“Is this a dream?” Nate put his hands on her face. “You

can tell me if this is a dream. You would tell me?”

“I don’t know, Nathaniel.” Her eyebrows tilted upward,

an expression curved into her disquieting gaze. “Sometimes

I think life is a dream and when we die, we wake up from it,”

she said.

The Dream Tide

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by

photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means,

including information storage or retrieval systems, without

permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the

publisher of this book, except for the minimum words needed

for review.

The Dream Tide is a work of fiction.

Any similarities to real places, events, or persons living or dead is

coincidental or used fictitiously and not to be construed as real.

ISBN: 978-1-935188-11-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010921587

A Star Publish LLC Publication

Published in 2010

Printed in the United States of America

One

Nate Abbot leaned hard into the surprise curve, but snow glistened

on the dark road and the front tire refused to obey his will. He was

thrown at high speed, having no time to brace for impact, and

flew toward the trees with a scream of angry frustration. Stars

scattered when he landed with a hard thunk to his helmet and his

mind swirled. A moment later, he slid just as helplessly into the

pitch blackness of unconsciousness.

Light breached the bunkhouse from cracks under the doorway. A

triangle of summer sun pierced the gray hue in the room through

a window and sounds from outside seemed so far away. Nate Abbot

was somewhere else now. He studied the girl lying next to him on

the bunk bed and wondered if she was real. Could it be her? It’d been

so long.

“I will always love you,” Libby said. “I will always wait for you

Nate.”

He quietly wept at the sight of her. She traced a design around

his cheek with her delicate finger and caught a streaming tear.

Libby’s pajamas were the same as he remembered—faded pink

top and bottoms with white flowers speckled in a random pattern.

“What’s wrong?” Libby asked, her lower lip pouting. She

lovingly admired his wavy brown hair and hazel-green eyes.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

“I’m just really happy to see you,” Nate said slowly. “Am

I…dead?”

Libby giggled and touched his face with her delicate hand. She

brushed his hair back a few times.

“No silly. You’re not dead,” she said and smiled. “I want to

show you something. Things are going to change for you. Do you

remember this place?”

Libby’s gaze strayed from him, and she searched the ceiling.

Nate sat up on the bed and looked around.

“It’s too painful. I don’t want to remember. Why am I here? Is

this a dream?”

Libby stopped him by holding her hand to his mouth. Her

painted fingernails reflected the room light and he noticed the tiny

gold ring on her finger.

“My dad asked about you,” she said. “He’s here and he wanted

me to tell you that he understands now.”

“Your dad? Understands what? He’s here?”

“It’s complicated my love. Some things are going to happen.

Things I can’t explain now. These things have everything, and

nothing to do with my father. Mom and my baby brother are lost.”

Libby’s gaze focused on him again.

“What about you?” Nate asked with a sigh.

She kissed his cheek and touched his arm.

“None of that matters now. We don’t have a lot of time,” she

said. “You’re special, and not just because you dream.”

“Why then?” he asked.

Libby giggled as if she knew a secret.

“Oh Nate, it goes way beyond dreaming.” Her voice became a

whisper. “Come on. Let’s go to our spot.”

Instantly, they were sitting under their giant redwood tree at

the trailhead. The bark was old and shredded by years of engravings

from pocket knives. Old green picnic benches with splinters along

the tables sat under the shade of the tree. Wood grains raised with

age emerged along the bench surfaces, and pine needles collected

in the cracks between the boards.

THE DREAM TIDE

Libby was perched on the top of one picnic table, her posture

like a school girl about to open a text book in class. She gazed at

him softly. Her sky blue eyes beamed with tenderness, and her

straight blond hair was just as he remembered.

“I love it here,” she said. “Remember when we would come to

this spot and talk about being together forever? Those summer

afternoons…when I could get you to meet me that is.” She laughed

quietly to herself.

Nate sat down. “Libby?”

She cut him off, “The other night, when that guy came into

the bunk house with his guitar and played that song. Do you

remember?”

“The guy with the cowboy hat? Yeah, what about him?” Nate

flexed his fingers against an odd pain growing there. That’s strange,

he thought. My hands are red and they feel cold.

“Do you remember what he played?” Libby quizzed.

“It was a long time ago.”

She shifted her weight on the table and crossed her leg. She

lifted her gaze to the redwood.

“Don’t you love that old tree? It’s very old,” she pondered

aloud. “I bet that tree was around way back when he was traveling

those deserts in his wagon. It started out as a little twig in the

ground and look how it grew. The world changed while that tree

came up from the dirt. It was only a blink in time, really. Thick and

tall, it has the scars and wisdom of many seasons rooted within. It

takes the wind and doesn’t cry when we carve in it. His bark is too

strong for that,” she said.

“What are you talking about Libby?”

She smiled at him, “Jaquith the traveler. The guy from the song,”

she stated flatly. “From eighteen fifty-two—Jaquith the traveler;

from eighteen fifty two,” she sang.

“The song the cowboy played on his guitar that night? In the

bunk house?”

Libby leaned toward him. “Well, who else am I talking about?

You must remember. Things happen for a reason and things are

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

going to change for you, Nate.”

“You said that before. What do you mean? What kind of

changes? It was just some stupid song a guy played for us kids.”

Nate felt another twinge of pain in his hands and the snap of a

headache. “My hands hurt.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s almost time to go. Libby playfully kicked

her legs over the edge of the table and stared at Nate. “When you

think you’re on the wrong road, remember it.”

