We take the elevator--yes, why am I not surprised the house has an elevator--down to the garage. An imposing black limousine is waiting for us. The Tillson-Sweetvales own a last-century Lincoln Town Car, the kind of battleship that takes out half the Amazon forest just by starting the engine. A young man--I assume he's the driver because he's wearing the appropriate cap--hastens to open the door for us. I'm no expert, but the window glass seems rather thick.

"Armored?" I ask. I'm trying very hard to not comment on the red leather interior.

"It is, that is why we kept it," Morgan confirms, "and no, we did not pick the color. It came with the car, and the car came with the house."

I feel my cheeks heat up, and redirect my attention to the driver. I wonder who's older, he or the car. He winks at me when I get in, and grins when I roll my eyes. When he drops his cap on the passengers' seat the high-up ponytail in his straw blonde hair regains its freedom. That I'm carrying guns didn't seem to bother him. That alone makes me a little nervous, but there's also the question of why the Tilsson-Sweetvales feel the need for an armored car.

Morgan noticed. "Relax, it will take us a little over an hour to get to Delany's," she says.

"We'll drive an hour just to get lunch?"

"That is the idea. Lunch, company, and a little light conversation. That should be worth an hour of inconvenience."

Her words make me sound like an unthankful child.

Our undercover-tank slowly makes its way through downtown traffic. We're isolated from the world outside by bullet-resistant windows, layers of steel, lots of Kevlar, and all the acoustic dampening they could squeeze into the remaining spaces. On the other side of the glass, the world passes by in silence. I secretly study Morgan and wonder if she's a shapeshifter. That, or she's related to Legolas or Spock or both, who knows. Would it be impolite to ask? Probably. I'm also dying to find out more about Gwen and Arthur. And where does Mom know her from? What are those mutual favors? Mom called her a friend, but that's an oddly loose term that can mean many different things to many different people. A vague acquaintance, a blood brother, the friend of a friend of a friend. They come in all shapes and sizes, from former lovers to dearest enemies.

Morgan is 'friend' enough to let me stay in her home and dress me up. She talks as if I--as if Mom and I--have been here before. She acts as if she knows me and has known me for a long time. That's scary because I don't know her. How old would I have been? I glance at Morgan. She smiles at me and I smile back, trying to hide my discomfort. I suspect Morgan's telling the truth, or at least a truth she believes in. The Man-in-White's Talespinner would probably agree. Maybe we visited when I was still a little kid, before I got my tattoo--before Mom and Dad split up. That opens up a whole new avenue of questions, and I bite my tongue to keep my curiosity in check.

Once we hit the ramp onto the freeway we speed up, and soon leave the city behind. I'm still considering my opening line when Morgan takes a folder out of the seat pocket in front of her. She weighs it for a moment, lost in thoughts, before handing it to me. The folder holds several bundles of paper held together by colored clips. Each bundle starts with a stranger's photo, followed by several sheets full of background checks, pension plans, criminal records, things like that. The pack on top also contains a floor plan and a set of images of a restaurant. The owner, an olive-skinned, somewhat rotund man, smiles at the camera. He has his arms wrapped around two of his cooks--I check the papers--brothers. The name they share is unpronounceable.

The next bundle is topped by the image of an eyeball. Just one eyeball, mark one, red, nerves attached. In the photo it lies still, next to a strip of cloth in a familiar orange color. Oh.

Morgan clears her throat. "Did they identify the pilot?"

I look up. I talked to Mom at my second stop, and I give Morgan the update Mom gave me. My mother has her sources. I suspect Morgan's are at least as good, if not better. Morgan has money.

I shrug. "No, they didn't, at least not two days ago. The plane was reportedly stolen. There weren't too many bits left for identification, certainly not of the pilot."

"That is one of those bits. The plane was from the Santa Esmeralda Airport, and so was the pilot. Santa Esmeralda is about"--Morgan checks her watch--"another fifty minutes out. Coincidentally, our restaurant is located in the vicinity of the airport. And we are running a little late."

Coincidentally my rear-quarters, I think, but I let it pass.

The picture of the eyeball is followed by one of a middle-aged woman wearing a jogging suit and sunglasses. Her profile identifies her as 'Catherina Valesky', housewife, two grown-up kids. Divorced twice, married thrice. Her resume continues with drug abuse, two robberies, rehab, followed by a job at the Santa Esmeralda flight school and one case of involuntary manslaughter.

And now she's dead.

I tap the page. "She was a flight instructor?"

