folks the experience is different, but for me, the phone is surely an instrument of torture and destruction, probably dreamed up by some sadistic, small-time, out of work god who takes great delight in stirring up the anthill.
Nobody has ever called me to say something like, "Jesse Marie Davison, you are the winner of the Publisher's Sweepstakes. We will be by on Monday afternoon to present you with your tax-free million dollar winnings." No, they call to say things like, "Miss Davison, our condolences on the death of your mother. We need to work out some details."
That one was a shocker. In defense of the Fallstone and Noland Law firm, maybe they thought I had already heard the news. Mostly, daughters and mothers keep in some sort of contact, through other family members if nothing else. Since I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since I was ten, I'd written her off as dead years ago. My father had certainly hinted at that. Funny how finding out that someone is dead for real, when you've been picturing them dead in all sorts of ways for as long as you can remember, is still an unsettling event.
Not that I grieved her. It just felt strange, is all, to know for certain that I had no blood ties left to anybody on the face of the planet.
The ringtone on my cell is set to the theme song from the movie Jaws . I figure if the calls are going to be bad news, I might as well embrace that full on. So when the phone started blaring scary shark music in the middle of dinner, the resulting rush of adrenaline wasn't a surprise to me.
Marsh, on the other hand, did a spit take with his water and came up coughing.
"Hush," I said. "I need to take this."
He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth and made a grab for the phone. "Aw, c'mon, Jesse. We're talking. Let it go to voicemail."
It was easy enough to catch his water glass with my elbow and send the whole thing, ice and all, cascading into his crotch. I took the phone outside, ostensibly so I could hear, but mostly so nobody in the diner would listen in. I already knew who was on the line. No caller ID, that's a sure giveaway. When the Dream Merchant calls, the display doesn't read "private" or "blocked," it just lights up blank and the shark music comes on.
"It's me," I said, "What's up?"
"You're wantedâsubject is Mia James. Forest Heights Cemetery."
"This isn't a good time â"
But the phone was already dead, which was just as well. Arguing with the Merchant was not only pointless, but possibly dangerous, and I've never been good about keeping my opinions to myself. But, shit. I hated cemeteries. And I'd hoped that maybe way up here in Nowheresville rural Washington I could fly under the radar, and have some time to think and sort out my mother's affairs.
A picture appeared on my phone, a snapshot of Mia so I'd recognize her. For a supernatural being, the Merchant has a pretty good grasp on the use of technology.
I glanced into the diner, debating whether to go back in or not. Half of my brisket still sat on my plate, uneaten, but I'd lost my appetite. Marsh was on his feet blotting at an embarrassing wet patch in the crotch of his jeans, and the expression on his face had traveled way south of Happy Land down into Hellfire and Brimstone County.
Much as I needed the keys to the house, it was way more important to ditch Marsh before I went up to the graveyard. I'm not much for rules, but the strict code of secrecy around the dream runner business made a lot of sense to me. Best to get away now, while he was preoccupied.
Red is difficult sometimes, but she started on the first go round and we beat it out of there. I avoided downtown, not that Williamsville has much of a downtown to avoid, winding around the outskirts and up Overlook Hill toward the graveyard. All the while I was blocking memories so hard it made my brain hurt, and the pulse of a headache started in between my temples, thudding with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Chapter Two
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I
Nobody has ever called me to say something like, "Jesse Marie Davison, you are the winner of the Publisher's Sweepstakes. We will be by on Monday afternoon to present you with your tax-free million dollar winnings." No, they call to say things like, "Miss Davison, our condolences on the death of your mother. We need to work out some details."
That one was a shocker. In defense of the Fallstone and Noland Law firm, maybe they thought I had already heard the news. Mostly, daughters and mothers keep in some sort of contact, through other family members if nothing else. Since I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since I was ten, I'd written her off as dead years ago. My father had certainly hinted at that. Funny how finding out that someone is dead for real, when you've been picturing them dead in all sorts of ways for as long as you can remember, is still an unsettling event.
Not that I grieved her. It just felt strange, is all, to know for certain that I had no blood ties left to anybody on the face of the planet.
The ringtone on my cell is set to the theme song from the movie Jaws . I figure if the calls are going to be bad news, I might as well embrace that full on. So when the phone started blaring scary shark music in the middle of dinner, the resulting rush of adrenaline wasn't a surprise to me.
Marsh, on the other hand, did a spit take with his water and came up coughing.
"Hush," I said. "I need to take this."
He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth and made a grab for the phone. "Aw, c'mon, Jesse. We're talking. Let it go to voicemail."
It was easy enough to catch his water glass with my elbow and send the whole thing, ice and all, cascading into his crotch. I took the phone outside, ostensibly so I could hear, but mostly so nobody in the diner would listen in. I already knew who was on the line. No caller ID, that's a sure giveaway. When the Dream Merchant calls, the display doesn't read "private" or "blocked," it just lights up blank and the shark music comes on.
"It's me," I said, "What's up?"
"You're wantedâsubject is Mia James. Forest Heights Cemetery."
"This isn't a good time â"
But the phone was already dead, which was just as well. Arguing with the Merchant was not only pointless, but possibly dangerous, and I've never been good about keeping my opinions to myself. But, shit. I hated cemeteries. And I'd hoped that maybe way up here in Nowheresville rural Washington I could fly under the radar, and have some time to think and sort out my mother's affairs.
A picture appeared on my phone, a snapshot of Mia so I'd recognize her. For a supernatural being, the Merchant has a pretty good grasp on the use of technology.
I glanced into the diner, debating whether to go back in or not. Half of my brisket still sat on my plate, uneaten, but I'd lost my appetite. Marsh was on his feet blotting at an embarrassing wet patch in the crotch of his jeans, and the expression on his face had traveled way south of Happy Land down into Hellfire and Brimstone County.
Much as I needed the keys to the house, it was way more important to ditch Marsh before I went up to the graveyard. I'm not much for rules, but the strict code of secrecy around the dream runner business made a lot of sense to me. Best to get away now, while he was preoccupied.
Red is difficult sometimes, but she started on the first go round and we beat it out of there. I avoided downtown, not that Williamsville has much of a downtown to avoid, winding around the outskirts and up Overlook Hill toward the graveyard. All the while I was blocking memories so hard it made my brain hurt, and the pulse of a headache started in between my temples, thudding with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Chapter Two
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I
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