She gazed at him intently. A breeze swirled some pine needles

into the air. Nate blocked them from his eyes. The gust chilled him

to the bone even within the dream.

“It’s getting cold out here,” he said, shivering.

Libby stood up.

“Come with me. I want to show you something,” she said. The

noise of the wind found Nate’s ears. The park faded away in a blur,

and Nate found himself standing on a cliff with Libby. All around

them stood burned black pine trunks, leaning in agony. There had

been a fire there once. Libby’s hair drifted around her in a beautiful

floating motion and she pointed out at the angry sea beyond. Below

were white caps in a vast ocean. The ribbon of coastline was barren

and riddled with brown rocks. There were no sea birds or sand. A

cold spray of salty foam from the crashing waves carried in the

wind to his mouth. He tasted and smelled the dry salt on his lips.

He heard the water roaring and smashing into the shore.

Libby smiled at him before disappearing into a twister of air

and blur. Nate reached out, but could only fall backward.

“Libby!” he shouted.

Nate heard a man’s voice under the howling wind. He searched

for the voice, but the wind was carrying him back too fast. The

man screamed again and at the last second, Nate saw a figure

running on the cliff among the dead trees.

Cold water mist burned Nate’s face and hands as he winced.

“Take me out of here!”

THE DREAM TIDE

Sparks erupted in the darkness and then after a moment, Nate

opened his blurry eyes. He felt a cold, wet glove touching his face,

which he realized was his own. Nate found himself lying in a blanket

of sierra snow. Nearby, a motorcycle wheel was spinning. The bike

was on its side and the red gas tank was visible below some mud

and slush. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Large puffy flakes fell quickly, and the terrain was

unrecognizable. Some of it dropped down his jacket collar and

touched his exposed spine. He reached his arm back to brush it

away only to push more down with the swollen glove. The falling

snow created a hypnotizing trance as the wind gusts brushed

through the pine trees. Massive pain in his hands and pounding

headache made it hard to focus. He wondered where the road was.

Nate tried to move his legs and realized they were buried under

a mix of powder-slush. Panic swelled in his mind, but he told

himself to stop. The atmosphere became white with a quick gust

from around the pine boughs. It was a blizzard.

With all the strength left in his aching body, Nate Abbot lifted

himself onto his trembling legs and stood up. Eventually he regained

some balance on the soles of his thick, black motocross boots.

His goggles fogged in the frigid air. He remembered it was a crash

and he was still wearing his helmet. The merciless burning in his

hands and splitting headache made it hard to exist. The knee where

he took a twenty five caliber bullet years ago, flamed as if on fire.

Nate seriously considered curling into a ball next to a pine tree and

going to sleep, but he knew that would be certain death.

With a few deep breaths, he forced his mind to calm down and

figure things out. Other than a concussion, frozen fingers, and a

screaming kneecap, everything was okay. What was that crazy dream

with Libby?

Daylight was fading as somewhere beyond the dense snow

clouds the sun began to dip behind the mountains. Before long it

would be dark. He just couldn’t stand there any longer. It was time

to make a decision on what to do or die from exposure.

Two

The front redwood deck was completely white with little seeds

and bread crumbs scattered about in the snow. Small brown birds

hopped about, scraping the surface with their tiny talons and

pecking at the food in quick staccato stabs.

Katherine Abbot stood at the sliding glass door, watching the

birds. She squeezed a portable phone in her fist. A look of worry

filled her face. Her green eyes under pretty rounded eyebrows,

creased in emotion. Her curly bangs framed her naturally attractive,

fair-skinned face which reflected in the double paned glass. She bit

her lower lip for a moment and let out a long breath. Her slender

form silhouetted against the bright window. Where is he? Her nervous

hand was shaking the phone as she brought it up to dial.

A man’s voice answered, “Hello?” Katherine knew right away

who it was.

“Donny,” she said.

“Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Donny, its Katherine. Have you seen Nathaniel?” Her voice

was shaky and she always used Nate’s full name when she got

nervous, scared or angry.

“Oh, hey. How are you Katherine? He was here about oh, four

or five hours ago I guess. Why?”

Katherine paced back and forth on the tile, watching the birds

on the deck railings outside.

“Well, he hasn’t come home yet. He was on the motorcycle

THE DREAM TIDE

and now it’s snowing really hard. Do you have any idea where he

could be or if he headed home?” Katherine asked.

“We were working on Nicole’s bike and he decided to head

home when it got late. He was going to take the dirt roads. He

borrowed one of my sweatshirts because it was almost too cold to

ride. I don’t think he had any idea there was a snow storm coming.

Either that, or he thought he could make it home before it came

in.”

Katherine envisioned Donny combing his slick-back hair with

his scarred hand, a habit he most likely developed from his time in

jail.

“Is Nicole there?” Katherine asked.

“Yeah, she’s in the house. I’m on the garage phone. Let me

walk inside and grab her.

“Have you tried calling his cell phone?” Donny quizzed.

“Straight to voice mail. It’s in his pack—he only turns it on to

call me when he’s in trouble. It’s been hours and there’s a lot of

snow already. I’m getting worried.”

Katherine heard Donny’s voice as he told Nicole it was her on

the phone.

“Katherine?” It was Nicole now. “Nate isn’t home yet? He left

here at like three or four o’clock and took the Dam road up to

Dog Valley and Smith’s Creek dirt road.”

Katherine went to the window again and put her hand on the

cold glass. It sent a chill through her.

“Katherine, those roads are now under a foot of snow already.

He can ride through but it’s been a long time. You should have

heard from him by now. Have you checked anywhere else?”

