Free Night Mares in the Hamptons by Celia Jerome Page B

chief burped. There was nothing big about Eddie . . . except his unfortunate nose. “Oh.”
    â€œYeah, but try to explain that to the big shots in Riverhead. It’s easier to let them think we have a whole squad of trained dogs. The only problem with Big Eddie is you can’t overload him with smells. Which means he can’t take duty at the drunk tank, disinfected or not. He can’t ride patrol with Baitfish Barry, can’t be near Ranger after the old boy’s been out in the rain.”
    He wouldn’t be good near Little Red either, if Uncle Henry kept slipping the Pomeranian pieces of bologna.
    â€œThen again,” the chief went on, “we don’t have a lot of drug runners, bomb scares, or escaped convicts.”
    â€œDo you think Big Eddie could find a horse?”
    â€œSure, but you’d be surprised how many horses are out here. Can’t hurt to send him and Ranger out in a squad car except I need them in town at night. We’ve been getting hit hard these days. Every kind of violence, too. No murders yet, but the Danvers thing was a close call. I’ve got to tell you, Willy, I’m worried.”
    He looked it, his clothes more rumpled than usual, his deep-set brown eyes heavily shadowed.
    â€œMe, too. But I’m working on it.” I put two of the posters near the second half of his sandwich.
    He studied the reward poster, then the plastic-coated one of the three mares and frolicking colt.
    â€œYou’re good, Willy.”
    I started to thank him, until he said, “Maybe too good.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    He couldn’t look me in the eye but took another swig of his soda. “People are beginning to worry that it’s you, your drawings, that are calling this stuff to Paumanok Harbor. Like that troll we never saw except the damage the thing caused and now the horses and the nightmares. We all heard Agent Grant call you a Visualizer.”
    â€œBut I never called anything to me! Nothing from my earlier books ever showed up. Not the sea dragon or the replicants or the feral child. And I never thought about having a young horse captured and kept from its family.”
    â€œThen how come you dreamed about it?”
    â€œI wish I knew. And I swear I’ve been wondering about that a lot myself. The best I can come up with is that I’m more sensitive to the appearance of the, uh, aberrations. Maybe I feel them in my subconscious, so I think they’re part of the creative process, so I incorporate them in my books. I refuse to believe that I write them into existence. That is just not possible.”
    â€œI sure as hell hope not, but cops hate coincidences, you know.”
    I needed a sip of something after all, my mouth was suddenly so dry. Not root beer, though, unless it had vanilla ice cream floating on top. I tried to shift any blame. “Grant says there are places of great psi power in the world: Tibet, Chichén Itzá, Jerusalem, a bunch more. And Paumanok Harbor. That’s why the others come here when the walls are breached. For the ambient atmosphere. My pictures are incidental.”
    I didn’t mention that Fafhrd the troll first appeared on the streets of Manhattan. On my block. On the day I wrote about him. “I might be the Visualizer who sees the beings; I’m not their creator.”
    He stared at the remnants of his sandwich. “Seems you can communicate with them, even if in your dreams.”
    â€œI don’t know how. It’s something about the drawings, I realize, but I wasn’t drawing when I had the nightmare about the colt. All I can come up with is to put my feelings into the posters, to tell everyone else to try to reach the horses with their thoughts.”
    He didn’t look convinced. Or full. I pulled two chocolate kisses out of my pocket and put them on the desk. A peace offering. “I don’t even speak their language.”
    He unpeeled the candy and