiling. Its flickering lights danced like candles.

  The front desk had a gun case built into the front, with handguns under the glass. A stocky man stood behind it, polishing a pistol with his well-muscled arms. He looked like he could crush the gun like an empty pop can, but he cleaned the weapon with gentle precision.

  Behind the counter was a wall full of rifles and shotguns of every make and model. A nearby sign indicated the guns were for rent but not for sale. He had a feeling they didn’t want to bother with New York’s strict gun laws.

  Bert walked over to a sitting area by the fireplace and sat on a leather couch.

  Mark stood nearby, letting the heat from the fire soak into his back.

  Bert plopped a black case on the coffee table and opened it, revealing two handguns fitted into the foam lining. One was a silver revolver, while the other was black metal, and looked different.

  “This one is a forty-five caliber Smith and Wesson. It packs a punch. And this is a three-fifty-seven Magnum. This guy could blow a person’s head off his shoulders.” He explained how the pistols worked and how to use the safety, which he said was the most important thing to know.

  “So, which one do I get to shoot?” Mark asked as he looked at the guns gleaming in the firelight.

  “I think you’ll like the forty-five for starters. If you want, you can take your chances with the three-fifty-seven later.” Bert grinned as he handed Mark the smaller gun and a box of bullets.

  After they signed in at the front desk, they trotted down a flight of stairs that opened up to a big room with individual counters separated by half walls. Each lane was about thirty feet long with a target on a pulley at the end. Bert showed Mark how to draw the target back to look at it and how to set up a fresh one.

  Mark hung a fresh target of an angry man pointing a gun at him. He pushed a red button, which activated the pulley and ran the target out as far as it would go, then looked at Bert.

  With his dark hair slicked back and his hands clad in black, fingerless gloves, his coworker looked the part of a gangster wannabe. Mark eyed the three-fifty-seven he clutched in his hand. Definitely not someone he’d like to meet in a dark alley.

  Bert motioned for Mark to shoot first, so he could watch for problems. Other than a few people a few lanes over, they had the place to themselves. Mark put on his earmuffs, then dropped one bullet at a time into the magazine until it was full. He slid the clip into place until he felt it click, then slid the action back and let it drop forward again.

  He tried to remember if he’d ever shot a pistol before. He couldn’t think of a time, but somehow the loaded gun felt natural in his hand. A sense of power came over him as he studied the silver weapon reflecting the lights of the room in his hand. The feeling of remembrance from a far away part of his mind was so powerful, for a minute he felt as though he was in another world. He noticed his hands were shaking. Was he scared?

  Bert nodded at him from the other lane, as if waiting for him to do something besides stand there and look confused.

  He lifted the gun with his right hand, his index finger on the trigger and his left hand cupping the right, just like he’d seen in cop movies. He closed one eye to focus and slow his heartbeat.

  And just like that, it was over. He lifted his head. A whiff of smoke floated from the barrel toward the ceiling. He lowered the handgun and looked over at Bert, who was staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

  Mark was not sure how many times he had fired the gun, so he dropped the clip. It was empty.

  Bert stuttered, “What was that? In all the years I’ve been coming to this range, I’ve never seen anyone shoot that fast. That was awesome!”

  “Was I only supposed to shoot one bullet?”

  Walking around to his booth, Bert took the gun from his hand. He opened the barrel, examined the clip and shook his head. “Well, I don’t know what to say. That was… was amazing. B
ut it’s one thing to shoot fast. Anyone can pop off a clip. Did you hit anything?”

  Mark shrugged his shoulders and looked down the lane but was not sure what the target should look like. It looked the same to him. No huge, gaping holes. Maybe he’d missed.

  Bert hit the button to return the target. As it got closer, light shone through the center like a golf ball had gone through it. Maybe he did hit it.

  “No way.” Bert shook his head, looking as much amazed as disgusted. “No way, man. You said you never shot a pistol before. You’re a dirty, rotten liar.”

  “No, really, I haven’t. I shot a few times when I was younger, but it was a rifle.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  Bert eyed him for a moment. “Must be beginner’s luck. Try that again. I bet you can’t hit a thing this time.”

