Dreamscape (5 page)

The skyline of Boston grayed. A storm brewed. Jackson looked out his office window and sighed. Only December, and he was already tired of the cold. He picked up the mail on his desk. On top lay an envelope with a note attached.

Jackson,

Letter left for ‘Beach Front Killer Task Force’. Said it was important. Check it out as a favor to me.

Montgomery.

Jackson picked up the envelope, blank on the outside, no address. He couldn’t ignore his boss. He reached for his letter opener, slit the envelope, and began reading over it. A thrum of adrenaline filled him. He read over it again. Jackson quickly picked up the phone.

* * * *

Thorpe had made his way home. The murder case had hit a dead end. Their only hope lay in piecing together the murders they thought were connected. But this evening Thorpe’s concentration focused on his family and the weather. The forecast for the Nor’easter held two to four inches of snow for the Cape with the majority of the blunt hitting the North Shore. At that moment, the weatherman seemed right on the mark.

Cindy had accused Thorpe of engrossing himself in the case to avoid dealing with his problems, avoiding her. Therapy wasn’t working, then. Tension remained thick and building within the walls of their home. Thinking back, it had been for years. He guessed they’d been happy once. He could vaguely remember a time.

Problems surfaced after Rick’s death. Cindy accused him of losing his ambition, his drive; had to think about the future of the family. To Cindy, it had to be the best of everything: best house, best car, best husband. On that count, he fell way short of the mark. Tonight, though, Cindy’s attention turned to her children. She’d been worried about the weather ruining their sixteen-year-old’s first semi-formal.

Molly had been their little tom-boy. Thorpe remembered her so clearly as a baby. Cindy dressed her up in the prettiest dresses with bows and ribbons. Things changed when they discovered Molly had a mind of her own. Thorpe still had the picture in his wallet of when she attended pre-school. Her favorite shirt, a hand-me-down cowboy shirt from her cousin. She’d stubbornly refused to wear anything else. His favorite picture, it held a special place in his heart. Thorpe would believe Molly getting dressed up when he saw it. Still, it didn’t matter, she always looked beautiful in his eyes.

Molly took pride in being Daddy’s Little Girl to the fullest extent. On Sunday afternoons, she’d snuggle up to him and watch the football games. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t play contact sports. Thorpe had put his foot down when it came to football. Molly had been so angry. They found a compromise in hockey, if one wanted to call it that. For the most part, Molly played against other girls. So Thorpe kept telling himself.

For this night, Molly had gone all out having found a stunning black dress with blue sequins. Molly transformed, leaving her tom-boyish look behind. She’d always been a beautiful girl—striking blue eyes—but when she slipped this dress on, one couldn’t help but notice her. Molly had even let her mother make an appointment to get her hair put up. Thorpe noticed she’d laid everything out in her room when he’d passed.

The problem lay in the fact that if they had to cancel due to weather, the dance would be rescheduled for the next night, a night that Molly had a hockey game, a game she would never miss, dance or no dance.

From the kitchen, Thorpe heard the front door slam. Giggles and laughter echoed down the hall, only silencing after footsteps pounced up the stairs and ended when Molly and her friends shut her bedroom door.

Thorpe stood in the doorway and watched Cindy walk up the front steps, her arms filled with Wal-Mart bags. He extended his hands to grab a couple. Once inside, Cindy let out a sigh of relief and placed her bag on the kitchen counter. Exhausted, she remained on a mission for her daughter. This dance seemed to be as important to Cindy as it was to Molly. She pushed a fallen tress of hair out of her eyes.

Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, Cindy looked beautiful. There had been no denying Cindy’s beauty, even after two kids: natural blonde hair, blue eyes, and a figure to die for. For her thirty-seven years she looked more like twenty-five. She took pride in her appearance.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so worn out. I wish I had half their energy,” Cindy said. She began emptying the contents of her bags. Thorpe gave her a helping hand. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”

“Nothing much going on today, and I didn’t want to leave you without a little help. Wasn’t sure I was to drive. Maybe I’ll take Liam to a movie to get him out of your hair.”

