Dreamscape (6 page)

Her hair falls in her face. She fumbles for her keys. She doesn’t hear his vehicle stop behind her. The eyes have to stop and put the car in gear, but the engine’s running. The doors are unlocked. He grabs her from behind. She fights and breaks away momentarily. He lunges and catches her ankle. She falls. The eyes lift her without much effort. She hits at him. The eyes punch her, and he drops her. Drags her to his SUV’s side door. She’s limp. The seats are down. He throws her in the back hatch.

The eyes have to run back around to his door to drive. The back latch—the back latch….

Thorpe lost reception. Reservations filled him, but he made another right turn. As he turned off of 6A and onto the main stretch, lights were off all around. The bitter wind hit his car. Electricity must be down here too.

According to Cindy, the store should be on the left up the next street. He made another right turn at the Mobil. Through the snow, he saw his destination, Emily’s Baking Dream. He pulled out front. The street remained quiet and clear of cars, dark and deserted. He hesitated before he fumbled for the handle and opened his door. The wind caught it. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, he fought the wind with every step to the bakery door. To his surprise it opened. The door swung back.

Startled momentarily, the elderly lady behind the counter began, “Sorry, sir. I’m closing up. The weather took us by surprise. Electricity’s out.”

Thorpe reached in his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I have a couple of questions. We received a tip.” Thorpe cut right to the point. “Was there a young girl here, long blonde hair?”

“You can’t mean my granddaughter, Colleen Walsh. Sweet, sweet, child. I just talked with her father and sent her home. You can’t be looking….”

Something inside talked to Thorpe. He knew without question. His instincts kicked in. Terror seized him. Thorpe impatiently interrupted the lady. “A back way out?”

Thorpe pushed hard against the wind-stuck door. Losing his footing, he caught himself before falling down the flight of stairs. Thorpe froze. In front of him sat a black SUV—a Lexus from the look of it. He made out movement.

He didn’t have much time. Fighting the sleet, snow, and wind, he slammed against the SUV right at the second the abductor hit the gas.

Back latch. Back latch ran through his mind. His right hand desperately searched for the latch. Fumbled for it, found it. It clicked open, but in the same second the SUV jerked up the parking lot’s incline toward the street.

Thorpe’s heart sank. He’d had him. He should have parked in the back to start with. Useless, Thorpe knew, but he ran after the SUV. In that instant, the hatch door swung open. An object rolled onto the black top. The SUV stopped.

Within seconds, Thorpe pulled his pistol and aimed at the tires. The SUV took off again. Thorpe fired at the front tire. He didn’t dare fire again. He couldn’t see his objective plainly.

Thorpe pushed his pistol back in its holster and ran to the motionless object. He reached down and rolled it over. The girl. He bent down on one knee and felt for a pulse. Unconscious, but alive.

Thorpe caught his breath. In that instant, he realized he’d reached into the depths of Hell and pulled her out. In the distance, sirens wailed. He picked up the girl. Under his breath he thanked God and whoever was this young lady’s guardian angel. He wished he knew what the hell just happened.

Chapter Four

The winds eased. Thorpe stood in the middle of the snow-covered parking lot. A blanket of well over ten inches had fallen in a short amount of time. The area hadn’t yet been roped off. Instead the street had been blocked off except for emergency vehicles. Lights couldn’t have been set up even if Orleans had lights. Darkness enveloped the area; only the police car headlights illuminated the scene.

Thorpe stared at the ambulance driving off, its lights dim in the distance, whisking the frightened girl away. The girl regained consciousness but desperately fought the EMT. The competent technician patiently reassured the young victim while he immobilized her neck as a precaution before lifting her into the ambulance.

“Not unusual for a head injury, probable concussion. Considering what might have happened, lucky girl,” the EMT said to Thorpe. “You might want to come down with us to get that hand looked at too.”

