Dream On (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 2) Read online

  Spiro shrugged. “It’s all Greek to me.”

  Dale grinned at her, thinking she had just made a joke. He had known her for less than three hours, but he suspected that jokes rarely escaped her lips. But when she didn’t smile back at him, Dale quickly removed his own smile.

  Dale reached his arms out above his head, took in a deep breath, and stretched. He yawned. He hadn’t had a chance to unwind since his confrontation with Guy Hudson, and he was beginning to get sore and drowsy. He would take a nap momentarily.

  “You said you looked at my file,” Dale said. “They won’t let me look at it. Is there anything juicy in it?”

  “Only the vague, surface-level info the BEI allows us to see. Dale Conley, early thirties, a BEI agent for a couple years now. Prior Identity name classified. Spent the first half of his upbringing in Indiana, the second half in Virginia. Father abandoned him and his mother during childhood. Possible parental issues. Some sort of writer before joining the Bureau. The type of writer wasn’t specified, which leads me to believe he was at least somewhat famous. Genius-level memory and intellect. Specialty: history and puzzles. Excellent physical fitness scores, fair marksmanship. Abstains from alcohol, but has a penchant for women. Automobile and fitness aficionado. Narcissistic tendencies. The most decorated BEI agent, but his brazen attitude and blatant disregard for the Bureau’s rules—unless they work in his favor, of course—have led to multiple disciplinary actions.”

  “Well, you got me all figured out, now don’t ya?” Dale said and leaned his seat back, settled into a comfy position for his nap. “A good start to your agent career.”

  “You have a real problem with that, don’t you? Me being an agent temporarily.”

  “Yes, I do,” Dale said and looked at her intently. “Because you’re not an agent. You were just handed a badge and gun a couple hours ago. A BEI agent and his liaison are short-term partners. And that means something to me. Partners have to have each other’s back. There has to be a trust there that’s built, if nothing more, on the fact that each knows the other is fully trained and competent. I don’t know that about you.”

  “And what makes a perfect partner, Agent Conley?”

  Dale didn’t have to think too hard about that. “The assignment I just completed moments before you showed up. My partner for that, Jamison Zane. I’d take a bullet for that dude. Standup freakin’ guy. Confident, charismatic, took care of business. Now that was a partner.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for Jamison Zane.”

  Dale ignored her. He had already braced himself for an onslaught of psychological head games from this woman, given her career and her aggressive disposition. He motioned toward the luggage compartment. “Do you even know how to use that gun Taft loaned you?”

  “Until a little while ago, I’d never even held a gun before.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “I hope that doesn’t put you out too much.” Spiro spat the words at him. She pierced into him with an ice-cold laser beam of contempt blasting out of her beautiful, doe-like eyes.

  She looked genuinely upset. So Dale stuck his tongue out at her, rolled his head to the other side, and closed his eyes.

  On paper, Spiro was just the type of woman he would go for. Gorgeous, smart, and contentious. He liked a challenge, and he liked a girl with spirit. But somewhere along the line, Spiro’s spirit had turned to bile. And that was something Dale just didn’t want to deal with.

  Chapter 6

  Owen Kelso gasped. He took several deep breaths, trying to clear his nerves, to slow his rapid heartbeat. To steel himself for what he was about to do.

  He wasn’t afraid of killing. He knew that killing sometimes had to happen. Especially when it was in God’s name. His mind flashed back to slashing Issac Bennett’s throat. And he felt no remorse. In fact, he felt quite good about it, ending the heathen’s life and eliminating one avenue by which the theory could be released. What he didn’t feel good about was the fact that he’d had to confront innocent people on his quest. He’d had confrontations with several Isaac Bennetts before he found his prey. And today he had already approached one Nathan Cook. His mind kept replaying the fear in the eyes of both Nathan and his girlfriend, who had been with him in the apartment when he kicked in the door and rushed into their bedroom, knife in his hand. As sinful as the couple was, living in premarital union, they hadn’t deserved that fright. They too were children of God. And only He could judge them. Owen’s heart was a tangled mess of guilt.

