Dreamscape (9 page)

Did he know? Did he know that he had a daughter, a beautiful daughter? Did he know how much she missed him? Did he know how much she’d loved him? How much she still hurt?

Ramona sat up. She didn’t know how she would make it through the day. She’d promised Jeffrey she’d meet with the FBI that afternoon. Jeffrey’s words echoed in her mind.

“I don’t understand, Ramona,” he’d said on their way home. “You’ve done this before. Just tell them what you know. Then they’ll leave you alone.”

Ramona shook her head. “I wish it was that easy. He’ll be there. He won’t leave it alone. Everything is about to change.”

“Would that be so bad? You said yourself you thought it was time.” Jeffrey stopped at a red light and turned to face her. “And it is time. It’s been so hard keeping you and Leila a secret from Rick’s family.”

“It was to keep Leila safe.”

Jeffrey reached over and grabbed Ramona’s hand. “I know. I know. Norah and I have kept you safe. We’re not going to let anything happen to you now.” He squeezed her hand tightly.

Ramona couldn’t answer. She nodded, but tears escaped down her cheeks.

“Have faith,” Jeffrey ended their conversation.

Faith, I lost it long ago
.

* * * *

Marshfield, a small South Shore village filled with the influx of Boston Irish who spent their summers enjoying the sun on its beaches, appeared picturesque with the new layer of snow on the winter landscape. Thorpe took a right at the white-steepled congregational church and followed a winding country road. Taking a left, they crossed a bridge over a minute stream.

One last turn down a hidden street found them at their destination—a dead-end road. The house sat back from the road, and a wooded front yard lined the driveway where the snow had been mostly shoved out to be able to park. The house itself was a simple weather beaten, brown-shingled Gambrel with an extension over the garage. Smoke billowed out of the chimney. Thorpe’s tires rumbled over the crushed rock on the driveway and came to a stop.

Passing through the huge frozen rhododendron bushes, the two men followed the shovel path to the back deck. Thorpe hadn’t spoken two words to Jackson since they met at exit 12. He hadn’t been in the frame of mind to talk, not after Jackson hadn’t given him an explanation as to his jibe about Rick.

Jeffrey Dills opened the sliding glass door. Thorpe didn’t even shake the hand of the man who’d been his cousin’s partner—a man the family had blindly trusted.

“Don’t understand? Don’t understand? What do you want me to understand? My cousin, he was like my brother. His mom and dad were like my own. Now they tell me that my cousin died because of some girl he was involved with and you knew all about it. All these years, Dills. All these years.”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened. You wouldn’t have believed it. The basis of the events was true. Rick died taking out a murderer.”

Dills backed up and looked over his shoulder into the next room. “Look, Thorpe, I can give you a quick explanation, maybe it will help. Have a seat.”

For a moment, Thorpe thought of leaving. Jackson could talk with whoever he wanted. This had become too personal to him, but he’d always wonder if he didn’t get the information now.

Thorpe surveyed the family room. Warmth came from a wooden stove fire in the corner. A big bay window along one side of the wall, wooden beams, and a wagon wheel chandelier hanging from the ceiling added to the atmosphere. A bar sat to the right of the big screen TV. A man’s room. Thorpe took a seat on a recliner. Jackson had already sat on the couch. He had no intention of leaving, then.

“You knew Rick, Doug. You know he took things well. Rick didn’t take some things too seriously. It’s what made him so good undercover. He was fearless.” Jeffrey walked over to his bar and perched on a stool. “When all this started, it was like he was playing a game.”

Jackson took a legal pad out of his briefcase and started taking notes. For once, he sat back and listened.

“The first time I was aware that something was going on was when we were making a bust in the South End. We all took our positions around the house. I stood by a boarded up window. Rick looked up from his position before we made our move. He motioned for me to lay down.” Jeffrey paused as if reliving the moment.

“So?” Thorpe asked. “That happens quite often.”

“No, this was different. He wouldn’t let us proceed until I moved. I lay down just to make him happy. The next minute, I was thanking God he’d insisted. A shotgun blast rang out right though the boarded up window. If I’d been standing there, I would’ve been dead. No doubt about it.”

Jackson looked up from his writing. “Did he tell you why?”

“No, not at first. He just had that shit-eating grin. Then it was one case after another. He knew what was going to happen before it did.”

“Then what went wrong?” Jackson kept writing. Thorpe sat silently.

“Instead of knowing our cases we were dealing with, it changed. Rick started looking for a particular criminal, Morse Simpson. Turned out to be a serial killer. He killed prostitutes and runaways. At first, we hadn’t known they were connected.”

“Now wait a minute,” Thorpe broke in. “If all this was true, why didn’t Rick come to me?”

Jeffrey hesitated. “Honestly, Doug, it didn’t have much to do with you. Maybe it was being married. I don’t think Rick was really that fond of your wife. From what Rick told me it was probably mutual.”

Thorpe couldn’t argue. Cindy had thought Rick irresponsible. Thorpe had been caught up in his own life, his wife, new family, and career. He hadn’t seen much of Rick before his death.

Ramona appeared more relaxed dressed in comfortable sweats, her hair down, no makeup. She walked down two steps from the kitchen into the family room. She seemed vulnerable. Thorpe wasted no sympathy on her. He remembered. He remembered the day his world came crashing down.

It happened on a damp gray day in November, November 19th to be exact. Thorpe had gotten word coming off night duty; fallen cop, the word was, down on the waterfront. A detective. Whispers, but Thorpe heard the name he dreaded the most: Rick O’Donnell.

