Chapter 4

"It's kind of fun to do the impossible."

-The Walt Disney Company

It was a dream, Brad knew, but that didn't stop the terror.

Brad Wilcox had been thirteen when he had lost his mobility, and fifteen when they'd finally given up and amputated both legs at mid-thigh. He'd been in the chair ever since, and had come to grips with that reality a long time ago. But the nightmares never really stopped.

Brad stared out the window of the station wagon in his dream. He knew this one intimately, and started to count off the events as they happened. He'd never had any luck halting the flow of the dream, despite all the therapy that the agency had covered for him. He turned his head, against his will, and saw his mother's face, tears streaming down it. He looked back out the window, again fighting as hard as he could to just say something, talk to her, warn her.

The pattern of the trees through the window was achingly familiar to Brad, and he tried to take deep breaths and steel himself for what was coming, but his thirteen year old body didn't respond at all, just sat there and pouted like a spoiled little jerk. He hated that part of the dream the most. He would give anything at all to be able to go back and change his attitude in that moment.

His mother came to a stop, then turned to him. Brad knew it was pointless, but still fought against his unresponsive dream-self as the argument started. It had been the third psychiatrist who had figured out that Brad didn't actually remember the words that had been used, since they changed slightly from time to time. That somehow made Brad feel even worse, though. It wasn't even important enough to him to remember that fateful argument.

Since then he hadn't imagined words at all. He just felt the emotions flow back and forth as his mother and he flung unintelligible words at each other. He felt disgust, outrage, defiance, and rage coursing through his teenage-hormone-driven self, and tried to deny them each in turn. He didn't want to remember feeling that way.

The truck came literally out of nowhere, as far as Brad could tell. In recreating the accident in his mind, it appeared that he was looking in the wrong direction. It bothered Brad for some reason that he couldn't remember what the truck looked like. He obsessed for weeks afterwards over the color of the damn thing. He needed to have it fixed in his mind, so he could absolve himself of at least a little blame. If he could convince himself that he hadn't even glimpsed the infernal thing, then he couldn't be held responsible for not calling out a warning.

Brad felt the impact in the dream, and this point was crystal clear in both dream and memory. It had been the most blinding pain Brad had ever experienced, and the doctors had later confirmed that it was almost impossible to experience any higher threshold. The truck's high bumper had caught the car almost head-on, forcing the entire frame into the cabin at an angle. Brad felt the dashboard crash against his thighs, then felt a cracking sensation as the sheer force of the impact crumpled the top portion of the car's frame, pushing it along the same path that the dash had taken. The cracking flared hot, like fire, and Brad could remember the pain, even though he couldn't feel it in his dream.

The dream had revealed something that had surprised Brad initially. One of the shrinks had found it, and though Brad had denied it, he had come to accept the truth. Brad was annoyed when the pain hit. He could feel it now, sharp and fresh in his dreaming mind. He was annoyed, and angry, and felt like everyone who had told him all about shock, and how the body would shut down pain centers when it was horrifically injured had been so full of shit. That was the last emotion he had felt at the time, and it brought the dream to an end just as his dream-self blacked out, never once realizing that his mother had been killed on impact. Her head had snapped forward and crashed against the steering wheel, which had been on a collision course backward. The combined force of her forward momentum and the steering wheel's backward momentum had crushed her skull. The doctors later said that she had died on impact.

Brad woke up the same way he always did from this dream. He was drenched in sweat, and his muscles ached from clenching so hard. His non-existent legs itched like crazy, and he couldn't catch his breath. He heaved hard once, twice, then a third time, trying to control his emotions. In the end it was in vain, as it always was, and Brad closed his eyes and sobbed.

Martin looked over the scheduled appointment list, fighting the urge to call the two remaining customers for the day and ask them to reschedule. He could tell them that a family matter had come up, he thought bitterly. But a business as small as his garage couldn't afford to pull that kind of stunt.

Martin felt weary. He stared at a picture that he kept on his desk. In the picture were a grinning Martin and Miguel, the open water behind them. The two brothers had shared a deep love of fishing, and had spent many an hour that should have been spent on schoolwork instead at some random body of water, poles in hand. They never caught a whole lot of fish, but it was time for them to just be together. That had ended when Miguel had been hauled away and out of their lives.

A beeping noise sounded, and Roy Willet glowered through the window at Martin from his 1965 Mustang's driver seat. Martin closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, then stood up and went to greet the man.