“Not yet. I’m going to go to my neighbor’s house. Sometimes

he stops there for a drink on the way home and forgets about the

time.” Katherine said.

“Call me when you hear from him.” Nicole said, hurriedly.

“I will.”

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

Smith’s Creek Police Sgt. Wayne Marshal sat at the kitchen table

tying his boot laces. His hunting coveralls were heavy and made

for the cold. On the top of his balding head was an olive green

knit cap, and the torn brown flannel jacket he always wore was

hanging on the wooden chair next to him.

When the warm brown boots with thick knobby tread soles

were secure and tight, he folded the coverall bottoms precisely,

and stood up. Wayne examined the pieces of clothing folded in a

row on the table in front of him.

“Gloves, jacket, chew—what am I missing here?” He deliberated

while scratching his head. Wayne grabbed the old stained coffee

mug from the counter and filled it with the fresh Sumatra brewing

near the sink.

As his mind calculated the time it would take to snow blow the

driveway verses the rate of falling flakes, he wondered about space

requirements for vehicles they had to park in the drive and the

amount of lighting he had over the garage so he could plow neatly.

He reminded himself about the extra gas can he had for his

generator in case the power went off.

Wayne had many things to consider in a storm. His mind like

an organized machine, he kept his thoughts in order with

compartmentalized thinking.

If he could remove enough snow from the driveway with the

least amount of gas, then he would have enough emergency fuel

for the generator, snow blower and ATV.

He sipped the sweet hot coffee and stepped toward the window

to do some more planning. His wind-burned, whisker-stubbled

face was expressionless as he viewed the dark early-winter scene. It

was snowing so hard, Wayne couldn’t see the house across the

street. The evergreens and apple trees beyond the front lawn looked

like puffy cotton balls. Wayne’s big, two-story house sat on two

acres surrounded by grass and framed by vegetable gardens on the

grounds. Smith’s Creek trickled through the yard in its own sunken

canyon bed and the entire place felt like paradise.

THE DREAM TIDE

“I hope I don’t get called in tonight,” Wayne moaned aloud.

“There’s just too much to do around here.”

He finished off the last of the coffee, washed the cup

thoroughly under cold water, and placed it on the drying rack. He

threw on his jacket to step outside, then he noticed a single dark

figure bundled in a dark trench coat and solemnly walking down

the icy street.

Wayne strained his dark eyes through the hazy window.

“Who is that?” he grumbled.

The figure turned down his driveway so he quickly zipped the

flannel coat, yanked his gloves on, and walked out the front door.

Wayne stood on the snow covered deck under the awning of

the roof.

“Katherine? What are you doing out here?”

A gust of wind and mixed swirl of powder blew her coat

bottom backward as she ducked her head.

“Have you seen Nathaniel? He was on his way home on the

dirt roads and he hasn’t come home yet.” Her voice was a yelling-vibrato,

over the storm.

“He’s not here. Where did you say he was coming from?”

“Have you seen him Wayne? He left Truckee four or five hours

ago. Did he stop here for a drink?”

“Here come inside; it’s cold out here.” Wayne took hold of her

arm and scuttled her into the house. He struggled with the wind

and slammed the door against the cold, wet air.

Police Sgt. Wayne Marshal listened intently as Katherine

explained how Nate had taken the dirt roads in Dog Valley on his

bike. In his thoughts, while she spoke, were plans and tactics. Hours

of travel, distance, and headings were all things to be considered if

a rescue was going to be made. First he had to get his boss on the

phone and start the process, if all of it would work. Some kind of

incident command station had to be implemented and search teams

organized. The logistics were not going to be easy, but his mind

stacked scenarios like building blocks into various concentrated

puzzle pieces.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

“Don’t worry. We’ll get the police rescue team coordinated.”

As he said that, Wayne realized there wasn’t time. If I call my

boss, he will make me sit here and wait for the storm to clear. It will take

hours, if not, the entire night to get this all figured out. I’m not going to sit

around here while my friend freezes to death. How can I do this? He thought

for a minute. There’s the quad in my garage and I can siphon the gas from

the snow blower for the spare tank on the quad’s rack. Maybe the police unit

would be a better choice. His mind was going all directions. But what if

Nate isn’t up there and this trip is for nothing? How do we even know he’s

really missing at this point, anyhow?

“Okay. You called everywhere he could be? You tried his cell

phone? How do you know he’s up there in the storm, Katherine?”

“Wayne—there is nowhere else he could be. I just know he is

up there hurt or stuck in that forest. And there’s this feeling I have

inside.” Katherine moaned.

Wayne turned away from Katherine and toward to the picture

hanging on his far living room wall. The picture was placed so he

could look at it from any angle downstairs. It was a river scene—

his father holding a fly fishing rod and standing in a boat. The son,

next to his dad, also painted in oils. A golden yellow rounded

fisherman’s hat on Dad’s head, the line tight and rod held high

with a curve. The rainbow trout was jumping through the air, just

above the splashing fresh water. Young Wayne’s face glimmered

with excitement.

That was the last good memory of his father. The feeling of

helplessness was larger than the storm outside, in the pit of Wayne

Marshal’s stomach. There was nothing he could have done to save

his dad. The current was overwhelming. Wayne reached for the

fish too early. Dad saw what was going to happen next but it was a

second gone. The boat dipped and the young boy was under. He

sank to the bottom and was towed down river. Dad jumped in.