Thorpe’s right hand, gashed and bleeding, throbbed. He hadn’t felt it when he banged it against the SUV, reaching desperately for that back latch. He held pressure on his injury with his left hand using gauze the EMT had bandaged it in.

Thorpe shook his head. “I’ll drive myself. Thanks. Need my car.”

Although the hope of finding any evidence in this weather was minute, he wanted to secure the scene. The Orleans police responded swiftly, but the pursuit of the SUV had been unsuccessful. In the severe weather, the vehicle easily eluded law enforcement. The APB broadcasted throughout the state immediately. Thorpe grimaced. He only had himself to blame. In the heat of the moment, he’d only glimpsed a partial license plate. He kept reliving the scenario over and over in his head, searching for something, anything that would lead to the assailant.

The state trooper waited until the ambulance disappeared into the darkness to walk back up to Thorpe. “I hate to bother you again, but I’m still confused,” he said. “What kind of tip would have led to the thwarting of such an attempt? Did a phone call come in? Do you think it came from a girlfriend or wife? Does this have anything to do with the murder this last summer?”

Thorpe eyed him carefully but gave no straight answer. He responded with a slight smile. “A tip came through the task force. Really didn’t give it much credence, but since I knew the area I volunteered to check it out.”

“In the middle of a Nor’easter?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Obviously, I did.”

Wasn’t giving anymore. What was he going to say? It came from a vision? Thorpe had managed to give Jackson a quick update after the police responded and the girl was safe within the ambulance.

“I’ll be down as quick as the weather will allow. I’m already in my car,” Jackson replied, out of breath. “I’ve already informed Montgomery. Excited to say the least. Too bad he got away, but the girl’s safe. Gosh, can’t believe it. Good job, Thorpe. Good job.”

Thorpe checked the bandage on his hand. He grimaced. He would have to get it looked at. He motioned to the officer standing at the entrance, said he’d be leaving for the hospital. He trudged through the fresh fallen snow. More than a foot piled on top of his parked car, his Explorer windshield draped with snow and ice. He’d have to clear his car before going anywhere. He turned the ignition to warm up the car and with his good hand started scraping his windshield.

His mind raced with the events of the day: Jackson’s call, the ride. But something gnawed at him. The vision before Richard’s case; the letter delivered; the face of the woman…the face of the woman bothered him. He stopped dead still. The woman at the beach! He knew why she looked familiar.

He reached for his cell phone.

* * * *

Special Agent Jackson Dunn pushed the metal button on the side and waited for the door to open. He brushed snow off his shoulder and entered Cape Cod Hospital. The weather had broken, and the snow fell in slight flurries. The drive from Boston had been long and tedious.

The impact of the situation slowly sank in. On the way down, he’d phoned his mentor, Sam Caldwell, waking him out of a deep sleep. Sam couldn’t contain his pleasure. Sam, forced into early retirement from the FBI due to his health—heart problems—earned extra income from profiling for the company he’d served for over thirty years. But this case for Sam had long ago become personal. He’d been on this guy’s trail for years.

Jackson understood the details of the connections to the murder victims. The lack of forensic evidence, the disposal of the bodies, the victims themselves all screamed a connection, but in all this time there had never been a suspect.

“What the hell, Jackson? Do you think this is the one we’ve been looking for?”

“Listen, Sam, don’t get too excited. I’m just telling you that it was the damnest thing. It was just sitting on top of my pile. Someone dropped it off that Montgomery knew. I sat reading it, and then the weather report came over the radio.”

“What the hell does the weather report have to do with it?”

“It was so damn strange. It described the whole damn thing. The weather. No one knew about the weather. This letter had to have been written well before they changed the weather report. No one was predicting the Nor’easter then, and even hours before the weathermen were predicting it to hit up North Shore. Even the assailant himself couldn’t have known.”

“This is good, Jackson.”

“More than that, Sam, I think this person has helped before and helped Chief Thorpe. I don’t want to get our hopes up that this is the one. I really don’t know what to make of the situation. How am I going to explain to Montgomery that we’ve been looking for a psychic?”

