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CHAPTER ELEVEN

" I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, Rem. This is stupid.”

Burke has been muttering that for the last two hours as we’d driven up and parked outside one, after another, coffee houses in the West Minneapolis area.

I’m drawing a complete blank and that fact has me wanting to bang my head against the steering wheel. I try to picture the file, the names, but only the shots from the first bombing—and perhaps the last—stand out. The last was so much more devastating. Three other buildings evacuated, an entire city block destroyed, and eight lives lost.

I still can’t remember where either of them took place, however, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I focused so hard on the victims, their faces deep wounds etched into my soul.

I do remember snippets—a German Shepherd running the length of a chain link fence, barking. An ice cream truck—strange, right? Tiny bells, ringing as if oblivious to the sirens, the flames licking the sky.

I also remember mannequins littering the destruction. We panicked when we first arrived and thought they were bodies.

But as hard as I dig, I can’t place the location of either scene.

“We should have done this in daylight,” I grouse. We spent three hours after dropping off Eve tracking down the off-duty employees of the Daily Grind, interviewing them about other employees. Even had a sit-down with the managers and the owner at the station.

All the interrogations I know will lead to nothing. No one has a motive, even the means to pull off a homemade pipe bomb.

So I admit to standing against the wall, arms akimbo as Burke prodded them for clues.

Through another window, I watched John Booker meet with families—husbands, wives, parents…

Melinda Jorgenson has a name now, as does her son, David.

I shouldn’t have had that beer, because it’s been trying to come back up for hours. We finally left—I insisted on driving, and have been trying to jog my memory since then.

It’s dark, and the city is alive, lights splotching the pavement, the heat rising out of it from the day. A moon rose long ago, but a storm might be blowing in, the taste of it in the stir of the trees.

I’m tired. Bone weary, which is also weird because does that happen in a dream? The whole day has put me at odds with myself. I’m frayed and fighting a headache.

Burke’s grumbling doesn’t help. “Take me back to the station.”

“Fine by me,” I say and turn onto Minnehaha Avenue, heading east.

“I don’t get it. You practically ignore valuable questioning from potential leads, and now, what, you’re psychically trying to figure out where this guy— if this guy—is going to strike next?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Try and make me, pal, because I’m trying to be on your side here.”

That throws a little ice on my ire. But I have nothing for him because even in a dream, the truth sounds impossible.

We drive in silence.

“Okay, what’s eating you? You’re like a man possessed today, and it doesn’t add up. We’re all a little shaken, but…is this about what happened in Booker’s office?”

His question jerks me up, lands like a fist in my chest because I’ve forgotten.

My brother.

It happened so many years ago, the grief has a thick scab over it now, but twenty years ago, the news knocked me sideways, blurred the two events—the bombing and my brother’s body recovery—together.

Now, it feels like an old, dried wound that I am reticent to pick at.

“A couple fisherman found a body of a kid in a lake near Waconia yesterday.”

Silence, then, “And Booker thinks it’s your brother?”

I nod.

He looks away, and releases a curse under his breath. Really, it’s how I should be feeling, but like I said, the old wound has scabbed over. I’ve done my grieving, although I suppose when it comes to grief, it just keeps circling back around because a heaviness builds in my throat.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“And there was that kid today, at the scene.”

David Jorgenson, which, for some reason, feels like a fresher wound, and the heaviness descends to my chest.

“Do your parents know?”

“I’m waiting for the DNA to come back before I talk to them, just, you know, to be sure.”

“I suppose, having some closure will help,” he says.

It will, and it does, but I just nod.

We pull up across the street from 5th Street Java and I stare at the stand-alone brick building. It has a green awning, the windows dark, the chalked specials on the window shrouded. Across the street, a twenty-four hour laundromat beams lights onto the pavement.

I roll down the window and turn off the car, trying to get a feel for the place.

“What are we doing, man?”

I sigh. And really, what does it matter? It’s just a dream. It’s not like Burke is going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly think, hey, remember when you went off your rocker twenty-four years ago, and claimed that you were in a dream and predicted a bombing?

So I turn to him. He’s hidden in the darkness, just his eyes, white and confused on me as I shrug.

“I’m having a dream. A very vivid one where I’m reliving my— our —first cold case. It’s three bombings. One today, one tomorrow and one the next day. And I’m trying to stop them.”