Under the cloudy light-scattered amber river water Wayne

floundered wildly with big eyes and air puffed cheeks. His little

arms and legs struggling against the current and surrounded by

algae chunks, stirred up with his kicking feet.

THE DREAM TIDE

Marshal Senior came from the deep and took hold of his waving

arm. The grip was like a vice and in that last look at his father’s

eyes, he saw determination. He saw his father’s anger carved into

his resolute face. It was an antagonism, and an instant resentment

toward what had just happened. A strength emerged from inside

him instantly. No thought could be assembled in that blink of

time. The water and sky were upside down for a moment. Wayne

was flying and then slamming on the river weeds and mud on

shore. His father was gone and the painting was both the happiest

and worst day of Wayne Marshal’s life.

Wayne hung it there to rebel against that day in an emotional

duality which couldn’t be explained. Sometimes he’d get lost in the

oil paint gold and stare at the image of his father. The brush strokes

a focus point for the solitary day dream, recurring for him when it

was that kind of day.

Wayne turned back to Katherine.

“You go home. Call this number and talk to my boss, John

Kline. He’s the chief. Tell him I went after Nate.”

Wayne grabbed some scrap paper and scribbled the number.

He tore it off his pad and pushed it at Katherine.

She could see something in his eyes. It was something she had

never witnessed in him before. They had known each other for

nine years. It was almost as though a different person emerged

from within and took over. Katherine wasn’t going to say anymore.

She wanted her husband safe at home and didn’t care if it put

Wayne in danger. Katherine was selfish that way. There was anger

and determination in Wayne’s face. Who was she to get in the way

of that?

Wayne’s eyes were bloodshot and his demeanor altered as he

thought of his best friend lost in the storm. If Katherine says he’s up

there, he is. I would have heard him ride by or he would have stopped for a

beverage. Nate’s up there.

Katherine walked back to the house. Smoke was whisking out

of the metal cylindrical woodstove chimney. Through the rancher’s

gates and up to the deck steps, she reached her sliding glass door

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

and tapped the snow off her boots.

Abel stood there, his tongue hanging out of his open jaw. His

German shepherd ears were pointing like stiff, furry triangles, tan

on the edges and dark inside.

He barked and then nudged her leg.

“What is it? You miss me?” she asked.

He took a few steps backward and looked up at her. His ears

barbed, dark eyes fixed and tail level with his body. Katherine

frowned.

“For cryin’ aloud. You need out, or what?”

The dog jumped, sneezed and then focused on her.

“Okay. Let me get your leash. You picked a fine time to go out

there.”

She snatched the leash hanging next to the door and turned,

opening the sliding glass door. Abel bolted out.

“Wait! Abel! Come back here!” The big dog ignored her and

galloped full speed up the street toward Wayne’s house.

Wayne had the Polaris utility quad running in the driveway as he

packed the final gear on the rear racks. There was a gas can and

large tool box filled with various items he thought may be needed.

He hopped onto the wet snow-covered seat and flipped on

the quad lights. It was a dark night and there were no street lights

in the Smith’s Creek subdivision. Abel approached the edge of the

driveway. His fur covered bulk was stout and unwavering.

Wayne thought the dog looked like a proud statue with glowing

green eyes. With vapor clouding around his panting snout, his black

and tan coat sprinkled with flakes, the dog slowly picked his way

toward Wayne and stopped in the quad lights, his eyes brightening

from the incandescent bulbs. Abel barked only once and then stared.

Wayne knew what the dog wanted.

“I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter?”

Abel wagged his tail and slurped his tongue around for a second,

THE DREAM TIDE

leaving some drool hanging. The brass chain collar sparkled under

the fluff of Abel’s neck. Gray whiskers gave him the look of a

wise character, yet innocently loyal.

Together, they traveled up to the edge of the paved road, Abel

trotting alongside the quad. Night engulfed them, ice gathering on

exposed limbs and machine fenders. They were partners now and

the mission was clear. The two were going to find their friend.

For Katherine, it was an unbearable waiting game. She saw

Abel next to Wayne from the fence when she ran outside.

“That dog!” she shouted.

That crazy dog, she thought. He was always following Nathaniel

around the house as if to keep watch on him. Everywhere he went,

that dog was there—sitting by her husband when he worked in his

office, out in the yard standing watch behind his back as he pulled

weeds in the summer. Nate could be in his own world, looking out

into space and lost in thought, but the dog was there to protect

him. Abel was always under foot and barking to alert him if

someone walked by the fence.

It was some time ago, Katherine remembered. Nate eventually

found out that Abel was a German military K-9, brought to the

United States by a breeder and trainer. For a year, the trainer fought

with Abel over commands, but the stubborn shepherd stood fast

and wouldn’t listen.

One day while working another case as a private investigator,

Nate stopped at a park in Reno to walk and clear his thoughts. It

had been a long arduous week, filled with rude people and a bad

migraine. Sometimes he would find places to get out of his vehicle

and re-evaluate things. It helped him think and walking relaxed his

nerves.

There was a chubby man dressed in a blue jogging suit and

standing in the middle of the grass soccer field, yelling in a different

language. It sounded like German, which was unusual, so it caught

Nate’s attention. He walked toward the edge of the path to get a

better look.

Nate stood near the grass field and watched with some curiosity.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

It was a strange distraction in the bland background of an otherwise

deserted city park. The man had red half-tents set up in various

places, with another man hiding behind one of them. They must

have been training blinds of some sort, he figured.

The hidden man had a large bite sleeve made out of burlap

material on his left arm. Abel had charged to the tepee shaped

blind and found the man twice, attacking viciously until ordered in

German to stop.