“We’ll see. Right now he’s over at a friend’s. The girls are so excited. The boys’ parents are set to drop them off around six-thirty, take pictures, and hopefully be out of here by six-forty-five.” Cindy looked up at the clock and squinted. “I’m not sure if we’re out of the woods on the weather, though. Heard on the radio the weather took a nasty turn. Talked with Mary in Braintree in her car. Said it was bad.”

Thorpe took his wife in his arms and smiled down at her. “Don’t worry. Everything will work out just fine.”

Cindy pushed Thorpe back. “I’ve got a lot to do. Some of the parents are coming over to take pictures and have a couple of drinks.”

“James McNeely wouldn’t be one of them, would he?” Thorpe countered. Cindy recoiled from the name. He’d hit a nerve. Before Thorpe had a chance to continue, a ringing from his belt interrupted them. It rang a couple of times. Thorpe reached to his waist and answered it. He looked back over his shoulder as he watched Cindy walk away back to the preparation for the night.

“Yeah, Jackson. I got a few minutes,” Thorpe said. He took a couple of steps back. “Why would you think this legit? I’m sure you get lots of whackos.”

“Most are,” Jackson said. “But this one used one of your old cases. Richards. Also, my boss said the letter was dropped by from someone he trusted. Maybe we’re reaching for straws, I guess, but thought I’d run it by you before throwing it in the trash bin.”

Without emotion, Thorpe said, “Richards? What the hell? What exactly did the letter say?”

“A case of a murdered child, a twelve year old, Brooke Danucci. Neighbor did it. The letter continues saying she gave a letter similar to help in that case and maybe this one could help in this one.”

Silence ensued on the other end. Jackson broke it. “Thorpe? Still there?”

Thorpe held the phone in his hand but his thoughts raced back to his first few months in Lewiston. Nightmare. A child disappeared into the darkness; a mother’s frightened cries for help but to no avail. The child had been found. Murdered.

“Thorpe?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just not sure what you’re getting at.”

“To put it bluntly, Thorpe, did your tip come in letter form? Did it give you correct information? And if it’s from the same person, do you think it has a chance of being taken seriously this time?”

“Back off, Jackson. If I had a straight answer, I’d give it to you. It was my first big case in Lewiston, my only murder case before the Beach Front Murder. We spoke of it earlier. Evidence pointed toward an abduction. FBI came in to help in that one too. Her bike was by her father’s grave. He’d died the year before. She went there most days.”

“I know all that, Thorpe. The letter?”

“Shit, Jackson. Give me time. It was on the fourth day after Brooke’s disappearance that this young woman—a mother pushing a baby in a carriage—stopped me.” Thorpe’s memory came back, vivid. For a moment, he relived the scene.

Pretty, petite, Thorpe had noticed her as she got out of her car. Long, brown hair hung over her shoulders. The young woman had taken the carriage out of her car and reached back in for an envelope. She strapped the baby in the carriage, straightened herself out, and looked around, not quite sure of herself.

The extra help and TV crews and reporters crowded the police station parking lot. As luck would have it, Thorpe had left his cell phone in his car. Even though he’d been bogged down with his case, he’d extended help to the young mother.

“Looking for someone? Can I help?” Thorpe offered.

The woman’s face broke into a large smile, relief evident in her voice when she answered. “Oh, thank you. I’m not sure at all or if…. Oh, well.” She scrambled for her envelope. “I feel kinda awkward. You might find it strange, but I believe it will help that little girl’s family and all. Do you know where I could drop it off?”

The young woman spoke with a defiant, soft Southern drawl. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. The station was swamped with letters of support, theories from quacks. He offered to take it and put it in his jacket pocket.

She left. Thorpe thought the last statement strange, for she’d said it as if she knew him. But he had a lot on his mind. He hadn’t even opened the envelope until lunch, which, given the case, had been late. Someone had sandwiches made so no one had to leave the station. They’d worked around the clock. He took his jacket off and felt the envelope. He took a bite out of his sandwich, opened the envelope, and shortly after he’d finished reading it, Thorpe broke the case.

Now, Thorpe’s attention turned back to Jackson. “The letter gave details, vivid details as if the person who wrote it had been there. It pointed the finger directly at the next door neighbor, one we’d already looked at. There was no record, no complaints about the man at that time. Had even helped in the search. Couldn’t have been more concerned.”

