Dreamscape (30 page)

Entering the house earlier, Jackson noted a film playing. With guns drawn, the officers inched down the stairs to the basement, precaution taken because of the off chance of an accomplice. Jackson viewed the film, the sick film, the one that churned his stomach.

DeNair’s voice haunted the beginning, echoing throughout the abounding sound system. “Who’s your master?”

Jackson watched in utter shock and disgust as the television screen played out the film. A young Hispanic girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, had one hand chained to the basement pole. Her hair matted against her shocked face. He’d taken all her clothes leaving her naked and defenseless. Blood oozed down her legs.

DeNair yelled at her, “Who’s your master?”

The girl whispered, “You are.”

DeNair hopped around laughing, taunting her. Jackson stared in disbelief. When DeNair had finished, Jackson watched where the girl lay dead on her back. Stabbed so many times that she’d been literally eviscerated. Her intestines splayed outside her abdomen; her head almost severed by a gaping cut along the side of her neck. Fragments of bone protruded through torn skin. The view panned around the room. In the corner, tied up and bound, sat another victim. The film focused in on the young girl’s face, frozen in terror. In the background, DeNair’s laughter echoed.

“Who’s your master?”

At first count, thirty-two films, forty-four pictures of different victims. It would take time to decipher the evidence. They had found four different licenses, four different names, DeNair’s picture on them all from Florida, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New Hampshire. APBs were put out on all the aliases. Forensic accountants had begun analyzing names, accounts, freezing any open accounts in an attempt to put the squeeze on DeNair.

Jackson shook his head. He had to focus. He had to get hold of himself. Too tired. He wouldn’t be any good to anyone in this shape. The temperature had dropped considerably since sunset. He didn’t feel the cold. He leaned against the railing looking out over the ocean, listening to the rhythmic waves roll in.

“Thought I told you to find a place to get some rest,” Montgomery said.

“Yeah, I’m on my way out,” Jackson said. He zipped up his jacket.

“If you want to, before you go down for the night, the hospital called. Thorpe’s up. Wants to get out of there. Wants to talk to Ms. Damsun. Very adamant.”

“I’ll get down there.”

“One more thing, Jackson,” Montgomery continued. “Sam Caldwell called. Said he’s been trying to call you. Says you need to get in touch with him as soon as you can.”

* * * *

Sam Caldwell stepped off the charter plane at a small airport south of Tupelo, Mississippi. Before Jackson called about the area, the only thing Sam knew of Tupelo was it was the birth place of Elvis Presley. He’d never cared for his music nor had he any desire to visit this place, but he needed to dig into bits of information on Ramona and her family. The best way to do that would be face to face.

Walking across the runway, a young dark-haired man dressed in a suit and tie with a badge on his belt welcomed Sam Caldwell. “Agent Caldwell, Special Agent Max Galloway. Understand you flew up for the day. My assignment is to drive you where you need to go.”

Sam shook Max’s hand and nodded his approval. “Appreciate it. Shouldn’t take too long out of your day. Do you know this area?”

“Very well, Agent Caldwell. It’s my home,” he answered. “I’ll get you to where you need to go.”

Sam climbed into the passenger’s side of the navy blue Chrysler sedan. The landscape of the northeastern part of Mississippi was awakening from the winter, even in the last few days of February. The airport stood in a rural area. Not far into their journey, the car turned onto the Natchez Trace Parkway. Sam sat back anticipating a quick turn off at the sign that pointed them toward downtown Tupelo. They passed the exit sign. It didn’t occur to him until they passed the second and final exit toward Tupelo that his concerns arose.

Sam’s phone rang. “Yes, I’m in. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Sam flicked his phone off. “Okay, son. Are you going to tell me what you want?” He eased back in his seat. His eyebrow rose. “You got me here for a reason. Might as well tell me about it.”

“You’re not afraid?” Agent Galloway asked, glancing over at Sam.

“Nah. Got my phone, more importantly my gun. And I don’t see one for you,” Sam responded. “You plan some kind abduction, son? You want to kindly explain to me what you are trying to accomplish?”

No more than twenty minutes later, after driving through Northeast Mississippi farm country, the man that had introduced himself as an FBI agent took a right turn off the Natchez Trace. Sam took note of the passing signs to place himself where he was: Baldwyn, Marietta, Belmont. The car turned down a narrow dirt road winding around a canal to a small hill.

Max stopped, standing atop the hill. Sam joined him. The view was quiet, silenced in forest. He saw for miles around, rolling hills, farm fields.

“Now ya got my attention, son. Didn’t have to take me all the way out here to get it, though,” Sam said as he wiped sweat build up off his brow from the walk up the hill.

“This is my home, Agent Caldwell. To understand dream walkers you need to understand their history.” Max bent down. He picked up an object and rubbed dirt off it.

“This is an arrowhead, Agent Caldwell. We’re standing on an old Indian mound. Years ago, Indians walked this land. It was theirs. When the white man came there was a mergence, not by choice but necessity. Indian culture pushed aside, beliefs buried deep within, as with this Indian mound. Closed minds cannot conceive two separate cultures would have a common medium. Great spirits, great creator.”

“You’re going to have to slow down for me, here, Max. I’m not sure I’m understanding.”