Again, the dog was ordered to find and attack, but this time

Abel seemed to grow bored with it. The trainer screamed in

German at Abel, grabbed him by the collar and walked him back

to the starting point.

When the helper moved to a different blind and the trainer

ordered Abel to attack again, the dog walked away instead of

following the order. Nate watched as the trainer grabbed hold of

the leather harness around Abel’s neck and yelled in frustration.

Abel seemed to be looking toward Nate and it was almost as if the

dog was pleading with him in some peculiar way.

Abel got loose. For a minute, Nate didn’t know if the dog was

going to attack him. Instead, Abel rubbed his head against his leg

and wagged his bushy tail. Nate, without knowing what else to do,

told the dog to sit and he did so without hesitation. The shepherd

looked up, waiting for instructions. A big smile came across Nate’s

exhausted face, and it might have been the first one in a year or

more.

With an exasperated look, gasping for a breath, the trainer

appeared and handed the leash to Nate.

“Here.”

It had been a year of trying to force, command, plead and

even beg for the animal to listen with no result. Although the

trainer’s commands were complex, Abel had nothing but difficulty

even with the simplest of orders. He would sit on his belly and just

look down in mutinous antipathy. When he ran to Nate, the trainer

finally gave up entirely. This dog needed to retire. The trainer looked

at the smiling Nate Abbot and tail wagging Abel von der

THE DREAM TIDE

Zwillingsoldat and realized it was the right thing at the right time.

“He’s your dog, mister. I’ve been doing this for thirty five years.

Trust me. This dog is yours,” the trainer grumbled.

Nate was shocked. He took the leash and thanked him. He

figured it would be great to have a dog at the house. It wasn’t until

later, that Nate realized how unusual this dog really was.

Katherine leaned her arms on the cold wooden fence and watched

as the pair disappeared into the whiteness of the frigid night. Worry

and fear churned inside her stomach, working its way to her throat

and dry lips. The temperature bit at her red nose and her aching

feet. The brown clogs she wore weren’t made for this kind of

weather. The soles were slippery and the leather thin.

Her mind went to the kids inside. Tyler and Amanda were

oblivious to the danger their father was in. What was she going to

tell them? Should she tell them anything? This wasn’t the first time,

Nathaniel had done this to her. He was always taking risks. It was

always some three hundred mile ride over numerous days, or a

mountain he wanted to climb. It was always high speeds through

the desert or jumps the tractors made when clearing forest land

for fire breaks. It was always something.

She loved him with everything she had. It was unconditional

kind of love. Katherine was like that. Once she got hold of someone

or something she adored, there was no letting go. She was a jealous

woman—jealous of that motorcycle, jealous of that damned dog

and jealous of his antics. It could be anything which took attention

off of her or if he was having fun or adventure and she wasn’t.

Katherine always put those feelings aside. She knew he would

die for her. She knew he was a good man inside that hard-to-love

exterior. A lot of his rough shell came from his private investigation

business and past experiences in police work.

None of these thoughts mattered now. Nate was out there in

the cold and it was getting dark. There wasn’t any time to waste.

Katherine walked into the house and called Chief Kline.

Three

Nate was feeling alone and more afraid than he had been in a long

time. The pain in his hands was a combination of numbness and

pain like sharp stabbing syringes, as they grew colder. The snow

was blowing in one direction, and then switched when he turned

against it, as if to taunt him. There was no light, but Nate’s feet

continued to walk through the thick blanket of crunchy ice and

snow.

There was no path or road. He pushed the heavy motorcycle

against a hedge, the front knobby formed ice as it wobbled. It was

bent at the rim with the tire off the bead. Sweat droplets formed

on Nate’s brow and he was completely zonked of energy.

Nate was hopelessly lost in the blizzard and becoming

hypothermic. It was his nature to push back negative thoughts and

remain positive. On this night, he was fighting with the questions

in his mind about how he got into this situation in the first place.

There were questions about how his kids would live on in this

world without their father.

Stop it. Just stop it. I can make it. It’s not that far if I can just find the

road in this shit.

The weight of the helmet strained his neck. If he took it off,

he’d lose a lot of body heat, but if he left it on, his neck was going

to give out. Better leave it on, he decided. The visor flapping and

scraping with every gust began to get on his nerves.

Nate thought about Libby and the weird dream when he went

unconscious. What was that about? Stop it! Should I seek shelter and wait

THE DREAM TIDE

this out or keep moving? They will send someone to find me, but what if my

stupid mistake gets someone else hurt? I’d feel like a real asshole. Besides, I can

make it and it would be embarrassing to have someone out here on my account.

Tyler and Amanda then filled his thoughts. Did they know he was

in trouble or missing?

Nate paused, massaging his pounding knee, and breathed deeply

of the crisp air in a failed attempt to stop the headache. His eyes

caught a familiar landmark, an old rusty cattle gate he had seen

before. Nate thought it was the same gate he’d always pass on his

normal runs. With all the snow, it was difficult to be sure.

Nate propped the bike against a tree and walked toward the

gate. It was harder to move his feet and with every step, his knee

popped or he’d trip over himself.

“Wait a minute,” he groaned. “Is this the gate I thought it

was?”

Nate’s head was still pounding. He took off his scratched silver

helmet and rubbed his face and eyes. He looked around in

desperation. He was confused from a concussion. His memory

and concentration were suffering. The sign on the old gate was

covered in fresh snow and old ice. Nate scraped it until it revealed

No Trespassing in red with a black background. There were two

posts on each side of the gate and in-between, a long barbed wire

fence.

