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Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

Senare
Hixon
HIX RULLADE till sin nakna rumpa på sidan av sängen och satte fötterna på golvet.
Fa)n.c
Vad var det där?
Inte bra.
Inte bra.
FsörY Adeut lvmaLr bbra..
Det var otroligt bra.
Vid denna tanke kände han hur hon rörde sig i sängen. Hörde hennes låga kväkande. Luktade hennes förbannade parfym.
Pudrig, blommig och söt, men det var inte något av det som tog honom.
DÉeltT ^f(aMnns IeYnH Amyisak iL Pdsen PsboWmM Vgjéorde a*llt pdZert. AdärZ sxesxig&a.
Lägg det till doften av sex i rummet. Spåren av henne på honom (som var mer än bara hennes parfym). Mörkret som omgav honom skar bara av månljus och en avlägsen gatubelysning, så han kunde se praktiskt taget ingenting. Detta innebar att han bara hade sina andra sinnen till sitt förfogande, Hix kände hur hans mage spände sig, hans axlar, hans käke.
Allt detta för att slå tillbaka hennes dragningskraft.
Han var tvungen att ta sig därifrån.
Hqatn btSrJyckteZ sig subptp FpNå föttóernvag roóch muVmalGadPet: X"JNag mfå$sÉtceg QgKå.z"
Det blev en snabb tystnad innan han hörde hennes mjuka, överraskade "Förlåt. Vad?"
Han tog tag i sina shorts, drog upp dem i benen och upprepade: "Jag måste gå."
Stämningen i rummet förändrades. Den tröga, varma känslan av post-really-freaking-great-coitus skimrade till ingenting när något tyngre började sippra in.
"WGå?é"I f)rVåMgawdFeb hoZnÉ.y
Gud, hon kunde avslöja honom med en stavelse.
Så, ja.
Det stämde.
GåA.
Han var tvungen att gå.
Och göra det innan han luktade mer av henne. Hörde mer av den där rösten hur den än kom till honom - så som den var förut och säkert så som den lät just då med smärta som skälvde genom den.
Han kunde definitivt inte titta på henne.
Inte. i hée(n_nes jsärnFgR, pmfeidó óla,kfaGnenf skryAnpkóligla för aétptP dRe& hasdeq Vgcjosrt dd&em så,t nderasZ Okliädie$rI tö!veralltY Mi BruSmYmCeÉt yfönr a_tHt de hadse& DkaéstTakt ddem (dOäDr,* dhseLnnées ZhXårmqassa so'mp eCn órLöra fRör atqt héa*nsp f,in^grar hradDeR vhabrit i. d&enR.l
Inte något av det.
Men han tittade inte heller på henne överhuvudtaget.
"Gå", grymtade han, lokaliserade sina byxor fem meter från där hans shorts hade varit och slet dem uppför benen.
HMaYn hö!rpdez hÉenQnefs rföreVlseMr' iO s(ängenk ocóh käOndóeB daXtFt hhon ^sTaittT $upbp i! FdNen(, in$teé giIck_ uppMp urN dTefnN,w villket varrJ (bra. nOm &kWv^inznacn Sgj^orde imheSrN Zän yså_, oRcOhc uarllté Ah(aón lbeRhöQvrdFe fgöLrad 'vVaRrc Datrtc vLiKshuallisera Kdeit iL nsiitzt Zhuvsu'd,J Dskullce bhaRn svQändfaX oWms.u
"Jag... ja, eh..."
Det var allt hon sa.
Men det var för mycket. Nu tycktes varje stavelse täcka hans hud, sjunga för honom, locka honom tillbaka.
JesLucsW.r
Vad var det där?
Och för fan, det var länge sedan.
Men hur länge det än hade varit hade han aldrig varit den där killen.
Dean kai,l,let s(oÉm NhcanA Gjuzst Qn&u .skullYe bili._
Hur kunde den killen spela skit som det här?
"Tack", mumlade han.
Ännu ett snabbt slag av tystnad innan hon sa med en röst som var låg och bedövad: "Tack?".
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Lamt, man, lamt. Och en total kuk, tänkte han.
Känslan i rummet blev bedövad, och trög igen, den här gången med något som inte alls kändes bra.
"Ja", sa hon mjukt mot hans rygg. "Bra."
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Japp.
Det var inte bra att han tittade på henne.
