Ominous Dreams: Chapter 1
Chapter 1 Every evening for the past couple weeks, I found myself in the same place at the same time. The ill-fated and nearly deserted…
Author: Patrick Peay
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Chapter 1 Every evening for the past couple weeks, I found myself in the same place at the same time. The ill-fated and nearly deserted…
Chapter 1
Every evening for the past couple weeks, I found myself in the same place at the same time. The ill-fated and nearly deserted Jacksonville Landing was within walking distance from the modest loft I moved into a year ago off Monroe Street downtown. I recently started a new nightly ritual. Every night at around 10 o'clock, I would leave my loft and then amble towards The Landing. My destination was a wooden bench near The Landing with a serine vista of the north-flowing St. John’s River. This is where I sat to meditate for an hour every night.
Meditating was not my sole motive. I sat there on that bench every night for a week or so patiently waiting and baiting. Then, finally on a mild March Monday night, I got that bite. While I was meditating that night, I suddenly felt something cool and metallic firmly pressed to the back of my head. It was the barrel of a gun. I grinned and suppressed a snicker.
“Gimme your wallet now!” a raspy voice barked at me.
I didn’t hesitate at all. I calmly reached into my right back pocket to retrieve my wallet and handed it back over my left shoulder without even turning around. I didn’t want to spook this goon, at least not yet anyway. He snatched my wallet, and then I heard the pitty-pat of his feet fleeing the scene into the night. I pulled a loose cigarette from the front pocket of my grey Stafford shirt and lit it.
Mmmm Newport pleasure…
I got up and walked up to the railing of the river walk. The small cube-shaped tactical camera was right there where I planted it, affixed to the metal rail in front the bench with a little velcro strap, and its lens pointed directly towards where I sat on the bench. It did not take long at all to walk back to my loft. I reached for the hat rack that stood near my front door. I was not reaching to hang a hat. That always seemed a bit too cliché for me, a private eye who always wears a fedora. A black leather shoulder gun holster with a Rex Zero 1 Standard nickel-plated 17 round 9mm pistol and two extra clips hung from one of the hat rack's hooks. A black and teal Jacksonville Jaguars windbreaker jacket hung from another hook. The Jags played their first regular season game on my tenth birthday, September 3rd, 1995. My dad took me to that game, a 10-3 loss to the Houston Oilers. Despite that inaugural loss, I was still a die hard fan since day one, and was in attendance at the stadium for every home game every season.
I strapped on my holster and donned my favorite jacket to properly conceal my weapon. I sat on my black leather sofa and opened the Acer Aspire 15.6 inch laptop that was in front of me on the glass coffee table. I plugged the camera into it and quickly reviewed the footage. I captured the wallet thief in the act with a clear shot of his face, perfect. Then I pulled out my Galaxy S10 Android smartphone. I swiped the screen, entered my pin before I opened a GPS tracking app. My mugger was unaware of the small locator chip that was in my wallet behind my Foot Locker rewards card. I watched with amusement as the little dot zigged and zagged to and fro on the map until it stopped for a moment. There was $60 in my wallet, so more than likely this stop was at the nearest dope man’s trap. After this brief stop, the blip traveled west on Beaver Street before it finally became stationary when the thief reached his destination.
West Beaver Street was one of the many super sketchy, high-crime, high drug traffic areas in the River City, so before I left my loft I switched out the sleek Belvedere Chapo Hornback Oxford dress shoes I was wearing for my pair of custom black and teal Puma Tazon 6 Fracture FM cross-training sneakers. I rode the elevator down from the fifth floor to the ground level and walked out to the parking lot. I smiled every time I saw my new black 2019 Supercharged V8 Chevy Camaro with black alloy racing rims and barely legal window tint. I had to work a lot of crazy cases to save up enough money to finally buy it, cash outright. It was my pride and joy. I pressed the remote start button, got in, a peeled out of the parking lot.
With my lead foot, it didn’t take long to reach the Noble Gardens apartment complex on West Beaver Street. I whipped my Camaro through the middle of the grassy courtyard and parked, quite illegally, but I didn’t care. The dope boys, fiends, and tramps on the block were startled. They thought I was Vice at first until their street sense kicked in. Vice sting squads never rolled up solo in one vehicle.
I reached into my glove compartment to get the box of black latex gloves I kept in there. I put a pair on, got out my car, and checked the GPS locator app on my phone to get a baring on which unit to go to. I went right up to the door; I quickly and quietly picked the cheap deadbolt with my nifty lock pick kit. Then I eased through the threshold, and there he was, the thug that mugged me, sitting leisurely on a futon half-naked with a half-naked hooker he must have picked up on his way home. He dropped his crack pipe and made a quick but meek move for his gun that was under the futon. I pulled my pistol from it’s holster in a flash, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the wall just above his head.