  But he couldn’t get distracted. He was on a mission.

  He was at the home of his second potential Nathan Cook. The Nathan Cook he had known in the past was black, so tracing down a minority had made the hunt for the correct man perhaps less difficult than his prior searching. He had already been able to cross two of the six Nathan Cooks off the Portland phone book listing simply by discovering that they were white. He had spotted this Nathan Cook earlier in the day, leaving a position at a legal firm. The man was black, of the right age range, and successful. These were all indicators that he could be the right man.

  Owen stood in a small wooded area behind the house. There was a swing set a few feet ahead of him, which was surrounded by a well-maintained yard of thick, green grass. Beyond was a wooden deck that led up to glass doors on the backside of the two-story home, through which Owen could see the family sitting down to dinner. Nathan Cook was seated at the front of the table. His wife was setting a bowl of rolls in the center of the table, and their child—a boy of about four—was running around haphazardly. The wife said something to the child, and he took his seat, legs dangling above the floor.

  Owen had parked his car a couple blocks away. It was a nice, upper-middle class neighborhood. Clean houses. Children on bikes. People walking their dogs. He had approached the house from the block behind, cut through the yard of Cook’s neighbor to the rear, and snuck into the wooded area behind his house. The temperature had dropped, and he felt slightly cool. The sun was just starting to say its goodbye for the day, and the crickets were starting up. But it was still daylight out, so Owen needed to be as careful as possible. He could have waited a bit longer, but every moment he delayed was time that his targets could be using to reveal their theory.

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket—a page from a phone book. There were six Cook, Nathans on the page. The top three names were crossed off.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. His knife was rolled in a piece of burlap. He uncovered it, felt its weight in his hand, turned it over. It was a butcher knife. Owen hadn’t taken long preparing for his mission. Once he realized what he had to do, he gathered knives from around the house before he took off. Kitchen knives, a couple bowie knives, a machete. He didn’t own a gun, and though he’d since had time to purchase one, he had instead bought more knives. He knew that in a situation like this—breaking into someone’s home—a gun would be a more logical weapon choice. After all, the homeowner could have his own gun. But knives somehow seemed more godly to Owen. Simple. Humble. There were blades in the Bible; there were no guns in the Bible.

  He left the trees and went to the far side of the property and approached the house along the fence, staying hidden from the family’s view. He reached the house and slowly stepped onto the deck and approached the glass doors, keeping his footsteps light. There were noises from inside the house. The family. And a radio or television set.

  Owen took another deep breath and tightened his grip on the knife. “God, forgive me.”

  He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. Locked. Screams from inside the house behind the glass. No time now. He took a couple steps back and rammed his shoulder into the glass, bursting through into the dining area. Glass exploded onto the tile floor and rained onto the table. More screams from the family. The child cried. There was a radio playing, some commercial, a car dealership. The woman lunged toward the child. Nathan Cook made to stand up. Owen grabbed the wife, threw her against the wall, and pointed the knife at h
er chest.

  “Stay where you are,” Owen said to Nathan Cook.

  Cook sat back down.

  Owen stepped toward the kitchen counter, waving the knife between Cook and his wife. He bent down, still watching Cook, and unplugged the radio.

  “Mommy …” the child said.

  Nathan’s wife spoke to her child, keeping her eyes on Owen. “Alex, stay where you are, baby.”

  Owen approached Cook, keeping the knife aimed at him.

  “Please,” Cook said, his voice shaking. “We don’t have much. Take what you want.”

  “Are you Nathan Cook?” Owen said.

  “I am.”

  “Do you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, sir?”

  There was a confused look on Cook’s face, and it was a moment before he answered. “With all my heart.”

  “And you believe he died for our sins?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I told you he never existed? That it was a myth. Would you die for your belief?”

  “I would.”

  “And what if I were to say actiones secundum fidei? What then?”

  “I … don’t understand.”

  “Actiones secundum fidei.”

