Lost Dreams: A Paranormal P.I. Mystery Thriller (The Redstone Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  LOST

  DREAMS

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  Book Two in The Redstone Chronicles

  J. T. BISHOP

  Want access to free content from J.T. Bishop, including her first book, Red-Line: The Shift, plus additional books, excerpts, short stories, and missing scenes? Then look for the link at the end of the book to learn more.

  Chapter One

  The blood. It had gathered in thick pools on a hard ground. She could smell its metallic scent, and bloody footprints trailed away toward…she squinted, trying to see. A man lay on the ground, and she sensed she knew him, and the person who’d left the prints remained hidden. Feeling the man’s pain, a wave of despair seized her, and fear bubbled up. She wanted to help but could only observe. The man writhed, a shadow darted toward her, and frightened, Mikey Redstone opened her eyes.

  She sat up in bed, breathing hard, her skin wet and clammy. She threw the covers back and swung her legs to the side. Her heart pounding, she blinked, and eyed the clock. It was four a.m. The dream echoed in her mind, and she tried to remember more, but almost chose to forget it.

  Shaking her head, she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table. She wondered if the dream had any connection to Victor D’Mato and her history with him. Her D’Mato dreams had always involved some regretted action on her part, or D’Mato chasing her with that demented look on his face, grabbing her and throwing her on a bed, and she’d wake with a scream stuck in her throat. Her terror would only give way to the relief that that part of her life was over, and she would never return to it.

  But this dream had felt different. Victor had not made an appearance, and it had contained a sense of foreboding, as if what she’d envisioned had yet to take place. Was she dreaming of the future?

  Her heart rate slowing, she sipped her water and tried to cull more from the dream, but it was fading fast. What or who else had been present?

  An image flashed in her head. A woman. There had been a woman, but Mikey couldn’t remember her face. An object joined the image, and Mikey shut her eyes, trying to remember. Something gleamed around the woman’s neck. She fought to bring it into focus, but it was like a big fog bank was rolling in, and the harder she tried, the faster the fog encroached.

  Giving up, she thought of her mom. Her mother had always had a sixth sense, and the family knew of her vivid dreams. None of them scoffed or made fun when she’d predicted something, because they’d all seen more than once how Mom could be scarily accurate.

  Mikey put the water down and, feeling calmer, she pushed back into the bed, sitting up against the headboard. She’d never had a premonition before; she was more the type to get a sense of things, and she could read energy easily. She’d had to learn early how to protect herself, or she’d be in a mood all day. Most people walked around with a lot of crap attached to them, and if she didn’t put up some boundaries, Mikey would end up in bed with a migraine.

  Growing up, Mikey had been rebellious, and because of that, when she was younger, she’d ignored warning signs, shut her senses down, and despite her gifts, had ended up falling prey to the charismatic and illusory charm of Victor D’Mato, who at the time had been her older brother Mason’s best friend. Victor’s desperate need for power and his ability to manipulate those with unusual gifts had caused Victor and Mason’s falling out and had made Victor a formidable enemy. He’d gathered others around him who were also in desperate need, and before she’d known it, Mikey, at her insane sister Margaret’s urging, had been caught up in Victor’s cult, her mind and body completely seduced by him.

  Mason had saved her, though. He’d pulled her out and brought her back to life before Victor could take it, the way he’d taken Mom’s. Their mother’s death still plagued Mason to this day, no matter what Mikey said.

  Thinking again of her mother, Mikey couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just dreamt of the future? Was someone about to die? Pinching the bridge of her nose, she fought to think.

  The blood didn’t fade. She could still see it clearly, but she could get no sense of the injured man, or who he was. Had he been stabbed? Shot? She didn’t know. And the woman. Had she left the footprints? Sighing, Mikey groaned and debated going back to sleep. It was pointless sitting there in the dark, trying to grasp figments of a rapidly fading vision. Shifting her position, she slid back down and pulled the covers up. She thought of Rem and wondered where he was.

  Rem was Detective Aaron Remalla, a handsome, kind and appealing man who’d almost lost his own life in the clutches of Victor’s cult. He’d been dealing with his own issues after facing off with Victor’s disciples, and his subsequent abduction and assault. During his recovery, Rem and Mikey had grown close, their shared pain making them fast friends and allowing them each to discuss topics not well understood by others. But Rem’s fears were fresher, and with his partner Daniels’ and Mikey’s help, he was just beginning to find his way back. He’d returned to work, but with the case against Victor’s right-hand woman, Allison Albright, and Victor’s cronies looming, and their attempts to discredit Rem and Daniels, he’d been struggling to stay on level ground. But Mikey had done her best to remind him that no matter what Allison or her lowlife attorney tried, Allison would go to prison for the rest of her life, Victor was dead and neither of them could hurt them ever again.

  He’d seemed okay, until a few days earlier when he’d texted to tell her he was taking some time off. She’d understood, having been there herself a few times. His partner Daniels had been on leave anyway after a shooting, so it seemed as good a time as any for Rem to regroup.

