26. The Witch

T here was a dumpster under a flickering light. Water gurgled along a gutter from what must have been a hard rain. A drippy haze still hung in the night air, rainfall like a settling cloud.

With an overbearing sense of loss as to where he was or how he had gotten there, Kellen started slowly toward the flickering light illuminating the dumpster. Worn brick pavers formed the abandoned streetway, a style Kellen had only ever seen in the old part of downtown Winchester.

A pile of garbage bags stood in disarray beside the dumpster. Stray trash lined the alleyway on both sides. Kellen stepped across a soaked magazine cover and a crumpled plastic bag.

There was something else beside the dumpster. Something that wasn’t a garbage bag.

The dim glow from the flickering light carved the shape out of the shadow cast by the dumpster: a human form. Prostrate, motionless.

Like he were drawn to it magnetically, Kellen approached, eyes pinned on the object. The heartbeat racing in his ears didn’t even sound like his own.

The light finally seemed to steady as Kellen stopped within a single stride of the thing.

Bound hands lay on the wet pavement, outstretched above the figure’s shoulders like it had been dragged by them. A bag covered the face, tied shut at the neck. Bruising. Deformation at the neckline. And below the smashed-in clavicle: the tattoo of a barcode.

A feeling like a gunshot wound ripped straight through Kellen’s chest. His entire body froze, stagnant panic rising in his lungs faster than the air could force its way in. Stiff, trembling, he lowered himself to the wet pavement. His hand extended, bare fingers contacting the plastic of the bag. Heart pounding like a machine gun in his chest, Kellen pressed his thumb into the plastic, then reached out with his other hand and tore the bag open.

Paralyzing adrenaline. That face. The soft lips, smooth Asian features.

Shaking, Kellen’s fingers touched a lifeless cheek. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t grasp the reality of what he was seeing. The expired blood trail leading from bruised lips. Hit marks across the cheek bones, jawline. A neck so scored with bruises, it had changed shape.

The blindfold was gone. His eyes were closed, one swollen so badly, it must have been sealed shut for hours pre-mortem. The dirty, ripped T-shirt he wore didn’t hide the damage to his body. Caved chest, abdominal disfigurement.

“ How, ” Kellen breathed finally. The word nearly choked him, the tightness in his throat threatening his airway. “How the hell did this happen? ” Feebly, his hand contacted Alexei’s side. The stained fabric covering his beaten body.

Blood. Both spatter and bleed. “God—God, did they do this because―” It caught in Kellen’s throat. Vision blurring. That first hot tear track, joining the cold rain across his face. “Fucking— how —fucking―” He drew a suffocated gasp. His fingers touched Alexei’s soaked hair. The cuts across his forehead. “Fu…Fuck…No…Fuck, no…”

Kellen’s frame melted slowly forward, his hands cupping that lifeless face. It’s not real. This is not real. Fuck, please, this is not real. His teeth grit. Released. “Please…fuck… please! ” He choked on an inhale. And it came out of him in a throttled scream.

Kellen startled awake. For a moment, the ringing in his ears and the blinding light all around him were too intense to cope with. And just when the sensations were about to reach a breaking point, they began to subside.

He was sitting in the driver’s seat of his rental car, soaked in his own sweat, heart hammering like a machine gun, facing the windshield of his rental in full daylight.

Kellen raised a hand slowly to the steering wheel, only gradually becoming conscious of how incredibly weak his entire body felt. What was that? The question ran through his head like a derailed train. What the hell was that?

The residual image that flashed in his mind’s eye left him paralyzed.

Even if the dreams were real, there was no way that one was. Kellen had seen Alexei just hours ago. After sunrise. It hadn’t yet been dark again.

Yet.

“You are a predictor of death.”

“No. No. What the fuck?” Kellen raised a hand shakily to his face. It was getting worse. Whatever this sickness was that had started in the Checkers where he had accidentally fallen asleep before meeting Marcus and Arlo—this sickness that was making a deadly plague out of the nightmare problem he had dealt with all his life—it had to stop. It had to go back to the manageable level it had always been.