  Cook shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Owen lowered his knife. He exhaled, his breath shaking. He felt relieved, but at the same time terrified and racked with a soul-crushing guilt. He knew this was not going to be the last time this was going to happen during the mission—when he would frighten and scar innocent people.

  “Then I must apologize to you, sir. And your family,” Owen said. “Understand that I’m on a mission from God, and I cannot be deterred.”

  Owen pointed the knife at the child. Cook’s wife screamed. Owen crossed the room, went back to the busted-out glass door.

  “I’m leaving now. And I know where you live,” Owen said to Cook. He looked at the child then back to Cook. His implication was clear. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Owen slowly backed out of the broken glass door, his knife raised and aimed at the child, as though he was prepared to throw it. The woman cried. Cook kept his eyes glued on Owen, and his hands fingers clenched onto the tablecloth.

  Owen stepped backwards onto the deck, watched Nathan Cook. Then he spun around, jumped off the porch, and sprinted into the trees.

  Chapter 7

  Dale sat in the passenger seat of Spiro’s rental car and watched the beach community go by as they drove down Broadway Street. There were ice cream shops, an arcade, trinket stores. The mood on the streets was decidedly happy as groups of people wandered at a relaxed pace. It was almost dusk, and the sunlight was beginning to take on a magical, golden quality. The weather was a bit on the cool side—people wearing jeans, some still clinging to short sleeves—so Dale could only imagine what the place would be like in the thick of summer. Still, there were a lot of people out enjoying the town. Couples. Groups of giggling, innocent kids. Other groups of older kids—teens—on the verge of things not quite so innocent. The whole place reminded Dale of beach communities he had seen farther south in California and similar places on the Gulf and Atlantic Coasts.

  “How about we stop for some cotton candy on the way to examine a dead body, Spiro?” Dale said. “Seaside looks like a fun place.”

  “Looks like a tourist trap to me.”

  They were following a Seaside black-and-white. They neared the end of the road. A wide stretch of beach lay ahead, dotted with people. Beyond that was the Pacific Ocean. The waves were gentle and reflected the setting sun. The black-and-white took a left. Spiro followed.

  “I’m guessing you’ve been to a lot of these crime scenes,” Dale said. “Mutilated bodies and the like.”

  “This is my first one. To this point I’ve only seen pictures.”

  Dale glanced over at her. She had the same cold, impassive expression that she’d been wearing since he met her, but it was now flavored with a touch of something else. Trepidation, perhaps.

  The black-and-white pulled to the side. They parked at a row of beachside houses. The houses were small, brightly painted in a variety of colors, and looked to be built by the same designer. One of them, a lime green one, was encircled by crime scene tape. Outside the house was a news van, and on the sidewalk a cameraman was set up, shooting the house. Dale and Spiro followed the cop up to the property and ducked under the tape.

  They stepped inside the house. The layout was simple. The front door opened into the living room with an open kitchen area in the back. To the right were a couple of doors: a bedroom and a bathroom. In the back, to the right of the kitchen, was a glass door going out to a wooden porch. The floors were covered in cream-colored shag carpeting. To the right was a love seat and television, and slightly behind that to the left was the overturned desk. And Isaac Bennett.

  The body was covered with a cloth. There was a long streak of blood in the carpet leading from the desk to his body, and a pool of blood spread out from beneath either side of the cloth. The papers and pens and envelopes that had been on Bennett’s desk were still scattered around the room in the same positions Dale had seen them in the photographs.

  The cop gave Dale and Spiro the lowdown. “Isaac Bennett, age thirty-three. Divorced, lived here alone. Radio promoter.”

  As they approached the body, Dale looked at framed pictures on the wall—Bennett posed with a variety of well-known celebrities, all from popular music.

  “Bennett knew some real movers and shakers,” Dale said. “Do you get a lot of folks like this out here in Seaside?”

  “He moved here not too long ago. From Portland. Made a name for himself out there and was working on setting up his own entertainment venue here. We’re a tourist town.”