“Right now, Jackson, I wouldn’t be so concerned about where it came from, but that it stopped the guy! Goddamn it, boy, go with it. As long as it takes you down the right path, I really wouldn’t give a damn.”

* * * *

The hospital parking lot hadn’t been equipped for all the traffic and snow. Media and television vans jammed together. Reporters with their camera crews and lights lined the backdrop of the brick building. Questions had been thrown in Jackson’s direction as he walked through the sea of cameras. Desperate for information, they attacked anyone that looked official. He slightly smiled, but made no comment.

Entering the emergency room, Jackson quickly assessed he could get lost in the buzz. Members of the Orleans police department, state troopers, FBI, and now Jackson crowded the waiting room. The few waiting patients seemed confused. Irritated, the admitting nurse pushed through the law officers to get to the needy. Security appeared overwhelmed by the attention desperately needed to help contain the onslaught of people.

Jackson continued on. He didn’t have time to direct traffic in a waiting room. His concentration solely on his mission, he showed his badge at the information desk. A buzz sounded, and the main doors opened wide. White coats and scrubs scurried by ignoring his presence.

Jackson walked past the curved desk and asked one of the state troopers about Thorpe. He pointed toward the back cubicle. Jackson nodded and continued over to the curtain-drawn bed. Thorpe sat on the edge of the bed; the doctor had just finished stitching his right hand.

“Keep it clean. I wrote out a prescription for an antibiotic. Take it, Chief. Don’t get it infected,” the doctor instructed. He patted Thorpe on the back. “Need to keep you guys healthy.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Thorpe said. The doctor departed, leaving the nurse to bandage the wound. “Didn’t really need this, you know.”

The nurse knowingly grinned. “Yeah, I know, Chief. It’s done anyway.” She cut the last ribbon of tape and smoothed it down. “You’re good to go.”

Jackson watched without saying a word. For a man who didn’t show emotion, Jackson resisted the temptation to hug the man in front of him. He’d contained his excitement until this moment—a moment that didn’t come around often for a law man in his position.

“Said she should be fine. Concussion. Huge bruise on her forehead. Don’t know if she has any idea what she escaped. She’s not going to be much help in identifying anyone. Didn’t get a good look at him. All she can remember is his strength,” Thorpe said.

Jackson sniffed. “Already sent men out to canvas the area. Probably won’t get anywhere until the morning—if at all. If he stalked her before, we might catch a break. Hopefully someone will remember something. Now we’re hitting the airs for help. Just about the attempted abduction. It was released that you got an anonymous tip and reacted immediately.”

Thorpe gave Jackson a dubious look.

“Just came in. Burnt out SUV Lexus found in Sandwich. License plates stolen a few weeks back. I doubt we’ll get any clues from it, but the forensic team will be going over it in the morning. Anything more on your end down here?” Jackson double checked his phone for messages. None. He put it back on his waist.

Thorpe slowly shook his head. “Soon as I walked in I was bombarded by the girl’s grandmother, the bakery owner. Oh, my God. Couldn’t have been more appreciative, too much so. A simple thank you would have been fine. That’s why it took so long to get stitched.”

“Did you get a name? Any connection with the Beach Front girl?”

“Not that I can see, but here’s something interesting. The grandmother’s name is Emily Gardner. Her husband passed away last year. Thought the bakery was a good idea to make money and keep busy.”

“Connection?” Jackson asked, impatient.

Thorpe thought for a moment. “Found it interesting listening to her. Again, a close-knit family. Loved her grandchildren. I believe the grandmother probably offered any information about her grandchildren to any stranger, maybe our guy, who was interested in making her his mark. Talkative without even realizing it.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting where you’re going with this.”

“First initial assessment—our guy picks his victims for a particular reason. We just have to figure out what all these victims have in common. Appearance, personality. I don’t believe it’s opportunity. I believe he makes his own opportunities.”