Professional help.

He remembered passing an Urgent Care on the way up here.

* * * *

“You are…severely sleep-deprived.” The nurse practitioner lowered his flashlight off Kellen’s left eye and clicked it off. “Two to three hours per night is not nearly sustainable. And you’ve been awake the last thirty-six on top of that?”

“No, I slept a little here and there,” Kellen muttered. He gripped his arm, pressing out the mild burn of the scrape under his sleeve. A small distraction to resist gripping his head against the splitting pain inside it.

“You said you slept maybe fifteen to twenty minutes in two separate instances last night, and then another five to ten minutes this morning. That’s a cumulative thirty-five to forty-five, and not long enough for even half a full sleep cycle. It’s as good as no sleep at all in the last thirty-six hours. Are you having a hard time falling asleep or staying asleep?”

“No.” Kellen’s eyes flashed upward and briefly met those of the practitioner. He glanced away. “Maybe. I just need the dreaming while I’m awake to go away, and I’ll be fine.”

“Your nightmares are probably being aggravated by your sleep deprivation.” The practitioner held up a pen. “Follow this with your eyes without turning your head.” He moved the pen from left to right. Then right to left.

It felt like a form of torture, following that pen with his vision. Kellen shut his eyes the moment it was over.

The practitioner put his pen away. “I haven’t had a patient this sleep deprived since I worked in psych,” he said gravely. “Are your nightmares related to a past experience? Maybe something traumatic?”

“No.” Kellen shrugged stiffly. “They’re just random shit about random people.”

The practitioner glanced twice at him. “You described your dreams as frightening. And your state upon awakening as distressed and sometimes panicked.”

Kellen brushed his hand across his chin. “Yeah.” His eyes opened and slowly lifted to an X-ray light screen on the wall. My brain is not working, the dim conclusion settled in his mind. Fuck, this is actually really bad. Fuck, I cannot be failing like this right now.

“There’s nothing in your past that could be triggering these distressing dreams?”

“No.” Kellen forced another shrug, despite the feeling across his body that he was on the verge of passing out. He screwed up his eyes at the practitioner. “Why?”

“I’m trying to determine how best to help you,” the practitioner responded. “There are medications that can help alleviate nightmares. But given your condition, I would recommend a full sleep study before medicating. If you admit yourself via the ER, they can put you on a sedative that will help you fall asleep and stay asleep—to address your immediate deficiency.”

“No, I…I don’t want all that.” Kellen raised his hand in a gesture he wasn’t sure the meaning of. He glanced at his own hand, the practitioner, then back at his hand. He dropped his hand. “Look, just help me get rid of these dreams during the daytime, and I’ll sleep just fine.” He sighed. “I’ll be just fine.”

“You’re falling asleep in the daytime because you’re so sleep deprived,” the practitioner stated. “It’s a circular issue.”

Maybe. Maybe. Kellen lowered his face into his hands for a moment. But minimal sleep had never been an issue on any other job. He looked up again. “Can you help me or not?”

The practitioner gave Kellen a sober stare, then wordlessly tore a piece of paper off his clipboard. “Prazosin, ten milligrams. Take before bed in the evenings. If you find it’s not strong enough, you can come back, and I’ll raise your dose. Dizziness, headache, and nausea are the most common side effects. Hypotension is a risk. Discontinue use if you experience fainting.”

“Fainting?” Kellen stared blankly at the piece of paper held out to him. “No, I can’t take something with a fainting side effect.”

“You should discontinue use if you experience fainting,” the practitioner repeated. “Do you want something for your migraine also?”

“Like what?” He looked up at her. Him. The image was fuzzy.

“I can put you on a drip and give you your choice of NSAID.”

I don’t know what that means, Kellen’s mind silently responded.

“Mr. Eastland, I think there’s a serious chance you’re developing a sleeping disorder. I would strongly recommend you see a specialist.”