He is silent, just blinking at me. Then, “What?”

“I know, but—listen, it’s not the first time I’ve had this dream, although usually it stops right around the time of the first bombing, when Melinda Jorgenson goes into the coffee shop. I don’t know why I’m not waking up but, as long as I’m here, I have to try and stop?—”

“Are you high?”

His question knocks me back. “What? No, of course not?—”

“Then, what are you talking about? This is not a dream, man. This is real.” Burke’s voice get intense. “Get out. I’m driving.” The door opens and the dome light flickers on. I can see his face now, and he’s serious, his eyes wide, shaking his head.

“Burke—”

“Shut up.” He gets out and I’m not sure what to do because, well, although I expected disbelief, the anger in his voice has rocked me.

He opens my driver’s door and as I turn, he hauls me bodily out of the car.

I go without resisting because I don’t want to make a scene, but I give him a hard shove as soon as I hit my feet. “Step back.”

Burke puts his hands up, a decoy a split second before he slams me into the car. His face is in mine and he’s eying me as if he doesn’t know me.

And now I’m mad, too. “I’m telling the truth. This is twenty-four years ago for me. The bomber goes uncaught, and we spend the next two decades looking at twenty faces who beg us for justice. And it’s eating me alive, Burke.”

I walk away from the car, then round on him. “I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, and Eve—she tries, I know—to tell me to let it go, but I can’t, right? And I know I’ve got everything going right for me—Ashley, and Eve and—geez, we’re still friends, sort of, but—it’s still there, you know? The regret. The fact that I failed so many people. And now, suddenly I’m here, dreaming, and it’s not like the other times and I think, maybe I can fix it this time. And yeah, when I wake up it’ll still be messed up, but at least—at least I’ll know I tried. And maybe I won’t see Melinda Jorgensen’s face haunting me, carrying little David into the coffee shop.”

Burke has backed away, staring at me like I’m speaking Russian. And he’s shaking his head.

“I can’t remember, though. Where the second—or third—bombings took place. You’d think I’d remember the exact location, but it’s escaping me. Sort of like the lyrics to a song I know I should know, but can’t quite put my finger on. So, I’ve been driving around, hoping something jogs my memory.”

He frowns, a tiny smile playing on his lips. And for a second, I think, yeah, it’s sadly funny. But Burke is on my team, backing me up, my partner.

He starts to laugh, shaking his head, grinning. “Geez, Rem. Seriously, you had me going there.”

Huh. I lick my lips, my mouth oddly dry as he slaps one of his big maws on my shoulder. “You and Eve? Right. Yeah, dude, you are dreaming.”

I just gape at him because, “What’s so crazy about that? We’re married . We have a kid.”

“Eve Mulligan ain’t ever gonna marry you.” He laughs. “Saying she’s out of your league is like saying Fran Tarkenton was a sorta okay quarterback.”

I know that, but it hurts a little to see Burke so convinced.

“I’ll have you know that Eve thinks…she’s a fan. We’re good together.”

Burke comes close now, is staring into my eyes, searching. “I don’t know why you’re pranking me, but…good one. You sounded as serious as a heart attack.”

“I am serious.”

“Mmmhmm. Okay, it’s time to call it a night.”

He pushes past me and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Hey.”

“What did I just tell you? I’m driving. Get in if you want a ride.”

I stifle a word and head around to the passenger side. “I have three more shops on my list.”

“Forget it. I’m taking you home.”

I shake my head, but he puts the car into drive. “If it’s a dream, you can wake up tomorrow and start over. I know, maybe you can take a look at the file and figure out where the shops were, save us some time, huh?”

He’s smirking, mocking me, but the words, the idea slips into my head.

I’ll do exactly that. When I wake up, I’ll go over the case. Then when night hits, I’ll take another sleeping pill, or whatever knocked me into this loop and find myself back in time, starting over.

And I’ll do things right with Eve, too. I won’t knock coffee on her, but I’ll figure out something witty to say. This time I’ll score a date, without Burke, and figure out a way to fast-track our romance.

Not spend ten years figuring out that I can’t live without her. Because Burke is right, she is way out of my league, and doesn’t deserve what I put her through.