"Apparently. Catherina Valesky spent four years in a rehabilitation clinic, after being dismissed from jail. After that, she stayed clean for ten more years and became a model citizen. She also obtained an FAA pilot license, and went on becoming a flight instructor herself."

I frown. "Aren't there rules against that? Former addicts can't get a license, can they? Did she cheat or bribe to get one?"

"An interesting question, to which we may never find an answer. Perhaps accidents like this are the reason why licenses are not easy to come by."

"We could ask the husband. Here it says she married three times, and only divorced twice," I point out.

"We can not."

"Why not?"

"That involuntary manslaughter? He was the victim."

"How convenient." I sigh and study the final pack. It shows people in orange coveralls. Some of the faces remind me of the dead bodies in the cellar. I swallow when I come to the bottom image showing an old man, his arm wrapped around a girl young enough to be his daughter.

We ride in silence, the engine purring softly, whilst I reorganize the dossiers and my thoughts. This is why Mom sent me over here, not only to stay out of sight but to investigate… investigate what? Mom, why do you never tell me anything?

I go back to the lonely eyeball and study the orange piece of cloth next to it. "The woman, Valesky, she was in jail?"

"The local Santa Esmeralda penitentiary. She was sentenced to three years after the death of her husband and was soon to be released. That is in the package. What is not in there is that a few weeks ago a bus full of prisoners disappeared. They found the driver, dead. Two guards are still missing, as are the bus and all the convicts. I understand you discovered some of the missing people."

"We… I'm not sure what Mom told you, but yes, I guess we did."

"She only said the two of you found them." There is equal eagerness and worry in her voice. "Their eyes… they were red, all of them?"

I don't want to answer. Instead, I ask if I can borrow Morgan's phone. She hesitates, then unlocks and hands it to me. I dial one of Mom's special numbers, and I'm not surprised when the phone shows 'Jessica' as the contact. There's no message, just a beep. "Mom? Ellen here. We're on our way to meet Mrs. Morgan's… acquaintances, where I am supposed to assist her with her negotiations, bringing both my friends. You've got forty minutes to stop me from doing something stupid."

"Thirty-five," Morgan whispers.

"Thirty-five. Don't watch the news." I hang up.

"She is not going to call back, is she?" Morgan asks.

I shrug. "She might." I shuffle through the papers and study the images. "You're not telling me everything. What's with the eyes? I'm sure Mom told you to give me everything I need."

"How did they die? The prisoners, I mean."

"Collective suicide." I try to keep my voice as flat as possible, but my stomach knots and unknots itself a couple of times.

"Did you… see it happen?"

I shake my head. "No, they were already dead, most of them. When we arrived I saw them execute one of their prisoners, a girl. We did witness how the old man killed himself."

"Did anyone survive?"

"At least two of the bad guys got away. One was a woman wearing a mask. None of the prisoners made it. Russel, how far out are we?"

"Another twenty minutes, miss," the driver informs me.

"Good. Plan a stop somewhere, I'm getting off this train," I tell him.

"We have an appointment," Morgan points out.

"No, we don't. You have an appointment. I have a two-way ticket from anywhere back to Hellhole, and you told me I could bail at any moment. Now tell me. I want to know about the eyes, and whilst you're at it, why me and why this dress. Russel? Next stop?"

"There is a Caltrain station next to the airport, miss." The driver looks at me in the mirror, with narrowed brown eyes. I'd rather have him pay more attention to the road.

"Fifteen minutes," I tell his boss. "I need to memorize these, Mrs. Tillson-Sweetvale. Figure it out, or it's you alone. I'm busy." I browse the papers, try to memorize the floorplan and the faces. A small airplane passes over us, heading north.

Morgan stays silent until the driver pre-sorts for the next exit. "It is my son. It is Arthur. He is--was--an addict. I want to put an end to what caused his downfall."

"His file is missing."

"He… he is not relevant. I have lost track of him since we parted on disagreeable terms. It was not a good moment," she says. Her face is tight and pale.

I find it hard to feel sorry for her. It's not that I'm cold and devoid of feelings, but I'm battered and bruised and tired and in a desperate need of truths and facts and sleep. Riding inside a limousine whilst wearing a pretty dress is no match for the real thing: a bed.

I suppress a yawn. "Arthur's the one on the painting? The son that looks way too old to be yours, who I am not supposed to talk about, and who is supposedly dead?"

"I never said he was dead. I only said he was gone."

I just give her a bland stare.

"You know what causes those red eyes?" she asks.

I shrug. "The drugs we found. Mom gave you some samples. To investigate, I assume."