  “Bet’s on.” Mark held out his hand to shake on it. “Load me up, and let’s see.” He grinned, not knowing if he could do it again or not, but it was fun either way.

  Bert filled the clip and slid it into place, looking sideways at Mark as if he suspected him of cheating somehow.

  Mark took the gun and stepped into the booth. A man from a nearby booth moved behind Mark. “I gotta see this.”

  Slipping his ear protection back on, Mark looked at the new target at the end of the aisle. Closing his eyes, he pictured the enraged man, whose gun pointed at his chest. A wave of raw energy filled his body. He opened his eyes, saw the action slide back and then forward, sending a flash out the end of the barrel.

  Click. A trail of smoke swirled from the end of the barrel.

  Lowering the gun, he scrutinized it, thinking it must have jammed. He dropped the clip and stared in shock at the empty chamber. Mystified, he turned to Bert.

  The two men behind him were staring at him as if he was a celebrity or something.

  “Do it again!” Bert yelled.

  And he did, hammering target after target with golf-ball size holes. Not only that, he emptied the clip in less than four seconds every time.

  Soon, a crowd formed. They cheered as he brought in the last target and held it up for all to see. He could not explain his prowess with a gun. Each time he lifted the pistol, a surge of… of something flowed through him, and he just knew what to do. He lowered the paper and shook his head, watching Bert make fifty bucks off a newcomer.

  After the others returned to their own aisles, Bert showed Mark how to clean the handguns. Then they put them back in the black case.

  “That was something,” said Bert. “You’ve got a natural gift, you know.”

  “Thanks. It felt easy, as if I instinctively knew what to do. I can’t explain it.”

  “Cool. I wish I could shoot like that.” He closed the black carrying case. Mark noticed a huge, hairy man sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace and whispered, “Who’s that? He’s been hanging around all night and looking over at us.”

  Bert glanced at the big man. “That’s Fred. You want to stay away from him. Word is he sells black market guns on the street and is moving a butt load of drugs along with it.”

  “So he just hangs out here, trying to pick up new clients?”

  “Yup, a lot of guys who come here want to buy a gun as soon as they try it. It’s an addicting sport.”

  Mark nodded. He understood the desire. “What about the cops? Doesn’t anyone turn him in for selling guns?”

  “Nope. Most people look the other way. It’s not worth punching a guy that has crazy friends and contacts outside the law. He goes down—and whoever turned him in ends up at the bottom of some lake.”

  After they buttoned their coats, Mark thanked Bert and promised to come with him again.

  Bert grinned. “It has to be on a weekend, so I can wager more bets.”

  Mark rolled his eyes, and they hurried through the cold night air to their cars.

  Bert pulled out of the parking lot first, but Mark sat in his car with the heater running. He stared at the building, wondering if Fred had weapons with him right now. He shook his head and put the car into drive. Don’t be an idiot. Fred’s guns are illegal.

  As he started out the exit, he saw the directions to Pat Rotter’s house sitting on the passenger seat, like an omen prodding him to act. He pulled back into the parking space, turned off the engine, and got out of the car. What was he doing? He wasn’t a hero or a detective. He was just an ordinary guy.

  Inside the building, he weaved his way over to where Fred was sitting. When Fred saw him, he grinned, showing his blackened teeth, or what was left of them.

  “You got a minute?” Mark sat on an overstuffed chair across from the large man.

  Fred removed a fat cigar from his mouth. “What can I do for you this fine evening?” Smoke poured from between his lips as he spoke.

  Mark lowered his voice. “I need a gun.”

  “Ah, I see. Now, what kind of gun are we looking for, I wonder.” His voice rumbled from deep within his heavy chest. After a bout with a nasty cough, he shoved the cigar back into his mouth and took a long pull.

  Mark leaned toward the obese man. “I need something for home protection. Something that can take out more than one person at a time. You know—close up. Do you have anything like that?”

  Fred’s thick beard bounced like a mass of irritated worms as he laughed long and hard. He coughed after each laugh, which sent him doubling over for a few seconds, until he caught his breath. Finally, he sat up. “I think I got what you might be looking for. Follow me.” Wheezing like a forge, he pushed himself off the couch and headed to a side door that led to the parking lot, bypassing the front desk. He led Mark to an old, paint-chipped car with a long nose and huge trunk.

  Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he opened the trunk and removed a black carrying case. The case looked a lot like the one Bert had, but it was much larger and heavier, judging from the way Fred grunted and groaned when he lifted it out of the deep trunk.

  Mark zipped his coat to his chin and peered into the strange man’s car, wondering what he might see, wondering if he was losing his mind. K would have had a fit and Maria would probably pass out if she knew he was not only standing in a cold, dark parking lot with a drug dealer but considering buying an illegal, unregistered gun from the man.

  Fred scanned the parking lot, then turned to him. “This is a riot gun—or a modified shotgun. It holds nine shells and is semi-auto.” He pointed to a little slide on the side.

  Mark liked the look of the weapon. It had a short barrel and was a dull, black color with a light mounted to the side, so the shooter could see what he or she was aiming at in the dark.

  “Now, the beauty of this baby,” said Fred, “is that all you need to do is point it in the general direction of the target, and you’ll hit it.”

  Mark took the shotgun. It felt good in his hands. “So how much do you want for it?”

  Fred thought a minute and took another pull on his cigar. “Eight hundred dollars, and I’ll throw in a box of shells.”

  Mark fired back, “Seven hundred, and I’ll pay you cash right now.” He pulled bills from his wallet and held them up.

  An evil glint crossed Fred’s face. He grunted and took the cash. “You got a good deal, man.” He placed the shotgun in the case and handed the case and a box of shells to Mark. “Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Thanks, Fred.” He hurried to his car, which he had left running, put the case in the back seat and pulled out of the parking lot. He refused allow his mind to think about what he had just done. He had to do something. He did not have a choice.

  * * *

  KIRK WALKED PAST HIS coworkers at the station without being recognized. Fifty pounds lighter, with a bushy beard and long hair, he resembled one of the bums who lived under Ambassador Bridge rather than a DPD detective. He marched into the chief’s office, Geoff trailing behind him, and caught his boss mid-sentence in a phone conversation.

  “Gotta go. I’ll call you back.” As he hung up
the phone, he stared at Kirk, then at Geoff.

  The chief leaned back in his chair with his hands folded across his chest. “What’s your story this time? You look like hell!”

  Kirk could see his boss was in no mood to play catch-up, so he decided to get right to the point. “I’m going to need some time off to gather evidence against whoever kidnapped me. I think I might know who was behind it, but I need more proof.”

  “You’re not getting any more time off. You already had over a year. You were kidnapped, so it’s now an active case. You will report anything you have and any new information directly to me. You got that?”

  Kirk nodded, but let the warning pass over him as he always did. He was not going to let this go, no matter what this old windbag said.

  The chief let his chair fall forward. He landed with his forearms on his desk. “I know you want to keep looking into the prison case. But you’d better not even think about it. That case is closed, and I can’t afford for the two of you to go chasing down ghosts. And who is this clown, anyway?” He looked at Geoff with disdain and waved his fist in the air as his neck bulged.

  Kirk frowned. I wonder what or who freaked him out.

  “But,” Kirk stuttered. “I have—”

  The chief glared at Kirk and raised his voice. “I mean it, Weston. Drop it.”

  “Fine, have it your way.” He opened the door, let Geoff out, then slammed it behind him, sending the chief into a tirade of curses after them. Kirk grinned and went over to his desk to get a few things. He checked the drawers, surprised his desk was just as he left it, that they hadn’t messed with the contents or given it to someone else. Opening the bottom drawer, he pulled out a forty-five and a box of rounds. “Might need these.”

  Geoff grimaced but did not say anything. The handful of other officers looked at them with concern and some paid no attention.

  “Let’s get out of here. We need to see if Mooch turned up anything.” Kirk brushed past a large woman who glared at him through small, close-set eyes.

  As they exited the station’s parking lot, Kirk smiled down at Geoff, who was scrunched in the sidecar like Goliath riding in a Barbie car. He rather enjoyed seeing his companion’s discomfort, but Geoff didn’t complain.