“But the letter…it led to the young girl’s body and the neighbor’s real name?”

“Still have the letter. Did say at the beginning she’d had a vision, a dream or something, but had always thought the killer was a friend or relative. She knew about the guy. It was a way to let us know. And if she was a psychic, I wondered why she hadn’t wanted recognition. Never heard from her again.”

“Well, now you have, and this time she’s progressed to predicting the future,” Jackson said.

“What do you mean?”

“States a connection between your beach front girl’s killer, and get this, even connects murders from around the country. Ones we believe are tied together. But the letter states that someone can stop another one.”

“Go on.”

“Do you know much about Orleans? The letter says the next one will be in that area. Has something to do with a bakery shop. Emily’s Baking Dreams?”

“My wife’s parents live down there. Never heard of the shop—I’ll ask my wife. And I’ll get my letter. It’s on file at the station, and we can compare them tomorrow.”

“That’s fine with me, but one part of this letter makes it seem that this might happen sooner, like tonight. Or maybe I’m reading into something and getting caught up in the situation.”

“What part?” Thorpe asked.

Jackson read directly from the letter. “‘Weather report said the Cape was to be spared. Nor’easter makes a turn. Hurricane-like winds, thunder, lightning in the midst of snow.’ The weather that’s just blowing through here. It’s getting bad, worse than the weatherman forecasted. How’s it there?”

“Let me get back to you.” Thorpe hung up. He felt Jackson pushing him to go check the letter out.

* * * *

A gust of wind rocked his Explorer. Thorpe shook his head. A sinking feeling overcame him. What the hell was he doing? He’d got caught up in the moment. He’d never even heard of Emily’s Baking Dreams, and the next minute, his wife told him his niece, Samantha, worked there.

Thorpe had grabbed his keys. He hadn’t been gone five minutes when Cindy called to say they’d lost electricity and begged him to return. Liam wanted to come home from his friends. Molly cried in the background. There would be no dance tonight.

“Don’t have a choice here. I need to go check this out, Cindy.” Thorpe gave his only explanation. She couldn’t contain her disappointment, but Thorpe felt he didn’t have another option.

The weather made a bad turn. Besides the strong winds, the precipitation had turned icy. A rumble of thunder sounded, and a flash of light illuminated the horizon. Visibility diminished from slim to nothing, but Thorpe knew his way well. Cindy had said that it wasn’t far from where the Orleans Cardinals played. Many a time Thorpe had taken Molly and Liam there to watch the Cape League.

Thorpe drove down Route 6 and turned his attention to his conversation. He had Jackson on loud speaker, the connection breaking in and out. Half of what Jackson said he couldn’t make out. Jackson read the letter through a couple of times.

Once before I gave Chief Douglas Thorpe of Lewiston a letter such as this. There are things that are out of one’s control. To see events unfold before one’s eyes has always left me with a feeling of helplessness. I sense this time you might stop this assassin. My inclination is that this crime hasn’t happened yet. The first letter had to do with a child murdered years ago in Lewiston. Brooke. Richards, Michael Richards. The dreams, visions, came then and have now returned.

The dreams show other places, beaches and water. All have beaches and water in the end. I can see what looks like Florida and that the killer went to Lewiston and now to Orleans, though I don’t believe this one has occurred yet. But soon, when the weather makes a turn. The Cape was to have been spared, but it won’t be. It will hit and hit hard. Hurricane winds, thunder, lightning in the midst of snow.

A Mobil station on the corner. Across, a row of quaint stores, Cape Cod Jewelry. Through the eyes I can see. The eyes have watched the bakery many times through the large open window in front, small tables and chairs within. The counter filled with goodies. On top of the glass counter, brownies are out for sampling. Cleaning up, shutting down.

Through the window eyes watch an older gray-haired woman, short, plump, apron with Emily’s Baking Dream embroidered on it behind the counter. She talks with a teenage girl, green sweater, blue jeans, sneakers, long, flowing blonde hair. The girl is shaking her head as if agreeing—agreeing to go home? The girl puts on a red jacket and heads past the stove to the left of the back door. The eyes have moved to the back parking lot. He watches the girl run down the stairs. She doesn’t notice him or the weather. She tries to keep her hood up. He knows he has her.