The Dreaming Time

The Dreaming Time

by Homer Van Meter


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The core story of this sequel to 4900 Nights is the attempted murder of the author. Van Meter is shot five times and nearly dies. This true-life narrative begins with the horrific, violent encounter which leads to the assassination attempt, then progresses to the subsequent investigation and corruption by police and public officials. The forward is written by retired FBI director Ted Gunderson who investigated aspects of the case and the ensuing cover-up.

This story is an education which proves that things transpiring around us are not what is commonly believed or reported by the mainstream media.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781462002283
Publisher: iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date: 05/19/2011
Pages: 228
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.69(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Dreaming Time

Anatomy of a Cover-Up
By Homer Van Meter

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Homer Van Meter
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0229-0

Chapter One

As improbable as it may seem, it all began in a dream. I was lying, wounded and dying, in a barren, leafless woods with snarling wolves circling and closing in on me. The desperate, helpless, inevitability of fate was closing in on me with all the awful horror the nightmare could muster, when very suddenly I was shocked to near consciousness. I rolled over and the dream slowly morphed into something else, totally unrelated ... or so I thought at the time.

When I was a young man, I had a dog – a tall, lean, mostly white, Saint Bernard named Josephine. Josey was as sweet, gentle, amiable a creature as ever lived, unless given extreme provocation. The worst accident I ever had in the course of working at my logging business occurred one June day in 1979 when I was a mere 25 years old. A large aspen tree fell on me and pinned both of my legs beneath it. The circumstances were such that I would have surely died there and then had Josey not dug me out and dragged me to safety. It was widely attested to, jokingly by some, quite seriously by others, that the dog was my guardian angel. Personally, for several years I never formed any firm opinion about any supernatural, or godly influence connected to my dog. But I knew first and foremost that everything I was from that day forward, I owed to her.

One of the most serious adherents to the belief of the dog's angelic attributes was a pious old man named Reuben Hendrickson. I well remember one day when I was in the shop where he worked, getting some work done on my log hauling truck. Lunch time came as I was waiting for the repairs to be completed and I pulled out a candy bar, which I shared with Josey.

"We've got to treat that dog better than that," 'ol Reuben said, coming out from behind the parts counter with half of his sandwich. He fed her the sandwich while giving her some affectionate pets and continued. "I hope you know boy, that the Lord sent us a very special gift in this dog. She's not entirely of this world. You can see it in her eyes. It ain't no accident she ended up with you either. You've been sent to do the Lord's work and this dog is gonna keep you alive 'til you get it done."

I remember I smiled and nodded at Reuben's comments at the time. I only knew that the dog and I dearly loved each other. I am not now, nor have I ever been a Christian or adherent to any other organized religion. However, I would eventually come to know one thing with absolute certainty: That old man was exactly right about that dog.

Josey was my constant companion for ten years before she was taken by decrepit old age. But death would not be the end of the benevolent influence she would have upon me. If anything, her capabilities as my guardian were actually stronger.

Several months after she had died, my wife saw Josey's ghost one night. It was a fine summer late night when Darlene went outside with a puppy we had acquired to let him pee before she retired. She was pleasantly shocked to see the glowing form of the old dog lying under the cherry tree in the front yard. While Darlene watched, Josey got up, stepped over to the four-month-old Akita pup, and sniffed him. She was not the sickly, decrepit figure which had died months before, but a fine, young, healthy, bigger-than-life creature, virtually exuding benevolent warmth. Darlene reported that as the ghost and the pup sniffed each other approvingly, Josey disappeared. The pup seemed very pleased by the encounter. As for my wife, she said she felt a peaceful euphoria such as she had never known.

The old dog would never be seen in that form again. When Darlene told me of the experience, the next day, I remember feeling two very distinct emotions. I was naturally very pleased that the spirit of my old guardian angel remained, but I cursed my luck at not being the one who had seen her.

Nearly four more years would pass before I would once again know the presence of my old friend. One April night, in the year 1993, she came to me in a dream. I remember the experience well.

It was as though she was actually there, all 140 pounds of her lying beside me in the bed, licking me in the face. When she stirred me awake, I looked up into her big, brown eyes and was so overcome with emotion that I began to cry. I threw my arms around her and hugged her. She lay her head on my shoulder and we knew the warm comfort of our perennial embrace. Nothing, not even death, could part us. Then, all too soon, she turned away. The two dogs my wife and I had then had entered the room. The big male Akita, Chester, a.k.a. The Little Guy, and his mate, Oreo, stood dumbfounded, entranced by what they saw. As old Josey looked at the two young Akitas, they all became little puppies and rolled around, happily playing with each other. Watching them play, I was given entirely to a completely all-encompassing euphoria – a knowledge that there existed, somewhere, a state of total goodness and tranquility.