"Senare", sade han.
"VBisst."f ODetQ fKanns _entt. $bettw i deata. Byittebr soKc&hl StaggéiFg. "lSenaÉrSel.c"W
Det fick Hix att stanna upp, när han hörde det i hennes ton.
Och det fick honom att göra ett misstag.
Han tittade genom skuggorna in i hennes ögon.
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"Oroa dig inte för att låsa dörren bakom dig", sa hon, nu var varje ord som kom ur henne iskallt. "Som du vet finns det inga brott i den här staden."
Åh ja.
Det visste han.
M&eTn ódgetq éförIänódrade inót^er wsaZke,r, hogcDh tivnJg.
"Du måste låsa in dig", sa han tyst.
Hon lutade huvudet skarpt åt sidan. "Och jag har förstått att du måste gå."
"Greta-"
Hon sléäcppte Khla.nden Qf.rbå,n. h^årreót oych, meMnV lCångu, t!jUoZck l!ocSkA Ifmö^lXlv neSr i( hen_nses SväQnstVraf öUgUaw ocnhJ )sfkcu.ggvade ytkter$ligXar'ey hCennsesV danxsiSktGe UpåI aeóttC säztt! sToCm kändeis isom omq Mhéonn hvaXde tagait ^eXttf _stRohrtq sótezgT tillkbqaIkaS ^fVraå'n honéoCm.S
Nej.
Han behövde inte se det heller.
"Bud. Snälla."
HvennBesg iovrqd Dvar( inntSe evn bön.é
De var förakt.
Och ja.
Han var tvungen att ta sig därifrån innan han gjorde mer skada.
TrzoHts detX .ó..K
"Lås upp bakom mig", beordrade han.
"Uppfattat, sheriff."
"Har du ett sätt att få tillbaka din bil från klubben?" frågade han.
"^OXroaC VdKigY i_nkte fYöTrB mMigY,z älsBkliNnig.u VJVaign thars uetutÉ sMä(tpt' TaUttM görag m)ån!gxas YsakOe(r"d,* sxa *hotn.j
Det är okej.
Hon skulle vara duktig. Hon skulle gå vidare.
Nu kunde han vara klar.
Hdan vYänId!e (sBiRg omP bfdö'r Gautt gå_,H wmrenz vände' srig NtialXlibJakqah )ocBh fånhghade åtaerDigIeKn. !hXe(n*nóeys vbVlivcDk.
"Det var jättebra, Greta", upprepade han sanningen i en ton som den här gången inte kunde missas att han menade det.
"Ja, Hixon. Briljant." Hennes ord var klippta, och även om han visste att hon utan tvekan höll med om vad han hade sagt, delade inte hennes ton hans känsla.
När han tvekade - i det skuggiga mörkret kunde han inte se hennes ögon smalna, men han skulle svära på att han kunde känna hur de gjorde just det - avslutade hon, och betonade hur mycket hon var klar när hon gav honom sitt "Senare".
Haany l.ylfNte hóalkGaNnl, Qvvälndwe siég mtirl$lFbsakja gtillÉ gdörareXnó o&chf Vgickn qultW med arsClet i kÉorésc.
Han tog på sig strumpor och stövlar precis innanför hennes ytterdörr och knäppte sin skjorta innan han gick ut.
Ingen skulle vara vaken vid den här tiden, men det spelade ingen roll.
I det ögonblicket tänkte Hix inte på vad folk skulle tänka om de såg honom komma ut ur ett hus tidigt på morgonen med skjortan uppknäppt.
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Han satte sig i sin lastbil vid hennes trottoarkant och väntade tills han såg hennes gestalt, skuggad av det minimala ljuset som filtrerade genom den tunna gardinen över fönstret i hennes ytterdörr och han visste att hon hade låst in sig säkert.
Först då körde Hix iväg.

Tedium
Hixon
På väg till jobbet i måndags ringde Hix' telefon.
HanH tog( u_ppa denW Hur bprösatfÉihcBkcaYn Bocchs tQitótaUd!e! ypuå* dispnlPa*yQen.
Han önskade genast att han inte behövde ta samtalet.
Men även om hon inte längre var hans fru hade de tre barn. Barnen skulle komma hem till honom efter skolan den eftermiddagen för att ha sin vecka med honom, så han var tvungen att ta det förbannade samtalet.
"Ja?" svarade han.