“That’s the first, last, and only warning shot, cowboy,” I warned him. “You, put your clothes on and get the hell out of here. Not you dumbass, the trick.”
She hastily retrieved her clothes from where they were piled on the floor, and sprinted out of there lickety split. I stepped closer to the futon with gun still fixed on my target. I kicked his gun away and bent down to pick up a pair of jeans. I plucked a wallet out of the back pocket.
“Gimmie your wallet,” I smirked. I opened the wallet and read the ID inside, “Mr. Michael Diller.”
“What the hell! Are you a cop or something?” Michael asked me.
“Or something,” I responded. “Now get your ass up and go open that closet over there.”
Michael did as I directed, and I followed him to the closet. After he opened the door, I looked over his shoulder. I saw a pile of wallets and purses.
I said, “Pick up my wallet and that purse right there, the brown suede one with the beads and feathers on it, and give them to me. Then lay down on your stomach with your hands on your head.”
I returned my wallet to my back pocket where it belonged and tucked the purse under my arm. I knelt down and planted a knee firmly at the base of Michael’s spine. I holstered my gun for a moment so I could bind his hands behind his back with a zip tie. I aggressively pulled Michael to his feet, and we exited his home. I closed the door behind us and ushered him to my car. I thumbed the remote key in my pocket to unlock the doors. When I placed Michael in the passenger seat, I let his feet hang out so I could secure his ankles together with another zip tie.
“Man, this is BS,” Michael whined.
“Shut it up,” I snarled.
Before I closed the passenger side door, I took a roll of duct tape out of my glove box. I put one piece over Michael’s mouth, I taped the small camera I used to film him mugging me to his chest, and finally, I taped his wallet to his stomach. I shut him in then took my place in the driver’s seat.
I used another helpful app on my phone to look up Michael Diller’s criminal background: several strong armed robberies, a few BNE’s, a couple of trespasses, and handful of drug possession charges, and some assaults. He was also currently on felony probation. In mere moments, I maneuvered my muscle car into the urban core of Jacksonville. I parked across the street from the Police Memorial Building on East Bay Street. It was near midnight, so most of the building was shrouded in darkness at that time of night. I looked up through my windshield at one of the few windows that was illuminated, the third floor corner office on the south end of the building. I knew who was in that office, Monica Mason, the chief of detectives. She and I had a bit of history together that dated back to my college days.
I met Monica in 2005 when I was a senior at the University of North Florida. She transferred in to UNF from Syracuse University. We were both Criminology and Criminal Justice majors, so we had a lot of classes together. Monica and I hit it off right away, but not necessarily in a romantic sense. Yes, I was initially very attracted to Monica. Her beauty was captivating, and her charm was magnetic, but her intense focus and steely determination was the ying to my laid back and free willing yang. Still, we had a mutual respect for one another and became really close plutonic friends. Sure when I had a little liquid courage, I would haplessly flirt with her, but it never went passed that. She was a workaholic that rarely took time to unwind; I was a frat boy and party animal that only hunkered down when exams rolled around.
After graduation, we both entered the police academy of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s office at the same time. That’s when I got the courage to admit to her that I had a huge crush on her. We even went on a couple of dates before we agreed that it’d be best not to pursue a romantic relationship since we would soon be colleagues. The thing is, we never became colleagues. Monica graduated top of the class, and I failed the psychological assessment.
So there went my dreams of becoming a police officer, down the drain. I was devastated. So I sought solace in the sauce. I moved back in with my parents and became a raging alcoholic. After three years of trying to drink myself to death, I finally hit my rock bottom, and my parents, Nicholas and Jackie Mack, got me into a treatment center, and after thirty days there at the Gateway rehab facility, I moved into a halfway house called Alumni House on the eastside of Jacksonville near the stadium where my beloved Jaguars played home games.
I finally started taking my recovery seriously. I worked the AA program, went to meetings, got a sponsor, did the steps, and such. After a year at Alumni House, I felt renewed, yet I still had that yearning to be a police officer. I shared my dilemma with Gary, my sponsor. Gary gave me a brilliant idea. He suggested I look into the field of private investigation, so I did. About six months later, I had all the credentials to be a real life private eye, and I was thrilled.
My parents were very successful real estate agents, and they were proud of the progress I made in recovery. They wanted to assist me in my endeavor to start my own private investigation business, so they let me move into a small residential rental property they were renovating, and they gave me a loan to lease one of their storefront commercial properties that would serve as my office.
About a decade later, I was one of the most reputable and successful private detectives on the First Coast. All the while, Monica moved her way up through the ranks of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office until she was promoted to Chief of Detectives in January of 2019. Throughout the years we stayed in touch and even collaborated on some cases.
Now I was sitting outside the Police Memorial Building peering up at Monica’s office window. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to her office number in my contacts list before activating the bluetooth feature of my Camaro’s stereo system.