  Rolling on her side, she wished she could call him, but decided to leave him alone, plus she doubted he’d appreciate a four a.m. phone call to talk about a possible premonition of a mysterious woman wearing something shiny who might stab an unknown man. She could almost hear Rem groan.

  Closing her eyes, she took a full breath and blew it out, telling herself to relax. If she was meant to remember, she would. And the dream was likely just that. A simple dream. With no significance whatsoever. Settling into the mattress, she let her mind drift, preparing to fall back to sleep, when the shiny object from the fog flashed in her mind. It flickered against the mysterious woman’s neck. It was a gold chain, and at the center was a word in gold cursive. Seeing it clearly, Mikey scrunched her eyes and whispered the word on the necklace aloud. Dream.

  Chapter Two

  Mason Redstone walked through the old farmhouse that had recently been renovated into a beautiful two-story ranch-style home. High ceilings and big windows gave the house a light and airy feel and the gorgeous view of the rolling hills reminded Mason of his grandparents’ home in the hill country of Texas.

  The owners had contacted his agency, SCOPE, the previous week and had asked Mason to investigate their property. They’d bought the farmhouse a year earlier and had envisioned it as the place where they would enjoy their eventual retirement. But once construction had begun, they’d had nothing but issues. Workmen came and went, never staying longer than a couple of weeks. They’d say the place had a vibe, or that they’d seen or heard something they couldn’t explain. Renovations had come to a halt more than once until new workers could be employed. Eventually, the home had been completed, although eight months behind schedule, and the owners, an older couple in their mid-sixties, had moved in a month later. Having had no experiences themselves during the renovation, they were unconcerned about the activity, believing it to
be the result of overactive imaginations and superstitious beliefs.

  They’d made it three months before calling SCOPE.

  SCOPE stood for the Study of Cryptids or Paranormal Entities and Mason had thought it was the perfect name for his agency, although his sister Mikey had disagreed. After a two-year stint as a Texas Ranger, several talks with his brother Max who lived in San Diego and listening to the advice of his best friend Victor, Mason had taken the leap and left the Rangers, moved to California, and had become a private investigator in hopes of using his gifts to help others. Mikey had followed soon after.

  It had been a rocky start, especially after his estrangement from Trick, his partner in the Rangers, his falling out with Victor, the murder of his cousin, and the gut-wrenching loss of his mother. But, as the saying went, life went on. As paranormal investigations became more mainstream, his business had picked up, resulting in Mason inviting Trick to join SCOPE.

  Mason had been reluctant at first, especially after working a recent difficult case with Trick in which they’d investigated Trick’s sister-in-law, Cissy, for murder, and Mason and Mikey had barely made it out alive. But that case had led to repairing their fractured friendship, and now that Trick was here, Mason could see the benefit of a second investigator. One who could handle the non-paranormal cases which also seemed to be on the rise despite the agency’s name. Trick had completed the requirements for his PI license and had started work that week. He already had a client coming in later that day, and Mason was anxious to hear about it once he returned to the office, but right now, he had some spirits to clear from the old farmhouse.

  The minute he’d walked into the home, he had sensed the presence of two souls who still wandered the property. One was an older man and the other a young child, a girl, maybe ten years of age. The owners had been confronted with odd noises and spectral voices, footsteps on the stairs and in the hallways, and objects falling from the shelves. They’d installed cameras and had caught an apparition moving past a door frame, and the wife had called Mason the next day, telling him they needed help, and threatening to sell if the activity continued.

  Mason had arrived two days later and had investigated the house, sensing the two presences who he now felt sure had lived here before. After spending some time on the property and reaching out to the entities, he’d learned it had been a father and daughter. The daughter had died in the home after a long illness, and the father had grieved for her and had died himself years later from a heart attack, likely brought on from the long period of grief. The strange part of the visit, though, was why they chose to remain.

  Mason had discussed the problem with the homeowners, and they’d asked him to encourage the spirits to move on and let them live in their house in peace. He’d agreed, believing he could do some research, prepare, and would return to move the father and daughter on and into the light.

  Now, a week later, as he walked through the main hallway, he opened himself up to the energy of the space, sensing the presence of the spirits. He’d communicated to them, telling them the situation, and letting them know it was time to leave. Honesty was the best policy with both the living and the dead, and Mason trusted that once the father and daughter understood their situation, they would happily move on. But as Mason continued his walk, he sensed another presence, one he hadn’t felt on his earlier visit, and he realized that the father and daughter remained not only because they felt a connection, but also because they were being prevented from leaving.

  Mason paused at the entry to a guest bedroom and eyed the closet. In his research, he’d found little to justify any lingering evil spirits, but he could never rule out the land itself. He could only go so far back in his search. Most history was lost to time and would never be known. Mason began to sense that there was more to this property that had nothing to do with the home itself.

  Stepping into the small room, he eyed a bed, a sitting table with an attached mirror, and a bureau with a chest of drawers. Nothing seemed out of place, and Mason studied his reflection in the mirror. He wore his boots, jeans and pressed long-sleeved, forest green shirt. His groomed handlebar mustache dusted his cheeks, and not having shaved that morning, he sported a slight five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’d left his cowboy hat in the front room and noted again when he saw his longish hair reaching his ears that it was time for a cut.