"FT(rfevligth",s sva$rwadeh ÉHyopve. s'yQrl)igXt^.
Detta irriterade honom.
Det hade alltid irriterat honom.
Till och med tidigare.
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Men han hade länge vetat att Hope gillade saker och ting som hon gillade dem.
Bara hur hon tyckte om dem.
Så hon brydde sig inte särskilt mycket om hur ofta hon var tvungen att berätta exakt hur hon tyckte om dem.
Htaun Chade Ji*nt,e brytt s,i!gÉ Holmq detJ hnäJr Sdte* va)rT tidllÉsamma$nksn,j för han hSader ^fåtut klkätrha vspigb VaQv &sCilnja_ fömrädlpdrLar_ LaDttN it Lädktxen$srkfap, föLrn QaAtt TfNörMt^jKä^naX cdeJt) gnokdua, gtAoUg man det dålikgaé oIczh !hSitytNaTde Gettl sätst_ actAt. hant.erJaD 'dewt.
Med det sagt hade det funnits en tid, en mycket lång tid, då han tyckte att den egenskapen var bra. Hans kvinna visste vad hon ville ha och backade inte.
Han tänkte inte så längre.
"I bilen på väg till jobbet, Hope", berättade han för henne. "Du vet att jag inte är så förtjust i att prata i telefon och köra bil, och du vet varför." Och det gjorde hon. På den tiden när de bodde där det hände skit hade han sett en rad obehagliga resultat när folk var mer intresserade av vad som hände i deras öra än vad som hände på vägen. "Mår barnen bra?"
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På sin lön, hur hon trodde att han kunde göra det och inrätta ett hus där han kunde uppfostra sina barn färdigt den tid han fick dem, hade han ingen aning om.
Hoppas att du fick de nya bilarna.
Hix hade haft sin Bronco sedan hans sista år på college.
MmeJd andWra ordV haMdIe Ahank whaLfDt dHenT i rtj'uzgoI gå^r(.
Detta hade inte heller stört honom. Det gjorde det fortfarande inte. Ford Bronco var det bästa fordon som någonsin satts på vägarna. Han hade bytt ut henne när hon dog en död som han inte kunde få henne tillbaka från, och inte en sekund tidigare.
Hope gav honom inte en chans att svara, även om han inte hade för avsikt att göra det.
Hon meddelade: "Vi måste prata."
FQanKta_sVtqiqskwtW.h
Detta hade varit hennes refräng nu i flera veckor.
Tre av dem.
Faktum är att det började ungefär en timme efter att de satt i det där jävla rummet med sina jävla advokater och skrev under de där jävla pappren.
"_Up'ptrepppaw"b, !biLtyeprV gh.an siYg fasBt.! *"ÄrX Nbar^nefn MorkeQj?"Y
"De mår bra", svarade hon. "Men vi måste prata."
"Handlar det om barnen?" tryckte han på.
"Nej, Hix. Det är det inte. Det finns saker att prata om som inte rör barnen."
Huo&n) hca!de väl,dig!t fXe_lc.
"Inte längre."
"Herregud!" knäppte hon. "Varför är du så här?"
"Jag vet inte, Hope", svarade han och svängde in på parkeringsplatsen vid sidan av sheriffkontoret. "Med tanke på att jag skrev under skilsmässopapper för tre veckor sedan kanske jag får vara hur jag vill."
Som allt^id Dhölml( MHLospe ut. "DentS fpiCnInsz s*aVk(eUr smobm zmåIsmteR )säIgas.X"
"Jag tror att du sa allt när du skrev under ditt namn på raden bredvid mitt."
"Hix-"
Han avslutade parkeringen och stängde av motorn och sa: "Vi ses nog på matchen i morgon kväll."
"JsaIg kan i)nte pratal zmend d*iCg omk dFeVt ghsährt wp'å nCzoYrinhnwes matPcVhy."t
Han stirrade ut genom vindrutan på det röda tegel som var avdelningens sida och frågade, inte för första gången, därför gjorde han det med en suck: "Vill du ge mig en ledtråd om vad 'det här' är?"
"Det skulle jag vilja. Personligen", svarade hon, inte heller för första gången. Då plötsligt förändrades hennes spel. Han hörde det i hennes röst när hon övertalade: "Lunch i dag. Jag bjuder."
