[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J2p1lxg.png[/img][/center] [b][CENTER][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSeIh9rmEUs]IN DREAMS CHAPTER 4[/URL][/CENTER] [/b] [b]New York City[/b] [b]1991[/b] “Wes?... Wes? You listening?” Wesley Dodds looked up from his coffee at Sandy. The two were at a diner not far from Wesley’s apartment in Lenox Hill. In the six months since Dian’s death they’d met for breakfast about once a week. It was ostensibly to give Wesley some much needed company and he was grateful for the time spent catching up with his nephew and former sidekick. They sort of lost touch over the years. They might see one another once every six months and at holidays, but that was it. But the more time Wesley spent with Sandy the more he realized the man he had become wasn’t necessarily someone Wesley… really liked. He talked about nothing but money non-stop and how well he was doing and how he and Frankie screwed like rabbits still after nearly twenty years of marriage. In a lot of ways Sandy was still that little boy on the rooftops with Wes. He hadn't grown up or past the so-called "glory days." Wes also sensed Sandy had some ulterior motive lurking in the back of their meetings. He just hadn't brought it out. “Sorry… I was just lost in thought.” “I’m telling you, Wes, these conventions I attend are where it’s at.” Sandy put his fork down on the now empty plate and gestured towards Wesley with his hands. “There’s a big demand for the old heroes like us. People are paying twenty bucks a pop for a signed autograph, more for some goofy photo wit you. You remember Bulletman? He wears that silly helmet and poses with people, sixty dollars a piece. It’s a great way to make money and to get you out of the house. The first Sandman was one of the original masked men, you got fans out there who want to see you, Wes…” Sandy looked around to make sure there was nobody eavesdropping before he whispered. “And the women… don’t get me started on the women.” Wesley put a hand on his forehead and sighed as he rubbed his face. “You Aunt Dian has been dead less than a year. And aren't you and Frankie happily married?” “You were together fifty years,” Sandy said softly. “You could use some strange… I know I do from time to time.” “Okay, I’m done.” Wesley put some money on the table for the tab and began to leave. Sandy grabbed his arm, but Wesley shook it off as he left the diner and stepped out into the New York morning. Fall was just beginning to settle in here in mid-September. Wesley could feel tears forming in his eyes. He tried to blink them away. “Uncle Wes,” Sandy said as he came out. “What’s wrong?” Wesley could feel months of repressed feelings sitting on his chest: His anger at Dian’s passing, his misery at watching her slowly waste away from breast cancer, all the empty words of condolences from friends and family, his guilt over outliving her, and now his newfound anger at Sandy and… whatever the hell this fat, greedy man in front of him had done to his nephew. “Do you know why I became the Sandman?” Wesley asked softly. “Not for the money, or the recognition, or for the p-p-pussy.” Sandy looked as if Wesley had started speaking in tongues. Later, Wesley would look back and realize it was the first time he had ever used any kind of profanity around Sandy in a fifty year friendship. “I did it because of the dreams,” he said, tears now running down his face. “They used to haunt my every sleeping moment, Sandy, and I lived out the dreams and did what I did to help people, to save people who would have died if I hadn’t intervened. I’m not some little worm who rode someone’s coattails like you. That whole sad little apartment with all that junk? That’s because of me and what I did. Your sad little crumb of celebrity? It’s because of me. You’re the [i]second[/i] Sandman, you would be nothing -- nothing! -- if not for your aunt and myself. And you just toss her memory aside like that? Like she's just... some fucking wad of gum you're done chewing? You know what you need to toss? All that bullshit that’s cluttering your apartment. Take all those memories of a life that was never truly yours to start with and throw it away. Because I don't want it, and you sure as hell haven't earned any of it. Fuck you, Sandy.” Wesley turned away and stormed off as fast as he could. The outburst had been so sudden and without warning Sandy had just stood there in shock. Wesley had seen the hurt in Sandy’s eyes as the words flew from his mouth. He’d broken something in his nephew’s heart. Good, Wesley had thought at the time. Let him see how it feels. Let him see how he likes when the one thing he cherishes most in this world is ripped away from him. Neither man knew it, but it would be the last time they would see each other alive. Wesley Dodd’s last words to his nephew, sidekick, and successor -- the closest thing he ever had to a son -- was “Fuck you, Sandy.” [hr] [b]Brooklyn Now [/b] Wesley stood on the edge of the sidewalk and craned his neck high to see just how large the U-Store-It facility actually was. It looked to be seventeen stories by his own estimation. The Red Hook address was