Chapter Two

“He’s still in bed?”

Peter glanced up at the closed upstairs bedroom door. “Yeah. I don’t like this, Davy. Not even Micky sleeps this long.”

Micky poked his head out of the bathroom, the lower part of his face half-concealed by shaving cream. “Huh? What about me?”

“Nothing, Micky. Fix your face, wouldja?” Davy said. Micky made a rude gesture and disappeared once more. “You were saying, Peter?”

“Nothing,” Peter murmured as the door opened and Mike finally emerged. The Texan looked haggard and unkempt as he stumbled downstairs and plodded into the kitchen, pushing the kettle of tea aside in favor of coffee.

“Mike?” Peter asked softly. Mike grunted. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Pete—I’m fine. Just . . . didn’t sleep too good last night.”

“If you guys start talking about those stupid dreams again,” Micky grumbled as he made his way from the bathroom to the kitchen, “I’m going to stay out of the house today.”

Peter looked at him. “Micky, these dreams are important.”

“How do you know that?” Micky said. “Yeah yeah—and I know you’re going to say that it’s ‘cause we’re all dreaming the same thing.”

“Then why’d you ask?” Davy grinned.

Micky shot him a look that contained more irritation than amusement. Davy’s grin, however, didn’t falter.

“Honestly, if we’re having these dreams it has to mean something, right?” Peter asked. To Mike, he said, “That town in your dream . . . El . . . ?”

“Monotono,” Mike said, barely looking up from his intense study of his coffee.

“Okay, that’s a very distinctive name. If that town’s real, we should be able to find it on a map, right?” Micky headed for the globe on the table by the windows.

“Mick, I don’t think you’ll find it on that,” Mike said.

Peter nodded. “I’ll go to the library and look on the province maps.”

Micky pulled the car keys from his pocket. “I’m coming with you, then.”

A nod and Peter picked up his shoes, pulling them on as he headed for the door.

Micky followed him out into the late morning sunshine. “What happens if we find the town?” he asked. “What then?”

“Then we’ll know they’re not merely dreams.”

Micky got behind the wheel, starting the engine. “And if they’re not real . . . ” He trailed off, not willing to finish his line of thought.

Fifteen minutes later he and Peter stood in the central reading room of the local library, several large maps spread out on the table. Peter paled as he traced an invisible line. Micky looked over his shoulder. “Aw, hell . . . you sure that’s not a misprint?”

“I’m sure.” He traced a line with his finger. “New Mexico . . . Sonora state, Mexico . . . Santa Cruz . . . Magdalena . . . ” It moved to the southwest. “ . . . El Monotano. Seventy miles southwest of Magdalena.”

Micky groaned. “And about a bazillion from LA.” He looked heavenward as if asking for divine intervention. “Please say that Mike’s not gonna make us go. Please . . . ”

Peter was already moving to the pay phone. Untaping the dime from his leg, he dialed home.

Mike answered the phone. “Hello? Peter?”

“It’s real,” he said gently. “In Sonora, southwest of Magdalena.”

“I see,” was Mike’s quiet reply. “You two get on home. We have packin’ to do.”

“Understood.” He hung up and looked at Micky. “You can stop praying.”

Micky sighed. “Darn.” He followed Peter out to the car, meekly sliding back behind the wheel. “I hope we have plenty of sunblock.”

“If not, we’ll get some on the way.”

Micky pulled out of the lot and headed home. “Ay caramba . . . ”

“Si . . . merde . . . ”

“Enh!” Micky said, making the sound of a buzzer. “That’s French!”

“Still a romance language,” Peter chuckled.

“Yeah yeah . . . ” Micky said.

They arrived home and headed for their respective rooms. Peter chuckled to see Davy had already laid his suitcase out. “Gracias.”

“De nada,” Davy replied offhandedly as he carefully folded his shirts.

Peter packed swiftly. His hand, wavering in indecision, hovered over the teddy bear that now lived on the dresser. He barely needed it anymore . . . but still . . .

“Oh go on, take it,” Mike said from the doorway. “We all need stuff for comfort sometimes.”

With a smile, Peter slid the bear into the suitcase. “Though that’s what you guys were for,” he quipped.

Mike shrugged. “Then why do I have two pieces of Millie’s cheesecake wrapped up on top of my suitcase?”

“No wonder you’re puttin’ on weight,” Davy laughed from the closet, pulling out the small velvet case there and sliding it into his suitcase.

Mike’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

Davy’s voice was very soft. “My mum’s bracelet. My da’s ring.”

“You sure you wanna take those with you?” Mike asked. “I mean . . . if somethin’ happens to ‘em.”

“They’ll be on my hands by this time tomorrow,” he smiled.

Mike nodded. “Okay then.”

“Wonder what comfort item Micky’s taking,” Peter chuckled.

Mike shook his head. “Whatever it is, I don’t wanna know.”

They both laughed at that.

~~~~~

The Monkeemobile, distinctive as it was, was huge, big enough that three could sleep comfortably while one drove.

Mike subtly slid his hand down to the small lever under the seat and inched it back a little, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The roads in the late evening light were mercifully free of traffic, giving Mike valuable time to think. What in the world were they doing out in the wilds of Mexico and why? He was aware one of them had stirred, but not which one—until Peter climbed over the seat and sat down with a plop. “Graceful, there,” he teased quietly.

“Thank you,” Peter said, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I think you know more than you’re telling about why we left our weapons at home.”

“No, not really. Not yet at any rate.” Mike shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.

Peter leaned casually to the side, his ear resting on one knee as he looked at Mike. “What aren’t you telling me? They’re out; it’s just you and me.”

Mike sighed, then explained about the dream—their bandito outfits, the fearsome man/bull formed of black smoke and lightning . . . when he described the way they’d been torn from each other, his voice caught a few times in his throat, forcing him to clear it.

Peter squeezed Mike’s shoulder. “Did we get back together?”

“I don’t know. Dream always ended after . . . ”

“After?”

Mike took a deep, steadying breath. “After you and Davy got carried off. Then it was me and Mick . . . surrounded.”

Peter nodded. “Well . . . we’ll have to figure out if it’s a warning or a might be or a definite future. And what to do from there.”

Mike nodded, swallowing a surge of discomfort when he saw the sign: “El Monotono, 10 kilometros.”

Peter gave voice to his thoughts in a whispered, “It begins.”