Then old Josey disappeared, gone back to the great beyond, having come in this brief interlude to reassure me and to deliver a message. I awoke, for real this time, to see Chester and Oreo sitting shoulder to shoulder at the side of the bed looking straight at me. It was something very uncharacteristic for them to be doing in the middle of the night. As absolutely bizarre as it may sound, I am firmly convinced that something of great importance was passed from the old, deceased dog to those two living, breathing, young dogs.

Additionally, I awoke with a very clear impression of a message. She said, "You must keep your plan to go to Alaska. There will be danger for you there, but also great discovery. I will warn you of the danger when it approaches."

It really wasn't an unusual message, since I had been planning a trip to Alaska for over a year. But lately, I had been waffling. I had been thinking that I really couldn't afford the trip, so maybe I should not go. However, with the old dog's urging, I went. What transpired was nothing less than the greatest discovery of my life. In an episode which I relate in detail in my book, 4900 Nights, I met a man, an old friend whom I had first known hundreds of years before, in a previous life. All I will say about him is that he is of American Indian heritage, I gave my solemn word to never reveal him, and when, on rare occasion, that I refer to him I call him simply 'A'. You might say 'A' for Anonymous.

As for the dangers, there were two incidents which were very real. One night, while sleeping in the cab of my pickup truck, parked just off the dirt road called the Dalton Highway, I had a nightmarish vision in a dream. I was clawing my way though an alder thicket when I was suddenly pounced on by a huge grizzly. It happened so fast and completely without warning that I had no time to react. As the bear was mauling me to death, I shuddered awake. I knew it was no ordinary dream. It was a warning of impending danger.

The next morning, Chester and I took off on foot to do some moose hunting. We were slowly working our way along the banks of a stream when we came to a wide expanse of alders. The Little Guy stopped, sat down and stared into the tangled thicket. He clearly sensed something. I stood beside him, rifle in hand, and surveyed the scene. The alders were higher than my head and so thick that it would be impossible to see anything more than a few feet away. I'd had enough experience with bears to know that you could literally step on one in a maze like that before you would know he was there. The expanse of the thicket was so vast that there was really no way around it. There was a hostile grizzly in there. I could feel it. The dream had told me it was a fight I could not win, and since there was no purpose in such a fight, avoidance was in order.

"Come on, Little Guy," I said, "Let's go look for a moose somewhere else."

We walked the half a mile or so back to the truck, constantly looking over our shoulders as we went. We loaded up and drove away toward safer environs. It is worthy to note that when we came back past that creek three or four days later, heading south, we spotted a huge grizzly idly grazing on blueberries, far across a wide meadow. I pulled over and looked at him closely with my binoculars. It was a big old boar, weighing at least 800 pounds, chocolate in color with all the individual features which I had seen in my dream. At that moment, he was standing no more than a couple hundred yards from where we had confronted the alder thicket mere days before. It was enough to solidly convince me that both the threat and the warning had not been imaginary.

A couple nights later, I had another short dream which would play out in reality in an even more obvious manner. We had begun the long drive back to Wisconsin from Alaska, and were driving at night across the Yukon. There was a long stretch of road construction through rugged country. I was driving the pickup, closely following a semi-truck. It was so dusty and dark that all I could see was intermittent glimpses of the tail lights on the trailer in front of me. Suddenly, the tail lights completely disappeared, and almost as suddenly, I realized I was living another scene which had been foretold in a dream. I abruptly slammed on the brakes and slid to a complete stop. In the dream, shortly after the tail lights had disappeared, the Little Guy, me, and the pickup truck had gone flying off into space into a deadly plummet. As I sat behind the wheel, waiting for the dust to clear, it gradually became obvious that my headlights were shining off into nothingness. I stomped on the parking brake, got out and stepped to the front of the vehicle. The front tires were only about two feet short of the edge of a precipice which dropped farther than I could see in the darkness. The road had taken an abrupt left turn, which I had been unable to see. Once again, a vision in a dream had narrowly saved me.

I cannot express even a remote theory of how the old dog managed to see into the future and come to me with these warnings. I only know that she did. Her visits to my dreams were rare, but I well knew to pay very close attention when they came.

In the spring of 1995 and in October of 1998, she again made appearances in my dreams which accurately foretold things of considerable significance which came to pass. Thus, on that dark, rainy night in the autumn of 2004 when the old dog came to me again, with the most disturbing vision she had yet imparted to me, I knew it was indeed a very serious matter. I saw an image of a beautiful young woman, bound, gagged and blindfolded, lying in the back of a van, parked somewhere in a big city. She was all alone, crying, and in the worst kind of distress.