"Afternoon, Roy."

"Sorry, Martin. Did I disturb you in there? Mess up your nap or something?"

Martin felt his jaw clench, but maintained an even tone.

"Roy, it's been a very long couple of weeks. You know, most customers park their car and come into the office."

"Most customers don't have a genuine 1964 and a half Mustang, Roy. Who knows what might happen while we're both in there. Someone has to be with this car at all times. I know I've told you that before."

Martin shielded his eyes against the sun and cocked his head at the man.

"Roy, exactly who are you expecting to come running up and ruin this wonderful car of yours? I don't know if you've noticed, either, but the door to my office is about seven feet from where we're standing. I like our odds of getting out here before someone makes off with your baby."

Roy's face reddened, and a vein started working in his forehead. Martin felt slightly guilty winding the man up like this, but couldn't resist. He needed the release.

"Now look, Martin. You and I both know that this is a museum-quality vehicle, right? Nobody would have to steal this car ... a simple rock, thrown from across the street, and this thing plummets in value. Do you understand what I'm saying? The longer you keep me out here jawing, the more likely it is that someone is going to come along and ruin this fine piece of machinery. Now would you please raise the door so I can park in safety?"

Martin was fighting to hide a grin as Roy's voice rose and rose in volume. By the last sentence, Martin had been able to see small amounts of froth at the corner of the fat man's mouth. Roy's eyes were squinted, and a second vein had joined the first in sharp relief on his forehead.

Martin lifted one finger to his brow in a mock salute to the angry man, then sauntered up to the bay door, deliberately taking his time. He glanced over his shoulder across the street, though there was nothing there, just to watch Roy spin around to see what had caught Martin's attention.

Martin pulled the heavy chain, rolling the garage bay's door up for the man to drive in. Roy slapped the gearshift, and the car inched forward slowly. He was breathing hard, and looked furious. Martin felt a little bad, but couldn't deny that he felt a little better after letting off a little steam.

Roy was muttering as he rolled by Martin's position by the door, and Martin wasn't quite able to make out all the words, but he did catch one phrase, and felt the blood in his veins catch fire.

"goddamned spic's no better than his fuckin child rapist brother"

Martin had never really believed in temporary insanity. It seemed like a crazy term thrown around by lawyers of rich men, trying to pull one over on the jury. But in that moment, he became a believer. He was moving before he realized he was doing it, and he jumped forward along the side of the car, towards the slowly retreating form of Roy's head, and grabbed the man's hair. He yanked backward, hard, and Roy screamed in pain. Martin leaned his face down close to Roy's and growled at him.

"You need to learn some manners, there, Roy"

Martin then straightened up, released the man's hair, and moved one leg slightly behind his center, measuring his shot. He'd given up boxing when he turned 19, when his Mama had needed his help at home, but he still kept a heavy bag in the garage for when times got slow, or too frustrating. He measured his shot perfectly, rocked once to feel his rhythm, then unloaded a heavy punch to the shocked man's temple.

As soon as the man slumped heavily to the side, unconscious, Martin snapped out of it, and realized what he'd done. Instead of feeling afraid or guilty, however, he felt annoyed with himself. He couldn't believe he'd lost control like that. Not that Roy hadn't deserved it, but Martin knew that his reaction had been overblown. He headed into the office and grabbed a clean rag, wetted it at the little sink, then brought it out for Roy's use. He shook the large man's shoulders until he awoke, then apologized to the dazed man and offered him the cloth.

All things considered, Roy had been incredibly understanding. In the end, both men apologized, and Roy left once he felt steady enough to do so. He didn't wait for his oil change, and Martin was glad. As soon as Roy's car crept around the corner out of sight, Martin closed the bay door and locked it. He headed into the office and powered off his computer. He flipped the sign in his window to read CLOSED, grabbed his wallet off the counter, and turned off the lights. He locked the door behind him as he left.

He drove right past his last client of the day without once slowing down.

Agent Rice hated to wait. But he was reduced to doing exactly that. He had a total of forty-seven tactical teams at his disposal, everything from Navy Seals to Coast Guard Cutters and everything in between. He'd been working with the FBI analysts to determine the most likely Legion targets, and kept those teams constantly moving. And in two weeks of the effort, they had guessed correctly only once, and in that instance a team of Navy Seals had been unable to stop the murder of a disgraced priest, in the middle of a press conference.