“Mason,” Monica answered after one ring.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said.
“Jesus, Buddy. What could you possibly want at this time of night? I’m busy as hell.”
“Well, I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and I see you’re up burning the midnight oil.”
Monica peeped through her blinds down at my car across the street and joked, “There’s a thin line between stalking and checking up on me.”
“There’s also a thin line between love and hate,” I laughed, “but I know you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve managed to apprehend the man responsible for the series of muggings that have occurred over that past few months in the downtown area.”
I unhooked Michael’s seatbelt and leaned over to open my passenger sided door. Then I pivoted my body in my seat to use both of my legs and feet to kick-shove Michael out of my car. He tumbled out into the street. I quickly closed my passenger side door and sped off.
“What the hell, Buddy?” Monica was shocked at what she witnessed through her blinds.
“You’re welcome. Just send some uniformed officers around to scoop up that dirtbag before he tries to get away,” I said.
“Wow, I didn’t think vigilante justice was your style.”
“It’s not, Monica, but this guy mugged the wrong sweet old lady two weeks ago.”
I made my way home. I sat on the bench by the elevator and waited for my next door neighbor, Muna Azure. Miss Muna was an elderly Native America lady who moved to Jacksonville from a reservation in Montana in 2014. Every night, she would take cans of tuna to various areas downtown to feed stray cats. A couple of weeks prior, she had an unfortunate encounter with Michael Diller. He mugged Miss Muna at gunpoint and stole her purse, a hand made family heirloom. When she told me about this, I vowed to her that I would find the man who mugged her and retrieve her cherished purse.
Right on time, Miss Muna entered the lobby after her nightly rounds. She smiled at me. I stood up and handed her the purse. A tear welled up in her eye, and she graciously embraced me.
“I told you I’d get it back for you,” I whispered in her ear.
And that’s when things started to get weird. Miss Muna tightened her embrace around my waist. Then she started chanting in what I could only assume was an ancient dialect of her native tribe. A strange sensation suddenly swept over me. My eyes started to tingle, my heart began to race, and I felt dizzy.
Am I having a stroke?
Miss Muna kept chanting. An enchanting beat of a drum thudded in my ears. The blood in my veins felt ice cold, but before I could start to panic, Miss Muna stopped chanting and released her embrace. Suddenly, the strange sensations and symptoms ceased. I gasped, and my mouth remained agape in amazement for a moment. I stared into Miss Muna’s eyes. She smiled.
“Young Brandon, you have a good heart and are very courageous. The forces of evil will be no match for you,” she told me.
I was still a bit stunned as I watched Miss Muna walk away. I had no idea what she meant with that cryptic statement. I needed a cigarette. I stepped outside and lit one.
Mmmmm Newport pleasure…
After I got my nicotine fix, I made my way up to my loft apartment. I didn’t know what to make of what happened with Miss Muna. I took a long hot shower and got ready for bed. I sat up in bed for a spell and used my tablet to browse a few local and national news websites online. Eventually, my body and mind were ready to rest. I opened the iHeart Radio app on my phone and turned to the Fox Sports Radio channel. I plugged my phone into the charger and set it on my nightstand before I switched off my beside lamp. I said a quick prayer and laid my head down on my pillow. I drifted peacefully to sleep.
Ah I recognized this feeling. This wasn’t my first lucid dream. There was something a bit odd about this dream, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
I was sitting behind the wheel of a car in the dark at an apartment complex parking lot. My left arm hung casually outside the driver’s side window. I could tell by the configuration of the console that this car was not my beloved black Camaro. The stylized T on the wheel revealed I was in a Toyota, probably a Camry. I looked down at my cell phone, an iPhone, not like the Galaxy S10 I had in real life.
My thumb keyed in the PIN to unlock the screen. I opened the photo gallery and scrolled to a picture, a selfie of a stunningly beautiful blonde Caucasian woman. I brought the phone up close to my face and passionately pressed my lips to the screen and kissed the picture. I put the cell phone in my pocket and pulled a .38 caliber revolver from my waistband. I took a deep breath.
My eyes scanned the parking lot. When a dark colored SUV turned into the parking, lot my eyes fixed on it, and I saw the SUV park in a spot that wasn’t too far from mine. I was cloaked in the shadows, so the driver was unaware of my presence. He exited the vehicle and went to the trunk to retrieve something. I got out of my car and left the door open. Silently and swiftly, I approached the man from the rear. I put the pistol to the back of his head. BLAM!
The sound of the gunshot jolted me awake out of the dream. I was dripping in sweat and panting heavily. That dream was certainly unnerving, but I chalked it up to watching too many serial killer documentaries. I regained my composure and realized sunrise was still hours several away. I rolled back over in bed and eventually drifted back to sleep.
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