I awoke abruptly and looked at the glowing red numbers on the digital clock beside the bed. It was precisely 4:13 a.m. on the last day of October. I had a very strong impression that the vision which I had just seen was indeed transpiring somewhere at that very moment, yet I hadn't the foggiest notion of just what in the world to do about it.

I was in a room at the Little River Inn in the tiny northern California coastal town of Little River. I arose from the bed and went into the bathroom. It was just as well I had been awakened – had to urinate anyway. It was a fuzzy, illogical feeling which had come over me. I looked in the mirror and it was almost as though I was looking at someone else. That old man I saw didn't quite fit my ego. He didn't have much hair left on the top of his head and there wasn't even a hint of red left in his beard or mustache. I figured I was quite possibly the most fit fifty-year-old man alive. I was strong and tough, and quite confident that I could beat the crap out of any man I came across. But that old man in the mirror looked every bit of 65, with his white whiskers and wrinkled face which said "eligible for the senior citizen discount" to anyone who saw him. He worried me. Sooner or later, I would actually become him. And nights like this would only hasten the process.

I stepped to the big sliding glass door and parted the drape with my hand. Looking across the highway at the ocean, I could see the white caps through the darkness and the rain-spattered glass. It could have been a nice, cozy, even romantic night, if perhaps my wife had been along on this trip. However, I was alone, and there was something damned ominous out there. The message had been delivered to me for a purpose. Though I did not know what to do at that moment, I knew foremost that something terrible was lying in wait for me in the close future. Tomorrow, or the next day, it would spring from some unseen shadow, like a grizzly charging out of the alders to maul the life out of me. I did the only thing I could do at that point, which was to go back to bed. That old doofus in the mirror was going to need all the rest he could get to prepare for what was coming.

I went to breakfast the next morning at the hotel restaurant. The rain had stopped and it was bright and clear. Sunday, October 31, 2004, I thought. What would this day hold? In the bustling light of day, I could almost forget the haunting vision from the lonely, dark, wee hours – almost.

I was in that place, 2500 miles away from home, to attend a writer's conference sponsored by a literary agent, who had once represented me. The festivities had begun the previous Friday evening, continued all day Saturday and Saturday night, and were to conclude at noon or so on Sunday. I had attended several of these affairs in the past four or five years, though I resolved that day that I would not be attending many more. One had to be a serious glutton for punishment, after a while, to continue paying good money and traveling across the country to attend these things. But then, struggling writers were a pathetic, masochistic lot. I was a prime case study. I had written my first novel in high school. In the days long before personal computers, I had painstakingly typed it, with two carbon copies, on a school typewriter and dutifully sent it off to rejection after rejection. Thirty-four years and seven book-length manuscripts later, never having had an ounce of success, having spent monumental amounts of time and mental energy, not to mention thousands of dollars poured down a bottomless rat hole, here I was sitting with others similarly afflicted, listening to another panel of "experts" imparting to us the keys to success in the writing and publishing business.

The experts were a typical lot. A couple New York pussy-wimps pretending to be men, a cocaine snorting, late thirties, man-hating wench with a chip on her shoulder the size of a block of firewood, a couple agents so mercenary that conscience must have been referred to as the "c" word to them. To be sure, there were a couple editors who appeared to be decent people, and a retired air force lieutenant-colonel who had successfully authored a couple books, whom I assessed to be an outstanding fellow, but they couldn't redeem the publishing business.

As I sat listening to the panel using slightly different words and clever quips to say the exact same thing I had heard over and over at previous such events, it finally hit me. After all the fruitless years I had invested in this endeavor, the revelation finally came to me that morning that this was the definition of psychosis. It was what Einstein said about doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result.

I remembered sitting in an airport once, watching a fat kid idly stuffing crackers in his face. He started out with a stack of Ritz crackers in a paper wrapper about a foot high and five minutes later they were gone. He simply fingered them off the stacks one after the other, stuffed them individually into his mouth, chewed listlessly and swallowed, all the while staring off into space with no expression. I thought, how sad, how pathetic, to be addicted in such a fashion. But who was I now to put a fat kid down. I wasn't a drunk, I didn't smoke much, I didn't even drink coffee or soda pop. I was tall, lean, fit, and disciplined in most every area of my life, except for this writing compulsion. The only way to beat a harmful addiction was to recognize it, confront it head on and stop doing it – cold turkey.


Excerpted from The Dreaming Time by Homer Van Meter Copyright © 2011 by Homer Van Meter. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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