  There was a look-at-me shelf on the wall above where the desk would have been sitting. On the far left side of the shelf was a framed diploma from Washington State University, and the rest of the shelf was populated with plaques and trophies. Dale leaned in and read some of the inscriptions. Northwestern Oregon Radio Association—Off-Air Talent Award. Radio Quarterly—Spirit Award.

  They walked up to the body, and Dale and Spiro knelt down. Dale pulled back the cloth. Bennett’s mangled neck greeted them. Spiro recoiled. Dale turned to her.

  “You okay?” Dale said.

  “I’m fine.” She didn’t make eye contact.

  Dale looked at Bennett’s ruined neck then to the writing on his arm. “If this message is biblical, it’s an odd dying message from someone who spent his time with teen idols and strung-out rock stars.”

  The cop flipped through the file he was holding. “Well, apparently Bennett was an Eagle Scout as a kid. Went on to Chinookan University. That’s a Christian school. Never graduated. He dropped out.”

  Dale stood up. Spiro followed suit.

  “That makes sense,” Dale said. “These aren’t exactly the most godly of people he was rubbing shoulders with.” He pointed to the pictures adorning the wall. “That one there is a devil-worshiper. Where is Chinookan University? Portland?” Dale made that assumption based on the fact that Portland was in Multnomah County and the Multnomah Indians were a Chinookan tribe.

  “Yes, sir,” the cop said.

  Dale stepped over to the doorways on the far wall and looked into the bedroom and bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary. Spiro and the cop followed as he walked to the kitchen, opened the glass door to the porch, and stepped out. The sound of the beach was now loud and clear. The waves, children laughing. It was a broad stretch of sand from the house to the surf. People wearing sweatshirts. Couples arm in arm. The sky was beginning to turn violet. To the south was a peak jutting into the ocean.

  “What’s that promontory?” Dale said, pointing.

  “Tillamook Head,” the cop said.

  Dale inhaled a big gulp of the ocean air. Invigorating. Even having just seen the gruesome sight back in the house, he was still able to appreciate it. During his time at the BEI, he had managed to develop a wa
y of not losing sight of how great the little things can be. He chose to enjoy them where he could, even in the midst of a case—the little two-second moments that made life worth living, that made hunting down someone who had slashed another human being’s throat something he could handle. Little moments like a lungful of clean, ocean air, and the sound of people enjoying a vacation.

  Spiro stepped closer to Dale. “An atheist dies spouting Latin and scratching out letters that spell Joseph,” Spiro said. “So what’s your assessment? Is this a BEI case?”

  “I knew this was a BEI case before we got on the plane.”

  “Alright then, Mr. Lead Investigator. What’s our next move?”

  “We get to Chinookan University.”

  Chapter 8

  Adam Steele sat at the news desk in the Channel 16 studio. It was a long, curved desk behind which was a gray wall with a strip of blue. It sat on a dais covered in orange carpet with weather on one end, sports on the other, and in the center was the main news desk where he and his co-anchor, Brittany Smalls, sat each weeknight. Tucked around Adam’s collar was a ring of white tissue paper, and the makeup artist dabbed at his face and neck and fussed with his hair as he read over a printout of the evening’s news. His preparation was in vain because he knew he was going to have to wing it tonight. Every time he got a sentence or two into the news, his mind wandered back to his on-screen meltdown from the previous night.

  He put the paper down on the counter in front of him, picked up a hand mirror, and watched as the makeup artist went to work. His suit was impeccable, though he’d never had an eye for fashion. One of the benefits of his job was having those decisions made for him. Despite the fact that the meltdown had happened just last night, he saw big bags under his eyes. He hadn’t slept the previous night. He was struck by how much he’d seemed to age. In just one day. He was thirty-three years old, and while he’d never had a particularly youthful image—his mustache also made him look a bit older—his good looks had helped land him the job and, further back, propelled him into the television industry in the first place. But he certainly wasn’t looking the part of a dashing, evening news anchor that night.