So I settle back in my seat as Burke turns us around, down to Chicago Avenue, then south to Lake, and west to Holmes. He pulls up in front of the brownstone.

It takes me a second. Because I don’t yet live on Washburn in our updated craftsman.

He hands me my key off my ring. “I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

I pile out and stand there as he leaves me. And now I get it.

He thinks I’ve lost it, or maybe yes, high, although it’s been at least thirty years since my last joint. So he’s left me on the curb to sleep off the crazy.

Hmm.

I head inside the brownstone and up the stairs to the third floor. My key fits into the lock as if it knows the way and suddenly, I’m inside my old digs. Shadows fall through the front window blinds and stripe the oak floor. I’m not a messy person—never have been, but admittedly, Eve has trained me, so I’m not surprised to see a T-shirt crumpled on the sofa where I last used it as a pillow. And on the floor of my room, a pair of socks.

The kitchen is as I left it, twenty-two years ago, with last night’s containers in the trash. Chou’s take out—how I loved their Kung Pao Chicken. I walk over and open the fridge. Mostly empty save for a half of a six pack of Coke, a corked bottle of Cabernet, and a piece of blueberry pie from Betty’s Bodacious Bakery down the street.

My stomach roars and I take out the foam container, pour myself a half glass of the wine and let myself sink into the tangy sweetness of Betty’s fantastic pie, well missed.

I lick out the container, and love every minute of it. Taking my wine out to the front room, I stare down at the street.

Rain has started to fall, a patter on the windows, hazing the street lamps, a rhythmic beat that presses the fatigue further into my bones.

Yeah, maybe it’s time to sleep. To wake up, roll over and pull Eve into my arms, press my lips against her skin, inhale. Today she was beautiful and young and everything I remembered about the woman I love and I’m suddenly hungry for her.

If I had my car, I might even drive by that old bungalow on Webster. Because a guy can be a stalker in a dream and not call it creepy.

I finish the wine, set the glass in the sink, and head to my bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt, pulling off my dress pants. I stand in front of the mirror a second.

Flex.

Oh, I miss this body.

I climb into bed, thunder rolling over me, a slash of light from the storm breaking the dark veneer of the room. But I close my eyes.

Sink into my pillow. Because it’s been a good, very good dream. A reminder of the way my world was with Eve before the cracks appeared.

I swear I’m only out for moments, when I hear the banging.

It beats with the hammer in my head.

“Rem!”

I know the voice, and in the cling of slumber I wonder what Burke is doing here, at my house at this ungodly hour. But even as I roll over, flinging an arm over my eyes, I can see the dent of light, the graying of morning.

I pat the bed. Eve is up and has been for a while because the sheets are cold from her absence.

“Rem!” He bangs on the door three more times. I sit up—which turns out to be a bad move because my entire brain shifts in my head like sloshing water.

“Coming!”

I groan because my head really hurts. I scrub a hand down my face, then open my eyes.

Everything inside me goes cold.

I’m not in my bedroom, the sun cascading through a stained-glass transom at the head of my bed. Eve is not standing at the doorway, yelling at Burke to let me sleep in, and Ashley is not pushing past her to bounce in, pounce on me, her hands finding my face for a good morning smooch.

I stumble across the bedroom floor, then to the front door of the apartment and pull it open.

It’s just Burke, standing there in a puddle of early morning light, sliding in across my tiny apartment living room. Young, with hair, that stupid soul patch, and he looks a little like he’s going to hit me, something gnarled and dark in his expression.

“What—what are you doing here?”

“How did you know?”

“Know what?—?”

He strides past me then whirls around. “Get ready. We gotta roll.”

I press my palm to my temple, head still feeling thick as tar. C’mon, I had a half a glass of wine, for Pete’s sake.

And that was yesterday, in my dream.

Except…

The tan carpet is soft against my bare feet, my young man’s body awake for the morning … I’m still here.

In 1997.

“Know what?” I say for the second time.

“A second bombing. It hit the coffee shop on Lyndale and 35th. Five people dead so far. How did you know?”

I’m shaking as I go into the bathroom, turn on the water, splash it on my face. Because that’s what people do when they’re losing it. When they can’t believe the reality thrown at them. When they want, desperately, to wake up.

When they realize that, I don’t know how, but … this is not a dream .