From the gate, the trail led off into a narrow corridor of pines.

Nate had a bad feeling about it. He couldn’t see where it led and it

wasn’t recognizable at all. He just couldn’t be sure this was anything

he’d seen before.

“My phone! I should try calling out on my phone,” he said,

aloud.

Flinging the backpack from his shoulders, he quickly unzipped

a pocket and reached around in the dark to find several pieces of

his cell phone, shattered from the crash.

Nate lost control of his emotions, first to anger, then hopeful,

then scared. It was a roller coaster in ridiculous-land. He stood up

and kicked at the snow as hard as he could.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

“Un-flipping believable! What else do you have planned for

me!”

He screamed and looked up into the sky. Snowflakes speckled

his face, so he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. He

swallowed the cold melting flakes after swishing them around in

his mouth. His knee was pounding, as if someone was smacking it

with a hammer. There was no way for him to walk home in a

blizzard with that kind of pain.

It was time to find shelter and wait out the storm until morning.

Nate walked back to his bike and pushed the front tire between

two small pine trees, propping it up so anyone coming through

would see it. He found a group of branchy alder trees without

leaves. The trees stuck out from the tall pines which would provide

good cover, he hoped. The smaller branches and sticks, he pulled

off the trees as best he could in complete darkness, and used as

shelter supports around the snow cave he started digging.

After digging for an hour, the cave was big enough for Nate to

crawl into. A three foot diameter hole in a snow berm, under the

bushy wintering alder was going to have to do. Nate needed to get

out of the blowing sub-freezing wind and disorientating white-out

conditions.

He gathered the twigs and smaller branches and placed them

in front of the cave as a wind break. Some pine boughs were also

harvested quickly and thrown inside for a simple bed mat. Nate

knew his body would lose a lot of heat to the cold floor if he laid

directly on it overnight.

By the time he was done, Nate’s hands were soaked and numb.

It could be the end of his hands if he didn’t get them warm and

dry. The heavy riding boots he wore weren’t much help either and

not made for extreme cold. His toes ached and every few minutes

he’d try to remember to wiggle them.

Nate got on his hands and knees and crawled into the frigid ice

hole. Inside, he collected the branches and scooped some snow

away from himself to cover the cave entrance. He was careful to

leave a small breathing vent in the door of the snow cave. His

THE DREAM TIDE

body rested on the ice crusted green pine boughs. It wasn’t much

of a mattress, but it would have to do.

I’m so tired, he thought. He put the motorcycle helmet back on

and curled himself into a ball. After a few minutes, his breath created

a warmer climate inside the cave, but it was still very cold and

almost unbearable. Nate looked at his breath vapor and wished he

had a fire or at least a candle for warmth. He picked the gloves off

with shaky hands and attempted to warm them with his breath

and by rubbing them together. It was agonizing, so he pushed

them up under his jacket to warm them against his skin which

seemed to help.

His dream nagged at him again in the silence and isolation of

the shelter. He pictured Libby’s face before it happened in 1983.

He was just a kid when Libby was killed in front of him. How

beautiful she was and maybe too pretty for him, he believed. She

was walking away with a smile on her face, her hair like a dream.

He could still smell her perfume when thinking about it. How could

he forget?

“Why do I have to dream about you Libby?” He whispered to

the pitch black cave walls. Deep down, he knew why.

She wouldn’t talk to him in the bunkhouse the day they arrived

at Camp Pinos for a group multi-family retreat from the city. She

was with her girlfriends in a talk circle. Everyone was choosing

bunks and unpacking. There must have been twenty families there.

It was a large building with a common sleep area filled with silver

metallic double bunk beds and a restroom-shower partition of

rooms separated from the main living space.

Libby caught young Nate’s eye almost immediately. She stood

across the room among the chaos of the settling families. Nate’s

younger brother Jesse was there, too. They argued briefly about

who got the top bunk, but Nate was older and bigger and he won.

Nate threw his bag up on the bed and then re-focused his gaze

in Libby’s direction. Because he was shy, it was impossible for Nate

to talk normally to a girl he liked. This was even worse. She was

surrounded by her friends and he was alone. For some reason, he

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

gathered the courage. His hair a mess, clothing questionable and

confidence lacking, he found himself standing before the circle of

girls.

“Hi. My name is Nate,” he stammered as his voice accidentally

changed pitch. The group giggled and walked away without a

response. He made a futile attempt to follow, but it didn’t work.

Later that night, the man with the guitar came. Libby sat in her

pajamas across the room from Nate, listening to the music with

the camping families. Everyone gathered around the singing cowboy

in a central area in the bunkhouse. Every once in a while he would

catch himself staring at her. She knew. Every blink or motion was

a rejection for Nate. He wanted her to look at him and acknowledge

his existence. Libby noticed Nate’s interest, but wouldn’t reveal

her thoughts until later that night, when she closed her eyes.

It was around nine o’clock and the singer was long gone. People

were milling around or coming back from the game room. There

was also a hay wagon ride going on outside.

Nate told Jesse that he wanted to try talking to the girl again.

“You’re wasting your time, Nate. She’s way out of your league.”

“Yeah, I know. I just want to talk to her.” Nate said, as his eyes

fixated on the girl across the room.

“Well, go try again—and when you’re done, we can go outside

and find Dad,” Jesse said with a sigh.

Again, Nate walked up to the group of young girls, his gaze on

Libby. Before he could open his mouth, Libby and the group walked

away from him, laughing.

