The Devil's Dream: Waking Up by David Beers Page A

recording left on this phone.
    He put the highlighter down and wiped at the corner of his eye, trying to keep the tears at bay.
    Just call him. He'll answer. Tell him you’re sorry.
    But still, the anger, the stubbornness kept him from doing it. He wanted to, but he didn't—he didn't want to let him off, give Henry his own blessing on this whole ordeal. What mattered more, though? Making Henry feel guilty for what he'd done or making sure that he heard his brother's voice again?
    He picked up the phone and looked through his numbers, finding Henry's. He just had to click dial and that was all, then he could talk to his brother, apologize, wish him well, anything he wanted. Just needed to click dial.
    He pressed down on the phone and put it to his ear.
    It didn't even ring once. A voice simply told Greg that the number had been disconnected.

Part II

Insides Breaking

10
    S ix people stood in the room despite its small size. Jake and Art stood next to the bed, Duvate and Jensen—Werzen’s ‘parents’—just inside the bedroom door, and the two agents who manned the watch car on the street behind them.
    "So wherever he is, he's naked?"
    "Yeah. Those clothes and the tracker in them never left the house. We had no idea anyone came or left," one of the agents said from behind Art.
    Art felt his hands turn to fists, looking like an older version of a young boy about to throw a tantrum. He was going to lose it, right here in front of these four people that didn't know him. He didn't look at anyone, just turned from the room and walked out. He went down the hall, through the living room and to the front door. He pushed as hard as he could, wanting to rip the door from its hinges as it opened, and then finally he stood outside—away from the constraining walls of the fake fucking house they had just bought and furnished with all that bullshit furniture.
    He slammed the door behind him, turned around, and hit it, pain barking immediately up his arm. He hit it a second time and his knuckles scraped raw. A guttural grunt came with the third punch. Finally, with his entire arm aching, he dropped his arm and just stared at the door. A single speck of blood sat on the white wood. His blood. The first he'd shed in this entire saga. Because no matter what he did, other people got hurt. Not Art. Not him standing behind his legions of agents, always the people in front of him, the pawns he moved around as he tried to capture this madman.
    Now this kid, this twenty-four year old who trusted Art, was missing. Stolen. And what the fuck was Art supposed to do? Call up the boy's mom and say, hey, we messed up? Tell his brother, his goddamn roommate, that Art miscalculated and now Henry was gone? Sorry about that.
    He would have to call; he knew that. He would have to call and say something and then he would hear the accusations, the wails, the rage—all of it directed at him, and he deserved it. Art possessed the kid for less than two days, and now he was gone. Brand had shown up and simply stripped him naked then walked out the door with him. Stripped him naked. Knew, somehow, that they placed tracking devices in his clothes and so took them off and then took Henry. Twenty-four years old. The kid had probably been laid a few times total. Never witnessed birth. Never had the chance to let infatuation turn into love, and to let that love turn into something deeper. Art had taken a child, basically, and fed him to a predator. Greased him up in tasty looking fat, bound him, and left him right where the predator could sniff him out, somehow thinking that the child would be able to undo his ties and fight back, would be able to lead Art to the predator.
    Had he ever made such a poor decision?
    He didn't think so; he'd never fucked up like this, not in his entire career.
    Art wanted to pray, standing there with his hand dripping blood onto the concrete stoop; he wanted to talk to God. A lifetime of reinforcement, of turning to the Big Man when