“Your concern—your dream walker has come from the Cherokee line. A strong line. The line has been brought down from generation to generation. Stepping away from a vanishing Indian culture, the dream walker merged outside. Dream walkers have a hard road to follow. The path of right is a difficult one. Loyalty disappears on rocky ground. Without loyalty, bravery, a strong sense of right and wrong, a dream walker will be lost.”

“Don’t mean to rush you, son, but is there a point here?”

“The time is looming. The Dark One has sent his son to open a portal to this world. A portal that must never be opened. Many obstacles will have to be faced before the destiny will be fulfilled.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand, Agent Caldwell. No one can do it alone. She cannot do what she has to do alone. All are needed to accomplish what must be accomplished—Dream Walker, Pathfinder, and Seeker. In that lies a problem, a serious lapse. All do not relish their role or understand it. It makes the road harder to follow. The dream walker is trying to walk alone.

“You need to have them work together. Their power lies with each other. If you doubt the power that has emerged, talk to the seeker. You will find that the dream walker has awakened the power within herself. She was given powers that exceed other walkers. Powers that the Dark One covets. She has the ability and has walked through purgatory to save her pathfinder. The danger lies in her power if she does not use her guides. The danger is now. She is preparing to jump. She has what she needs, but she cannot survive without the others.”

“Look, son, just tell me what you want me to do,” Sam said. He rubbed his eyes. Waited for an answer, but none came. He turned back around. “Goddamn it. I knew it.”

His chauffeur had disappeared. In the next moment, he sensed someone calling his name. “Caldwell! Caldwell…? You’re sleeping?”

He slowly opened his eyes. He still sat on his seat on the plane, breathed heavy. He’d been asleep. In all his years of flying, he’d never fallen asleep on a plane.

* * * *

He slept. He had a desire. Had to see her. There’s no time to waste. He sensed her. He called. Within his unconscious mind, dreaming, she appeared, lovely, walking toward him in a long flowing white gown. Her loose hair fell down below her shoulders. A small smile formed as their eyes met.

“I brought you here. The thought came to me as I lay thinking. Connection. You said you needed a connection.” He took her in his arms. He bent down, whispered in her ear, “Remember. The church. Rick’s funeral. Something happened here. That thing brought me here. He had to be there at the funeral to have that memory. Having been brought into it by that thing, wouldn’t that give you the connection to see what happened? Would it not help us to figure out what’s happening?”

She turned and stared at the church in front of her. He walked over to open the heavy wooden door. She followed. It was as it was before, the church of his youth. The darkness illuminated only by candles. Sitting in the middle of the backdrop of the altar podium rested a coffin draped with an American flag. Flowers abounded, surrounding the coffin, inviting everyone to see them. Blue delphinium, red carnations, white gladioli laid within circular wreaths. He smelled the aroma of roses. They walked closer to the open coffin. Her face had been drained of color.

He held on tight to her hand. His cousin lay in the coffin. Rick in uniform dress, his hands holding a rosary, one he remembered his aunt placing lovingly in her beloved son’s hands.

“It was a mistake,” a voice said from behind.

Cautiously, they turned to face Thorpe’s uncle once again. This time it was as if they weren’t there. His uncle wore his own dress uniform: double-breasted coat, brass buttons, dark navy fabric. He took off his hat revealing his pate of thinning brown hair. He wasn’t talking to them.

“Don’t look so shocked, Joseph O’Donnell. He should have never associated himself with the walker. It was his undoing.”

Thorpe felt Ramona tremble in fear, her eyes transfixed on the man standing in front of his uncle. A tall man, long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail that hung down his back. Tailored black suit, black tie. Handsome in a sinister sort of way. But his eyes, dark, black, soulless.

“You don’t scare me. Nathaniel has told me all about you. I know what I have to do,” Joseph O’Donnell said. He walked around the coffin that held his beloved son, his hands caressing the edge. “My son didn’t die in vain. He died protecting his family. He died with honor. As I will now.”

“You know not what you talk about, old fool,” the demon responded. “You listen to the wrong advice. A drunken Indian. There will be no honor in your death.”

“I didn’t understand what he was saying before he left. It didn’t make sense. It makes sense now. You’re after my daughter-in-law, more importantly, my unborn grandchild. You made an error. It was your mistake. Rick wasn’t the one you were after.”

“Fool. He stood in my way. He may not have been the pathfinder, but I can assure you I took great pleasure in draining the life out of your son. Your only son.”

Joseph O’Donnell, pain lived within his eyes, a pain that would never be erased. He stepped in front of his son’s casket. “I was told long ago, warning me about a time. You will not win. Not as long as there are those willing to protect the innocent.”

“Fool.” The demon raised his hand, his intention clear, his face firm. He twisted his hand as if he had hold of Joseph’s heart. Thorpe’s uncle fell, clenched his chest. The demon tightened his fist.

Joseph O’Donnell uttered a whispered, “There is only one. One to whom all is owed. If we must die, we die. Nunaboz, nunaboz, bawedijigewin abinooji hungo. It is done.”

A flash of light illuminated from Joseph O’Donnell, encircling, blinding the stranger. A cry of pain escaped, striking the stranger down onto the floor. He struggled, crying out, words none could understand. Radiance enclosed him. His hands frantically pressed against an invisible screen, pounding. Then, as suddenly as the light materialized, it disappeared. The stranger’s struggle continued. A scream, a howl, his anger built. His eyes became flames. The shield held. The stranger turned, turned until smoke appeared. The smoke faded away. The stranger gone.