One turned around as the others continued to walk away. She

was a short girl with brown hair, big glossy brown eyes and a teasing

smile across her smug face.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. It’s nothing personal, you

know. She just doesn’t like you.”

Nate stood alone, unscathed by the state of affairs. He couldn’t

get past it this time. If this had happened at school, he would have

walked away and not looked back. There has to be a way to talk to this

girl. No plan was made or ideas on how he could accomplish this

THE DREAM TIDE

because he was dumbfounded and surprised at the situation in the

first place.

Jesse appeared at his side and looked up at Nate.

“Are you done? Let’s go find Dad. Forget about the girl, Nate.

She doesn’t like you.”

Four hours later, it was about 1 A.M. and the bunkhouse was

completely dark. Nate had opened his sleeping bag and was using

it as a blanket. He was asleep and talking to Libby in his slumber.

They stood by the orange double stacked outdoor lockers at Nate’s

school. Libby was holding text books and he leaned against his

locker, trying to be cool. The conversation was teenage small talk

from a shy Nate and smiling Libby. Thinking back on it, Nate

never could remember what they were talking about.

What happened next was something Nate would never get over.

He woke up in the dark, still talking. Nate couldn’t tell if he was

still dreaming. His eyes were open but he realized the girl’s voice

was still in his ears. There was a weight on his body and two hands

on his chest.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and above him; he

saw Libby straddling him in his bunk. She was asleep. Her eyes

were closed and she was still responding to his questions from the

dream. He couldn’t believe it. A moment later, the lights in the

bunkhouse restrooms flicked on and there were other voices. Libby

woke up. Her eyes flashed open and she was disorientated with

shock written all over her face.

“Oh my God! My parents!”

She climbed off of Nate and down the metal ladder of the

bunk bed quickly. Running across the room in the dark to her

bunk, she rushed up to her upper bed, hiding herself under the

covers.

Nate lifted his head and looked at her, but she was just a mound

under a heap of blankets. He lay there gazing at the ceiling for a

few minutes and watching doorway shadows move across the room.

The lights went off and it was completely dark again.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

The next morning, Libby was outside with her friends by the

green picnic tables and redwood tree. Nate knew she was asleep

when she crawled up to his bed. Was it a meaningless sleepwalk, or did

I have some part in it? Why to my bed? Why was she answering me in her

sleep?

He approached the girls again and tried to speak with Libby.

This time, there wasn’t any giggling. The group looked at Nate

differently. It was uncomfortable. He saw some fear in their eyes.

They were serious and hushed as they walked away from him.

The petite brunette girlfriend turned toward Nate again. Nate

tried to push past her and follow Libby, but the girl stopped him.

“Listen, she doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said, taking a side

step to block him.

“Why? I just want to talk to her about—”

“She was sleepwalking. That’s what it was—nothing more. She

doesn’t want to talk to you, so just leave it alone.”

The girl walked away with a short glance backward to ensure

he remained where she left him.

Nate sat down on the green picnic bench and put his head in

his hands. His focus was on the pine needles and dirt at his feet.

Am I some kind of freak? Did I do that to the girl? Did I make her sleepwalk

to me like that? What’s happening? He gloomed over the situation for

a long time, frozen and depressed in that position. Nate just wanted

to go home.

“Hey.”

Nate thought it was the brunette again. He didn’t look up.

“Leave me alone.”

“Hey,” the voice said again.

Nate looked up and saw it wasn’t the brunette after all.

“You,” he said.

“You wanted to know my name.”

She stood there with her hands to her sides, a curious expression

on her face. Nate couldn’t find any words.

“My name is Libby.”

Nate just stared.

THE DREAM TIDE

“I’m sorry about walking away like that,” she said, sitting down

next to him.

“To tell you the truth, I was scared.”

She looked down at her feet and kicked her pink Vans together

a few times. Folding her hands together between her thighs, she

took a deep breath and deliberated for a moment.

“I mean, I’ve sleepwalked before a few times. It’s kinda been a

problem actually. I’m probably some kind of freak.” She laughed

like it wasn’t funny. “One time, I actually went into my parent’s

kitchen and made an entire meal, while asleep. Funny—I woke up

in my room that next morning.”

“What’s so funny about that?” Nate finally injected.

Libby turned toward him and giggled nervously.

“The funny part was I fell asleep downstairs on the couch

watching some movie on Select-TV. I can’t remember what movie

it was. When I woke up in my room that morning, my parents

were asleep. I went in their room and woke up my dad to ask if he

had carried me upstairs last night. I couldn’t remember anything

except falling asleep to that boring movie. It was strange that I was

in my room the next morning. It’s complicated. Anyway, my dad

said he didn’t carry me upstairs. When my mom went into the

kitchen to make coffee, she found the mess. She found the milk

on the counter—warm. Sandwich stuff was all around and it looked

like someone pigged out.”

Nate rubbed his eyes and scratched at his shirt.

“You think it was you?”

“Later they found bread crumbs and a plate under my bed. It

was me and I was completely asleep. And…I didn’t remember it.

It happened a few more times, but my parents thought it wasn’t

anything to get excited about. My mom was a bit upset about her

kitchen though.” Libby genuinely laughed this time, thinking back

on the expression her mother had after finding the mess.

“You never told me your name.” She nervously blinked.

“Nate.”

“Nate, that’s a cute name.” Libby smiled.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

“Cute? Actually, it’s Nathaniel Abbot if you want the long

version.”

Some butterflies fluttered in Nate’s stomach.