  But now was not the time to worry about his appearance, because in the reflection, he saw and heard the closet door creak open behind him.

  Mason turned, his heart starting to thump. Curious, but also careful, he approached the closet door, and nearing it, he reached out and pulled on the knob, opening the door more, and peered inside. The closet contained little more than a few items of clothing hanging from the bars and a couple of boxes on the floor.

  Taking a steady breath, he moved closer, mentally asking who was present, but received no response. Reminding himself that fear never solved anything, he took slow steps and entered the small space, asking again for the presence to make itself known. He sensed that whatever had beckoned him held the answers as to why the father and daughter remained. Mason wanted those answers, and he asked again.

  A cold breeze brought a sudden drop in temperature, and an icy chill ran up Mason’s spine. His body tingled, and Mason had the sudden understanding that perhaps he’d made a mistake. Whatever had lured him into the closet had not done so in kindness, but in malevolence. Realizing his error, he turned to leave, when a low growl penetrated the silence, the light went out, and the closet door slammed shut.

  Chapter Three

  Trick Monroe shoved his desk against the wall in the office and studied its placement. Tapping his chin, he turned and eyed the coffeemaker. Sighing, he walked to the table where the coffee machine sat and slid it over to the side. He unplugged the coffeemaker and then picked it up, along with the table, and moved them against the far wall, beneath the shelf that held Red’s weird wooden box and the creepy stone statues in plexiglass containers. Trick planned to ask Red why they were the only objects on the several shelves and if they could move them somewhere where the statues’ strange eyes wouldn’t follow him around the room.

  Observing the layout of SCOPE, Trick decided there was a lot to discuss with Red. They could shift the couch and coffee table to where Trick’s desk was now, and he could sit across from Red, or they could switch Red’s desk with the couch and he and Red could share a wall.

  Crossing his arms, he eyed the time and realized what his problem was. He was bored. He’d started work that week and while he’d kept busy finding a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a fancy parking lot view, completing the requirements of his license, and getting the lay of the land in his new state, he needed more than mundane tasks. He needed a case.

  When idle, Trick had a way of getting himself into trouble. He’d already had one raucous night out on the town where he’d gotten roaring drunk, and a bar fight had broken out when a pretty lady had started dancing with him instead of her burly boyfriend. Thankfully, Trick had vanished before the police had arrived, and before the burly boyfriend and his friends could beat him up.

  Trick smiled at the memory but also gave thanks that Red had yet to hear of the incident, and hopefully never would. Their arrangement to work together was tenuous at best, and Trick had to behave, at least long enough to allow Red to feel comfortable that Trick could do this job without destroying Red’s reputation as a solid and reliable investigator. Huffing with impatience, Trick returned the coffeemaker and his desk to their original places and sat in his chair. The office was quiet. Mikey was running errands, and Red was somewhere on a case, evicting ghosts. Trick’s only lifeline was that he finally had a client, and she was due at any moment.

  He stood, returned to the coffee machine, and plugged it back in. He started up a brew and then straightened the office, although it looked fine. Red and Mikey had told him little about the new client, other than her name was Margot Whitten and she wanted S
COPE to find someone.

  A missing persons case would be right up Trick’s alley and would be a good first case. He could get more acquainted with his new city, and hopefully would start to meet a few people. Right now, he knew the location of the closest coffee shop, bar and grocery store, and he’d met one neighbor, a crotchety old man with a small dog who yapped at delivery men and crapped on the grass outside Trick’s door. The old man made no effort to clean up after his mutt, and the crap pile was growing. Trick figured in California, there had to be a big ass fine for leaving dog shit behind, and he’d almost threatened the neighbor but decided to hold off for now.

  The door buzzer sounded, and Trick breathed a sigh of relief. “Finally,” He muttered. He walked to the computer monitors on Red’s desk and saw on the black and white video feed a woman standing outside the front door. She wore a big hat, large sunglasses, and he could barely see her face. He hit the speaker. “Margot Whitten?”

  She turned, looking around. “Yes?”

  “I’ll buzz you in.” Trick looked for the button to unlock the door and allow her access, but he couldn’t recall what Mikey had told him to do. Clicking various places on the computer, he cursed when the feed switched to another view, and then the screen flickered and went out. Trick hoped he hadn’t triggered a silent alarm and let go of the mouse.

  “Screw it. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.” He walked out of the inner office and into the outer office, where there was a small desk and chair, and opened the front door. Margot Whitten stood at the entrance wearing a huge white hat, leopard leather pants, and a black leather jacket cinched tightly at her narrow waist. Her dark hair was pulled back and, her sunglasses now off, her large lashes that were clearly not her own batted at him. Almost fluorescent white teeth shone behind bubble-sized thick red lips, and Trick almost chuckled. California, he said to himself. He half-expected to see a tiny dog pop its head out of her enormous leather white purse with designer labels gleaming from the handles. Her leopard-spotted shoes sported close to four-inch stiletto heels, and she was close to eye level with Trick.