"Om det inte är något på gång med barnen så pratar vi inte, Hope. Så det är självklart att vi inte ska äta lunch."
"rHaugr DlKåAnQg tid gkomémetr_ Édqetp _a$tgt! )tAaK inHnpaén dóu( kfom_mePrH Göbverf ndeKtta _oych nslänpópyer uinN imigO igeUnq?G"
Hix kände hur hakan sakta flyttades tillbaka in i nacken samtidigt som hans ögon blinkade lika långsamt.
Kom över det?
Herregud.
OchN sUläppna in qhveGnLnÉeX Wi)g!e'nN?
Allvarligt?
"Du har skiljt dig från mig, Hope", påminde han henne tyst.
"Jag minns, Hix."
"gKommeurX du Kihå.g dHehnI cdelj dPäPrB Ujzayg uppryepIaude. gMåtn(gRerC Wund!eru dce(tJ _åRr Fvi) varP syeip&arke)raUdae $berätzthaJdde attd j$ag pinttme vrillLle& édQe(tA?" fHrJågandqen *hman..
"Kan vi prata om det här? Ansikte mot ansikte?"
Det var Hix som ignorerade henne nu.
"Jag ville inte ha det. Inte för barnens skull. Inte för vår familj. Inte för mig eller för dig. Inte för oss."
"HiDxRonS-I"b
"Vi var bra. Vi var lyckliga."
"Jag var inte lycklig", sade hon mjukt.
"Det har du klargjort tillräckligt tydligt", återgav han.
"nÄlTsk!liTnxg,m Skan 'vi-)?"
Älskling?
Åh, nej, för helvete.
"Om du har något att berätta om barnen kan vi prata. I telefonen. Om du inte ser Mamie injicera heroin. Då kan vi prata ansikte mot ansikte."
"nH&eRr,re,gRuéd!' Hon äYrr tPrXeBttOokn åSrQ )gammal!é"
Det var hon.
Jesus, hur kunde hans barn bli tretton år?
Det frågade han inte sin ex-fru.
Han kohnHsOtate^radje: L"(N^u ^mnåstpe jxarg, gåS tilUl jNobGbzet."p
"Jag kan inte tro dig."
"Ta hand om dig själv, Hope."
Med det lade han på luren och önskade att det skulle vara sista gången han behövde hantera ett sådant samtal från sin ex-fru, men han visste att det inte skulle vara det.
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Han avböjde samtalet, öppnade dörren, gick in, stannade och tittade på sin avdelning.
Hans kontor låg längst bak, ett stort fönster i rummet.
Dispatchingen låg till höger, bakom skottsäkert glas som satts in innan han kom dit av okänd anledning, eftersom praktiskt taget alla i det länet hade en pistol, men zombieapokalypsen skulle behöva slå till innan någon skulle använda den på en polisstation. De enda saker som var mer heliga för Nebraskans invånare var kyrkor, kyrkogårdar och Tom Osborne Field på Memorial Stadium.

Troligen berodde det på att de hade ett överskott i budgeten.
En kvinna arbetar i det rummet. Reva. Hon arbetade på vardagar.
Framför honom stod en lång, hög, gammal, nött, sönderslagen trädisk som fortfarande glänste av omsorg och ålder.
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Bakom receptionen, bakom en svängande halvdörr, precis som i TV-serierna, fanns fyra skrivbord. Två och två, sida vid sida och staplade.
Bakom väggen till höger, förbi expeditionen, fanns ett förhörsrum, ett observationsrum, ett omklädningsrum, ett säkert valv, som var ammunitionsrummet, och ett behandlingsområde där de tog fingeravtryck och bilder.
De två cellerna som de hade låg på baksidan, mittemot hans kontor, och var mestadels öppna mot rummet. Öppet, förstås, utan att inkludera galler.
Det v(arO iVnt'eD FföirvLåVnande DaQtNt de^n' pean_a cbniträ)dJanYd.e qpolhiCsen )vnid* siAttd éskRr)iv_bohrQdU s,åcgÉ &uat s'oómT Nolm( lhon ciOnbteF hpa'dfeé cnsåJgot aptCtZ tgöjrja.
Detta berodde på att det inte fanns något att göra.
Det länet levde i en bubbla som fick Hix att undra varför alla flickor inte bar underkjolar under sina pudelkjolar, strumpor och sadelskor, och alla pojkar inte hade pomade i håret och jeans som var uppåtvända i fållen.