Visions of that morning still haunted Thorpe. Police vehicles lined the street leading up to the scene. The ambulance sat silently to the side, no activity surrounding it. Thorpe had stared at the gory scene and learned a new variation in horror.

Blood splattered the ground like the earlier drizzle. Rick’s body lay face down, his gun not far from his right hand as if he’d fired as he fell. They turned his body over. Blood covered his chest, a hole from a knife in plain sight. A blood trail led back to where the initial attack began. The knife was found a few yards away.

Thorpe’s mind had been in a fog, but he remembered bits and pieces of what his superiors told him.

“He was looking into a tip. Been getting these for a while. Been paying off. Last month he saved that girl down Beacon Street, remember, Doug? Believed he was on the trail of some serial killer. Have his files. We’ll look into it, Doug. We’ll find out who did this.”

Two days later, cops pulled a body from the harbor with Rick Thorpe’s bullet in his head. The dead man fit the description of the suspect in the serial killings, Morse Simpson.

Without any live witnesses, the department surmised that Detective Rick O’Donnell tried to apprehend the suspect and in the struggle that ensued Detective Richard O’Donnell had been fatally stabbed, but not before getting off a round that knocked Morse off the peer and into the harbor.

Jackson jumped up, taking control of the situation. “Ms. Damsun, the real reason we’re here is your letters. You stopped an abduction. I believe you can be more help than you realize.”

Ramona shook her head. “Don’t go there. If you’re looking for some psychic, you’re going to be sadly mistaken.”

A sly smile appeared. Jackson said, “I believe I know exactly what you are, Ms. Damsun. I believe Indians would have called you a dream walker. I can assure you that we’ve examined your letter. There’s no other explanation.”

Ramona gave Jackson a blank look. “What do you think you know about dream walkers? They’re just legends.”

Jackson’s smile remained. “I’ve worked with one before. I know that dream walkers can enter the dreams of victims or even the criminal themselves. I know legend has it that they’re protectors of the innocent. It’s their purpose, so to speak. That you even know what they are tells me that you are one.”

“No, Ms. Damsun, but I’ve seen their handy work.” Jackson started pulling pictures out of his briefcase. “Honestly, Ms. Damsun, we need you. If I’m coming across a little strong, I apologize, but this man, predator, has killed and will do so again. I believe you know this. I believe you know something that will help us catch him.”

Jackson lined the pictures out on the coffee table, one murder after another, one more gruesome than the other. “Do you know anything about any of these?”

Thorpe almost reacted. He hadn’t expected Jackson to push so hard. He’d gone way over the line. To his surprise, Ramona reached down and picked the pictures up. She held on longer to the one that read Tampa, Florida, on the back.

Ramona slowly shook her head, although Thorpe sensed she did know more. “I’ve written down everything I’ve had a vision about. There’s nothing more I can do.”

Thorpe knew Jackson wouldn’t want to let go of her that easily, but Jackson didn’t get a chance to push further. The door swung open. A young girl ran in with a dog, followed by Norah Dills. The dog jumped up on the seat with Thorpe, almost on his lap.

“Momma, we’re back. Auntie Norah wanted to stay out, but Bailey was cold,” the child said, taking off her gloves. “Who are these people, Momma?”

The little girl turned toward Thorpe. She started laughing as her dog tried to jump up and lick his face. Thorpe pushed the dog back and stared at the girl. He knew that smile. He glanced over at Ramona. He read her deceit on her face. Without so much as a word, he stood up and left.

Chapter Seven

Thorpe knocked lightly on the back door before entering. The house he still considered home. Home since the day his mother left him with his uncle to begin another life with a new husband and kids. He’d been a rebellious teenager, far too much for his mother to handle. His uncle, Joe, had taken care of him, of course, with the help of Aunt Miriam.

“Aunt Miriam,” he called.

He knew she’d be home. His aunt could easily be considered a creature of habit, same time to church, grocery store, even getting her hair done. That and the aroma of baking that he knew all too well during the holidays. No one could bake like his aunt. He entered the kitchen. The petite gray-haired woman stood by the stove.

Without hesitation, she flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek. Cupping his face, she said, “Way too long, Douglas Thorpe. No call or anything, being in the news and all. My, my, Doug. I have to get my information from Cindy. Not too much either. She keeps handing the phone to either Molly or Liam.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

He couldn’t keep from smiling, couldn’t get anything by his aunt. His visit today didn’t pertain to talking about his failing marriage. He reached over to the table and picked up a warm Christmas cookie.

“Take all you want. Making them for the church. I’ll send some back to the kids,” she said, taking a seat on one of the hard wooden chairs around her kitchen table. She’d had it long before Thorpe came to live with them. The house remained a museum. It had belonged to her parents. She’d never lived at another address.

“You are coming up for Christmas Day, as usual, aren’t you? I couldn’t get Cindy to commit.” She paused. “Are you here to tell me something about you and Cindy?”

“No, at least not for today,” he said bluntly. “It’s about Rick, Aunt Miriam. It’s about Rick.”

“What are you talking about, Doug? Rick?” she said in a waiting hush.

“It has to do with the case I’m working on, Aunt Miriam,” he began. He didn’t know how to say it in a delicate way. “Before Rick died, did he indicate that he was involved with a woman—seriously involved?”

The older woman sat motionless staring at her nephew. Color drained from her face. “Why do you ask?”

“Trust me, Aunt Miriam, I’ll tell you everything I know, but first I need to know if you knew what Rick was up to before he died.”

She nervously placed her fingers over her mouth, thinking back. “There were a couple of conversations, Doug. He came home one night and talked to Joe and myself about a girl. What was her name? I remember it was unusual.”