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It was a familiar sight: Shane Silva slumped over his desk next to a cold cup of coffee, a set of scattered files were his pillow and the backdrop of a sleepy Peachyville his soundtrack. Sneaky Pete took a moment to savor it. He walked around Shane’s desk to the corkboard on wheels behind him, covered in pictures, scribbled notes, and newspaper clippings. The puzzle the resting cop had been trying to piece together was yet another mystery in this mystery-filled town. The faces on the board were familiar to Pete, but did not draw his interest. What he was mesmerized with was the artistry behind it. The art of investigation, in which Shane was a master. It amused Sneaky Pete to elude the man so, knowing that his talents brought him to satisfying conclusion so often, but not for his biggest mystery: the child murderer who stalked the night without footprints. Pete could see his own file on the desk, always near Shane. He kept it close like one would a good luck charm, or a memento from a lover. Sneaky Pete reached out to stroke Shane’s cheek, his finger a phantasmal force that could not fully affect the world before him, but still Shane twitched in his sleep- recognition that something had occurred. And oh, how this man made him feel things in return- something that exceeded the thrill of the kill. The thrill of the chase. To be followed so closely. But recently the trail had gone cold, and Pete had come to revive it.
Pete momentarily considered leaving a physical manifestation of himself behind in the room, something to truly tease Shane, but that kind of invasion wasn’t quite his style. Instead, the mark would be mental, familiar to the dance the two of them had danced ever since Pete’s first kill. He brought his hand to Shane’s temple and pressed. If there was a third party observing him- as if anyone else in Peachyville had this power- they would’ve seen him step forward through a doorway that wasn’t there, over a threshold into something else that closed the instant he had fully transposed through it.
He found himself once again in the familiar place of Shane’s mind palace. Pete liked to think of himself as a connoisseur of dreams. He had tasted an array of flavors and usually found them sour with fear. On occasion he would find a treat of fantasy, but those were easy to poison- leeching the delight until it ran dry. Shane’s dreams weren’t so obviously grand or adverse, though they carried an undertone of anxiety that left Pete quivering for more. Like all, Shane’s dreams mirrored his mind, and his mind was full of curiosity that could not be sated- the two of them shared a familiar experience with hunger.
Sneaky Pete found himself in a hallway tiled black and white like a chess board. The walls were adorned with deep red velvet curtains that hung heavy. Pete reached out a finger to disturb their peace, and they responded by flittering like birds dispatching from a perch.
“Sneaky Pete.”
The voice interrupted his appreciation of the dream crafted before him. He felt a well of anger rising within him, but it was easily swayed when he recognized the source of the voice.
“Big Shane Silva,” he said.
“Don’t call me that,” Shane snapped at him.
Sneaky Pete turned to see him, dressed in a long pale green trench coat accompanied with a fedora and smoking pipe. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a detective picture. “Biiiig Shane Sylvia,” He teased. “It’s what all the kids call you.”
Pete could feel Shane’s blood run cold. It was as if a wind was whipping them within the room.
“You bastard.” The pipe in Shane’s hand flared with a passionate fire.
Sneaky Pete inhaled the smoke. The scent was spicy with rage. He stepped forward, drawing a circle around Shane with his path. Shane stood slightly hunched forward, his free hand deep in his pocket. He followed Sneaky Pete with his gaze only, not turning his head as Pete walked out of his field of view. He was always stoic like that. Sneaky Pete liked it.
On the opposite wall was a mirror, it reflected the two of them, Sneaky Pete pausing to hover behind Shane’s shoulder to observe the two of them, forever locked in chase. His own visage was masked in shadow, murky like unmixed milk in a glass of tea- human features fading in and out of view. He let Shane see more of him than he did others. He felt no risk of being found outside of the dream space. He kept his head down on the day to day and lived an unnoticeable life. Any glimpse of his features here would not reveal himself outside- no matter how hard Shane tried to make the connection.
“Who is the hound hunting for now?” Pete reached out to place a hand on Shane’s shoulder but was brushed off brusquely.
Shane growled. “None of your business.”
“Peachyville’s my business,” Sneaky Pete hummed. “I know everything that goes on around here.”
Shane took a long drag from his pipe, closing his eyes as he did. When he exhaled, the smoke furled from his nostrils like fire from a dragon’s mouth.
“My son,” he said after a long pause.
Something twisted inside Sneaky Pete. Something possessive. “Your son?” If anyone were to take that kill, it would be him. But he remembered seeing that light from the second floor of the Silva house when he had taken to the sky this evening. The boy was alive.
“Someone shot his damn leg off.”
Ah. Yes, Sneaky Pete remembered that. That had been quite a show. The resulting dreams of one little Shane had been quite interesting.
Sneaky Pete walked forward, stopping to stand between Shane and the mirror, blocking the detective’s view of himself. He plucked the pipe from Shane’s grasp, bringing it to his ever-shifting lips to take a hit. Shane’s expression twisted with disgust and the pipe evaporated into thin air. Pete took the gesture in stride, waving a hand to dissipate the smoke that fell from his lips.
He watched Shane. Watched his face. Looked deep into those eyes that found and found and found. They figured things out. That’s what they were there for. And that’s what he was there for. It was a Friday night, and the Big Shane Silva was sleeping in his office. He had worked all night while his family stayed home. While his boy stayed home. Alone. Missing his father. Missing the love of his father.
And maybe there was something Sneaky Pete could do about that.
In a snap, he vanished, dissolving into a thin black mist- like smoke from an engine. Shane’s eyes opened wide as he looked over each shoulder for any sign of him, but Sneaky Pete was gone. The suddenness of the disappearance startled him such that he woke with a start, sitting upright in his office chair, a globule of drool on his cheek.
Shane looked around. The world that surrounded him was firm and material, easily distinguishable from the ever-shifting essence of a dream. His feet were firm on the solid floor of the police station. Before him were the files he had been pouring over all evening, only slightly disheveled from his nap. He picked the cup of coffee up and took a dangerous sip- it was cold, but it was caffeine. And he needed that to return to the task. He stretched his back, sitting upright, and looked down at the mess before him with fresh eyes. Only this time there was something alien and unfamiliar on top of the pile- a yellow scrap of paper with something scribbled on it.
The Guttural Screams.