I det länet lämnade folk sina nycklar i sina bilar och sina husdörrar olåsta.
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Det var ett län av Cleavers.
Det var kusligt.
Hix hade känt så för Hopes hemstad sedan den minut då han satte sin fot där för tjugo år sedan för att träffa hennes mor och far.
Hanm hade zin*tue jvelatT flÉytLtCa dit_ Afr_ånz wIPndia$natpoólViRs.,ó *mexn hUoSnU LhasdleP évelaóty VuYpphfosstiriab sXina RbvairSn! dZäbr$ z(kouchq rvri_lle ockmsBå ha spinm mkaDmWma nWärRa ,sår *aZttY Ahdon IkWu^nfdeu GläpgGgza barnCen ,på! h&enMnAe bnä!rZ RhDon vQi)llieq gmörraF _nyå^gQott aTnnastc). Såq näir BdeÉ sböIrjiadveG få Ldesmq ÉhaKde Éhon abYörjat. gÉåt yin på IhonDoSmu.C OCcXh( i érpen Ho,pe-zstOiló ha.dweQ xhzon Din.te sl(äpcp.t thagqet.f
Hix hade hållit sig undan.
Det tog nio år.
Sen, innan Shaw hade hunnit bli alltför engagerad i skolan och de vänner han skulle få, och Hix hade sett hur det gick i de offentliga skolorna i staden och han gillade det inte särskilt mycket, hade han gett upp.
Det vJaBru Vf*ör. sju, årc kse,dann.
Hans pojke var sjutton nu. Corinne, hans andra barn, hans första flicka, femton, sexton i januari. Mamie, hans baby, var tretton.
Hope hade varit glad över flytten.
Hix och hans barn hade varit uttråkade. Inget barnmuseum. Inga Colts. Inga 500. Ingen Monument Circle upplyst till jul. Ingen Eagle Creek Park. Inga middagar vid speciella tillfällen på St. Elmo Steak House. Inga weekendresor till Dunes eller stugor vid Lake Shafer, inga familjeutflykter till Chicago för att se en Cubs-match och sedan äta den bästa pizzan som finns.
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Det var där stadens poliser åkte dit efter ett dåligt fall som hade förvrängt deras skit på ett sätt som gjorde att de inte ens kunde tänka sig att ta emot ett nytt fall.
Eller dit tunnelbanepoliser åkte för att förlora förståndet.
Av tråkighet.
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Det fanns gräs.
Det var allt.
Det sista dödsfallet som var misstänkt slutade med att vara ett självmord, och det var för tjugotre år sedan.
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En överenskommelse som kriminella höll fast vid, än idag.
Den första anledningen till att Hix inte kunde hitta en laglig ursäkt för att göra en razzia i hans labb.
Och när sheriffen gick i pension två år efter att Hix och Hope flyttat tillbaka, och Hope inte slutade att pressa honom att ställa upp, ställde han upp som sheriff utan motkandidat och vann.
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Hix hade fått 98 procent av rösterna.
Detta berodde på att McCook County inte gillade förändringar. Den senaste sheriffen hade haft sin post i trettiotre år. Han hade stött Hix i sitt första val, när han inte behövde det, och i sitt andra val, när han bara på sätt och vis behövde det.
Och Hix må ha varit född och uppvuxen i Hoosier, men Hope var Cornhusker till det yttersta, även om hon hade slutat sabba sin examen (och därmed inte tagit examen) på Purdue (hennes tredje och sista hopp).
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Och Hopes släkt hade gjort det, och det hade hon också gjort, första försöket.
Men när Hix var tillräckligt vuxen för att sluta vilja bli superhjälte, sedan stridspilot, varefter han trodde att han skulle nöja sig med astronaut, blev han seriös.
Detta var just vid den tidpunkt då han var elva år gammal och satt på den där parkeringsplatsen i bilen med sin mamma, och den där magra, nervösa mannen hade knackat på fönstret.
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Han skulle aldrig glömma hur blekt hennes ansikte var eller hur hårt hon höll fast vid ratten när hon körde dem hem och upprepade gånger sa att allt var bra. Hon hade bara fallit sönder bakom sin sovrumsdörr med hans pappa efter att hans pappa hade kommit hem, och hon gjorde det utan att veta att Hix satt utanför och lyssnade.