Morgan shakes her head. "I did not need to. I know what it is, and so does she. It is called Dreamcatcher. Or Martian, or Red Dust. Most people simply call it Dust. It has many names, but just one use: it takes away the dreams of people, killing them in the end."

"All drugs do that, so do pension funds and bankers."

"Not like this. It literally takes your dreams away, and passes it on to other people, other users."

"That... makes no sense."

"Who can tell what a magical drug can do? But that is how it works and always ends, taking away the will to live. It enslaves people. It does offer the dreams, but it is more insidious than that. Have you ever seen the eyes of a person alive, using it?"

"I saw the red eyes."

"You saw the red eyes, yes. But have you seen the golden ones?"

I met three--no wait, four people, still alive, with red eyes. First the girl at the gas station, then the junky, and finally the old man and his daughter. Their eyes were all red, no gold in sight. I shrug as we exit the highway.

Morgan takes that as a confirmation. "It is not only the temptation of experiencing the dreams of other people, although that is the larger part of it, but the drug also makes people more attractive."

"It makes them prettier?"

"Not exactly. The eyes become more compelling, captivating, inviting other people to join… whatever kind of activity. It is a kind of magical attraction. The effect is minor, but it is there, and it can be measured. Join the beautiful people and share their dreams." She hufs. "And lose your free will in the process."

I wonder how one would measure magical attraction. It sounds like a completely new field of study, next to thaumaturgy, potions, algebra, and wandslingers one-oh-one. In a world where magic exist, there should be magical schools, and Mom would have sent me off to one. If I wasn't that inept, and if any such should could be found in the yellow pages.

"Hmmm. Assuming it really works the way you say, then I think there's a catch. Some people have nightmares so why would you like to experience that?" I ask.

"You must have heard about the suicides? It was all over the news."

We pass a U-Haul, a hummer, an ambulance, and a hearse. It's another Lincoln, and the driver waves at us.

What would the suicided have to do with it? And then I get it. "Nightmares. That's what's causing the suicides."

"Yes. Now tell me, what is left of a person when you take their dreams away? Nothing but an empty vessel that has no reason to live or die. Why go on? From that point onwards all it takes is a little push. A bad dream might be enough, but I suspect some were deliberately pushed over the edge after such a dream. I fear they were talked into taking their own lives."

I shiver. That takes the expression 'talking someone to death' to a whole new level.

At the end of the ramp, the Town Car turns left and passes underneath the highway. There's a little sign on the other side that says 'Santa Esmeralda Airport, four miles'.

"What's with the cameras?"

"Ah. They do not get fooled. There must be a reason, hidden in the magic itself. Simple devices such as mirrors or glasses have little or no effect."

"And binoculars?"

"That depends on the distance, the complexity of the device, and the viewer. The drug appears to be designed to hide itself from non-technological means until the victim dies. Or perhaps the creators never considered non-magical devices."

"That makes no sense." There. I've said it out loud.

"Many things make no sense until they do."

"Magic." I shake my head. Mom does magic, but that doesn't mean I understand the stuff. Or even like it. For the record: I don't.

"Magic of the worst kind," Morgan agrees.

Our driver Russel slows down when we approach a railroad crossing, then stops the car before turning toward us. To the right parallel lines vanish between hills and vineyards. To our left the railway curves away, passes a copse of trees, then touches a gathering of white flecks on the horizon. One of the white flecks is a little taller than the others, perhaps a tower. A dark spot circles in the air above it. There's no train in sight. That's a good thing because our driver halts on the crossing itself, smack in the middle, across the rails.

"Missus Tillson? This is where I have to take my leave. Will you be alright?" the driver asks.

"Yes, Russel. I will. Don't forget the presents."

Russel smiles before stepping out from behind the wheel. He walks to the rear and I hear him open and close the trunk before he starts jogging along the tracks in the direction of the airport. He strapped a long, heavy object against his back. Together we watch him leave.

"You still haven't told me why," I ask, my eyes still on Russel's back.

"I want to find the people who produce the drug, and stop them," Morgan says.

Her answer isn't satisfactory, and I'm about to tell her so when Morgan's phone starts ringing. When I turn towards her I find myself distracted by the scene behind her. A long, dark shape left the hills in the distance and slithers toward us. Two angry locomotives drag an endless cascade of wagons along, and they appear to be in a hurry. They follow a pair of parallel lines that serpentine through the landscape before disappearing underneath our car.

A car that is bullet-proof, perhaps, but certainly isn't locomotive-resistant.

A stationary, non-locomotive-resistant car without a driver. And I'm still inside.