listed several times in Sandy’s computer and among his email correspondence as a meeting spot. Wesley tried to use one of his many maps of New York to find out what was there, but he quickly realized his last updated map of the city was from 1988. The city had changed so much in that time. He’d used Sandy’s laptop to do an internet search and found a garish neon orange tinted sight that advertised U-Store-It’s premier Brooklyn facility, one of the largest ones among the company’s 8,000 locations across the country. The lobby of the facility contained broken down boxes for sale along with plenty of other packing supplies for sale and carts for rent. A bored looking clerk sat behind a desk and clacked on computer keys. He barely gave Wesley a passing glance as he approached the desk. “Yes, sir?” Wesley had his driver’s license out. His still valid driver’s license. He'd just gotten it renewed two years ago and it was due to be renewed in 2025 when he would be… 117. “Can you tell me which unit here is registered under Wesley Dodds.” It was Sandy’s idea of a clever joke, thought Wesley. He’d discovered the registration information and keys to the storage unit inside a packet in Sandy’s nightstand. The nightstand was locked. but the lock was far easier than the one that kept the front door secured. It took Wesley all of thirty seconds to pop it open. The clerk tapped on a few more keys and squinted at the screen. “Looks like… you’re listed as owner or authorized user on all the units on the seventeenth floor. All sixteen 10x30’s.” “To the seventeenth floor it is.” Wesley rode the large freight elevator up to the top, because he had been right and that was as high as the building went, with a sense of foreboding. Sixteen 10x30s? That was a lot of space. What exactly was Sandy storing in all of those units? And he had found only one key. He hoped he could get into at least one of the units up on seventeen. The door slid open and he stepped out into a well lit concrete hallway with eight metal roll-up doors on both sides going down the corridor. Cylinder locks kept each door secure. Wesley stepped to the first lock and tried the key. They key undid the small lock and popped it out of the socket on the door. He put it back in place and went to the next door. It also unlocked that door. He went down the hallway and found that each lock worked for the key. “Master key,” he said to himself. A quick scan of the floor revealed no cameras. The facility advertised itself as being open 24/7 and with security cameras. That must have just been for the building’s access points… or cameras were exempt from seeing what went on up here. Wesley went back to the first lock and undid it. He let the heavy little nub fall into his pocket before rolling the door open. The space was mainly empty. He saw scattered carboard boxes scattered around the floor. What drew his eye was the bed in the center of the room. A fairly cheap queen-sized bedframe with a mattress that looked to be urine stained. He walked closer and stopped. The stains on the mattress were too dark for urine. He got close enough to confirm that it was indeed bloodstains on the mattress before he crouched. Wesley cursed as his knees popped like gunshots when he bent down. There were straps tucked underneath the bedframe that perfectly aligned with each limb on a human body when it was spread-eagle on the bed. He stood up, more knee pops, and started to examine the boxes. In one he found whips, chains, and a variety of sex toys. Some of the toys were so elaborate he couldn’t even really work out how they functioned… but he could give it his best guess. It was more of the same in just about every other box except one. In that one he found masks. There was a leather gimp mask, a domino mask, and… other masks that were more specific. A cat mask that was a poor imitation of Wildcat’s, a helmet meant to be Bulletman’s pointy helmet, and… A gasmask. Not of the same quality as the one his father had taken to war. But still… a gasmask just like the one the Sandman had worn. Wesley felt sweat on his forehead. He wiped it off and quickly retreated. He locked the unit and began to move on to the others. They were each replicas of the first. Same shoddy beds, the rest carrying a variety of bodily fluid stains, same toys, and almost the same collection of masks. “Find what you needed?” the clerk asked once Wesley was back down in the lobby. He furrowed his brow when he saw the flushed look on Wesley’s face. “Do you need something to drink? Have a seat?” “I’m fine,” said Wesley. “I do have just one more question. Those units I’m registered for… who else has their names on them?” “Let’s see…” Another quick computer search resulted in five names along with his own. “Well besides you there’s an… Alan Scott, Ted Grant, Rex Tyler,, Terry Sloane, and Dinah Drake.” “Thank you,” Wesley managed to say. “That’s… that’s all I needed.” He licked his dry lips and started back out of the facility with his hands in his pockets. A picture was beginning to form on what kind of life Sandy was living up until the time of his murder. He couldn’t quite get it into focus. For that… he would need help.