Libby looked at her toes again and tapped her feet together

timidly.

“Well...what I was trying to say before, was I’m sorry for

sleepwalking into your bed. I don’t know what I was doing and it

wasn’t on purpose.”

Nate knew it wasn’t all her doing. He felt that he had something

to do with it. It was just too weird. All the times he tried to talk to

her and then for that to happen—it was just strange.

“It’s okay. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. I think it might have

been me.” The words didn’t come out right. Nate tried again. “What

I’m saying is that—well, this has happened to me before too, I

guess.”

“You sleepwalk?” she asked, springing up from her slumping

posture.

“Yeah. Kinda. I have, I mean. Well, I sorta have had dreams

with other people. One time I had a nightmare. It was very real

and scary. My brother was sleeping in the bed next to me. We were

kids and shared the same bedroom. He woke up at the same time

I did and asked me if I saw it. And, well...I did. We had the same

dream at the same time and saw the same thing. Then we woke up

at the same time. Freaky, huh?”

“What was it?”

“What was what?” Nate asked.

“What was it that you both saw?”

“It’s kinda dumb.”

“Why? What was it?” she asked, with curiosity in her bright

blue eyes.

Nate kicked at some dirt and then fidgeted with his shoe lace.

“It was a clown.”

“A clown? But you said it was a nightmare.”

“It was. It was a scary clown in our bathroom doorway, in

front of our beds. I saw the clown in the doorway and my brother

THE DREAM TIDE

saw it in the window beyond the door. It was dancing and laughing.

It was talking to me. I was like five years old; I can’t remember

much more of it. I just know it scared the crap out of both of us.”

Libby stared at him. A chill went up her spine and she felt the

little hairs on the back of her neck rise. She shuddered as the

butterflies she felt, turned into a lump in her throat and tremor on

her lips.

“Was that your school we were at?” Libby asked, feeling another

full body shiver.

“Huh?”

“The school in the dream, the orange lockers—was that your

school?”

“You saw the lockers?” he asked in a whisper.

Three decades later, Nate could still remember the conversation.

What was that song she was talking about? This is stupid. Maybe it was

when I hit my head. Nate brought himself back to the darkness,

uncomfortable branches and boughs under his aching body, cracked

lips and shaking hands. Even though his memories carried him

away for a moment, lying in the cold ice burrow with a pounding

headache brought him back to reality.

The wind whistled through the breathing vent and the freezing

draft washed over him. With the last of his energy, he fisted some

snow and plugged the vent. Within two minutes, Nate was asleep.

“What!” Chief Kline shouted through the phone. “He went up

there alone? When did he leave? How did he get up there? You say

your dog went with him?”

“Yes, he went up there with Abel. He left about twenty minutes

ago and he told me to call you.”

Katherine was nervous whenever she talked to the Chief. He

was a gruff man in his sixties, with the attitude of an old west

sheriff.

SCOTT A. SCHLEFSTEIN

She was picturing him in his chair, phone pinned to his big ear.

The Chief always wore a black Stetson and packed a large wood-gripped

revolver in a swinging low-ride black basket weave Sam

Browne police belt. John Kline was a big man who stood six foot

five and boasted a commanding presence.

Katherine remembered when she and Nate were first married

and Nate moved to Smith’s Creek from Los Angeles. Nate had a

few run-ins with the Chief in town over how fast he was driving.

The Chief would block Nate’s truck with the black and white police

Yukon when he parked at the hardware store, coffee shop or Post

Office. Usually, it was a short scolding, on how Nate should slow

down.

Nate would come home and laugh about it with Katherine. “I

saw the Chief today.”

“What now?”

“I was out in the valley going about seventy. When I saw his

black and white Yukon coming from a half mile from the opposite

way, I slowed down to sixty seven.” Nate’s eyes wrinkled in an

amused smile.

“Isn’t the speed limit fifty-five over there?” Katherine asked.

“Yeah. I’m not going to slow down to fifty-five. That’s

ridiculous. No one goes fifty-five out there in the middle of

nowhere. There’s nothing out there. Anyway—after he passed me

going the other way, I waited until he was in a curve in the road

and then gunned it. That rear mounted radar can’t go around

curves.” Nate laughed.

Katherine laughed as she reached into the refrigerator, grabbing

a baby bottle for Tyler. “Did you get the milk at the store?”

“Yeah. It’s on the table. But, that’s not the end of the story.”

“It’s not?”

“When I got to the store, the Chief pulled up behind me and

blocked in my truck.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah, he had his passenger window open, so I walked up and

asked how he was doing.”

THE DREAM TIDE

“What did he say?”

“He yelled at me about my speed and said he’d write me a

ticket if it ever happens again. Then he drove off.”

“What did you do to piss him off Nate?”

“Beats me. You know how far the store is from the middle of

the valley. He had to turn around and drive ten minutes back to do

that.”

Eventually, Wayne told the Chief that he had worked with Nate

at the sheriff ’s department in Los Angeles, years prior to moving

to Smith’s Creek.

Wayne quit his job, sold his house and took some time off to

see his mother in Smith’s Creek, but ended up staying. That was

nine years ago.

It was around that time, that Katherine met her husband at

the Smith’s Creek Hospital Emergency Room. Nate took some

vacation and came to visit Wayne who immediately donned his

Hawaiian shirt, flip flops and Bermuda shorts. It wasn’t long before

Wayne was pouring enormous amounts of alcohol for his old buddy.

“Hey, it’s vacation, right?” Wayne said, as he handed Nate