“No.” Kellen released a small breath. “No. No specialists. Forget it.” His hand moved to the edge of the examination bed, and he started to stand.

“Wait.” The practitioner caught his shoulder with a gloved hand. He paused, staring at the side of Kellen’s face. Then, wordlessly, he opened a nearby drawer and removed a small mirror. He held the mirror out, facing Kellen. “Your ear is bleeding.”

Kellen slowly took the mirror and angled it closer. His other hand lifted hesitantly to his lower temple. A single trail of deep crimson was crawling out of his left ear and down the side of his face. “What the…fuck…?” Am I dreaming right now?

“Has this happened before?” the practitioner asked. He lifted a piece of cotton gauze and caught the trail before it reached the edge of Kellen’s jaw.

“N…No…” Kellen blinked and lowered the mirror.

“I recommend you visit the ER. Lynn Memorial Hospital is just down the road from here. I can also call an ambulance.”

“No…” Kellen stood up. “No.” He lifted his things off the chair nearby and walked out of the room.

I shouldn’t drive like this, was the first thought to occur to Kellen when he sat down behind the wheel. His eyes lifted to the Urgent Care building in front of him. Then back down at the steering wheel. Everything went slowly blurry. Slowly sharp again. Fuck, I can’t drive like this.

Uber.

He took out his phone. Pulled up the app.

I could die. Someone could fucking kill me because I’m too out of it to defend myself. He looked up at the Urgent Care again. Some random Uber driver could kill him.

He could sleep right here in the parking lot. Just thirty minutes to an hour. Long enough for the sickly haze to clear off his mind so he could drive himself back to the motel.

“Okay,” Kellen whispered to himself. His hand lowered to the lever under his seat, and he reclined the backrest a little.

He shut his eyes.

“The DNA test confirmed you are biologically related to neither Michael Hanson Farrar, nor his wife, Sarah Isabel Farrar. Anna Marie Farrar is indeed their biological daughter. You’re not related to her, either.”

“Because there is no official adoption paperwork, you won’t be legally related to the Farrars going forward. However, you can keep your name, Kellen Farrar. You’ll have a Social Security number, and we’ll arrange for a state-issued ID, as well. Unfortunately, it’s far too late to register a birth certificate, and we don’t have enough information for that, anyway. But you will be registered as a U.S. citizen with full rights as if we were sure you were born here.”

“Shut up,” Kellen whispered. He turned the side of his face to the seat backrest. “Just shut up for two seconds. Please.”

Blackness. And then, like poison, it clouded his mind: that image. Death by blunt force trauma. A body brutally broken. That face. The bag over his head.

Kellen flinched upright, body suddenly trembling erratically. He took a breath. Took another. Tried to rationalize that image away. Nighttime. Daylight. He had seen Alexei just that morning.

Hide me. Hide me in the shadow of thy wings.

Kellen’s head sank back against the seat. One breath. Two. The image those words had always conjured for him. Protection. Safety. A lit, warm pocket in the middle of vast darkness. A place no one would find.

Was that how Skyler had gone out?

A second time, Kellen sat upright, body breaking out in helpless shuddering. No. No, Alexei said she died of a sickness.

Then what the hell happened to her body?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Kellen’s hand swept his face. He gripped the edge of the seat beside him, struggling on an inhale. The erratic pounding in his chest ramped up several notches. The sudden, panicked realization came over him that he was afraid to be alone right now. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that.

He lifted out his phone again. Opened his contacts. Scrolled blindly through them. He already knew what was there. If he had Arlo’s number, maybe he would’ve called that. The thought brushed past him that he could call Marcus and ask for it.

But then he was simply staring at Lila’s phone number.

She worked night shift. She would be pissed if he called her at 11 AM. Or she just wouldn’t answer.

Kellen’s thumb shifted to the call icon and half-absently touched it. The live phone call loaded on his screen before he was certain he had even made up his mind.

And then the dialing tone cut short, and a stopwatch began on the screen.

“ Kellen?”