Dreamscape (12 page)

I see her face clearly. Early twenties at the most, Hispanic, layered dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, a dimpled chin. Her dark eyes beckon me. I follow and watch. She pulls a card from the door lock, and without warning, a dark figure materializes from behind the young woman. Panic, terror sets in. I feel evil, a terrible, terrible evil. One massive hand pulls the handle down while the green light illuminates; the other hand closes over her mouth. Not a sound escapes.

My heart feels as if it will come out of my chest, and I’m watching, unable to help. The scene is in the past. I can do nothing. The assailant wastes no time. Enjoying the look of sheer fright in the young woman’s eyes, he turns her to him, face to face. I see him clearly, his face etched into my memory forever. His features have sharp angles, his skin tanned. Brown hair, cut short; clean shaven. Freckles, they’re scattered across his nose, but it’s his eyes…dark, menacing eyes that have no soul. He is unknown to the young woman.

The force of the attack lands the woman on the carpeted floor. His hand fixes firmly around her throat. The woman fights. Her right hand reaches his face, squeezes, tries to scratch his cheek. He slaps her hard across the face. It’s her last resistance.

He whispers in her ear as he tightens his grip around her small throat, ‘Die, my lovely! Die!’

Harder, harder his grip becomes until there’s no life within her. He throws her body back against the floor. He stands looking completely satisfied with his work so far. Though he’s not finished with her. He’s just beginning. He’s not exceedingly tall, short, in fact, maybe 5’7’’, 5’8”, characterized by marked muscular development. Strong. He takes her body, fitting it snuggly into a large suitcase, heavy. Without much effort he’s gone.

Tears stream down my face. A feeling of hopelessness overcomes me, one I had hoped I would never again experience. I watch him. My body shakes uncontrollably. I hear a name over and over again. ‘Rosemary! Rosemary!’

I believe that she’s a victim of the one you’ve been searching for. She too was found on the beach, but I’m not certain if the police have put the case in that file. They feel it’s someone else who killed her.

Jackson placed the file down. He waited. Thorpe sat downstairs with Ramona. The picture that Ramona had picked up at her home had been of the Tampa murder, a young woman, Rosemary Gonsalves. For the first time they had clues, connections. There had to be some connection with the hotel or maybe the hospital. Not only that, Jackson read again ‘his face etched into my memory forever.’ Could they get a sketch from Ramona’s memory, her memory from a vision? Jackson though so. Thorpe had brought Ramona in to see a sketch artist.

* * * *

Thorpe had said nothing of the dream, not yet. He watched Ramona describe the killer to the sketch artist. She hadn’t said much on the ride in. He’d swung by her condo and picked her up. She’d built a wall around herself, not allowing for an easy read. He half expected an explanation from her regarding his dream. She said nothing. He questioned whether it had happened at all. Could it have been just a dream? Had he imagined it all, that it meant more than just his usual nightly visions?

Ramona looked over the sketch and caught him watching her. She handed him the sketch. “This is it. This is the guy. The eyes aren’t the same, but I don’t think you can capture what I saw in his eyes.”

Thorpe thanked the artist, walked him to the door, and shut it behind him. Alone with her now.

“Jackson will be happy with the sketch. I believe he’s leaving in the morning for Florida,” he said and then hesitated. He understood her dilemma. She didn’t know who to trust. His family certainly hadn’t given her any reason to. He walked over to her. Taking her hand, he helped her to her feet so he could look into her eyes. “Are you not going to mention the other night? Or was it something I just dreamed up on my own?”

“What do you think?” she asked. Her eyes locked on his, and a surge coursed right through him.

“I don’t know what to think,” he said abruptly. “I don’t know. Was it real? What was going on?”

Ramona studied his face, didn’t respond immediately. “See, that’s the funny part. Ironic, really. You don’t have a clue about this world. After all these years, I’ve been pulled back in and I don’t have a choice. And my pathfinder, the one that is destined to protect me, I have to protect.”

She broke away and unclenched her hands. Breathed deep.

“Don’t worry, Ramona,” he said softly. “I have no desire to add to your troubles. Tell me. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

She recoiled just as the door opened and Jackson walked in, obviously anxious to see the sketch. His gazed dashed between the two.

“Yes?” Thorpe turned to fully face Jackson, his movements jerky.

“Wanted to see the sketch, go over the plan for returning to Florida.”

“Ummm, Chief Thorpe?” Ramona said. “It seems you’re going to be busy. I’ll get another ride home. Can’t I, Agent Dunn?” Ramona said. She seemed distracted, but recovered her bearings quickly, turning to Jackson.

Thorpe walked over and opened the door for Ramona. He leaned over for her ears only. “About the world. You have to be certain of some things. Otherwise you’d go crazy.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said lightly and stepped through the doorway. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

* * * *

Thorpe unlocked his back door. The time had grown late. He expected everyone to be asleep, but a few lights glowed. The sound of Christmas music echoed from the family room. Christmas lights shining. He threw his keys on the counter. The aroma of freshly baked goodies lingered in the kitchen, and a bottle of open wine sat on the table. Voices floated from the family room.

He walked toward the sounds. And froze at the sight in front of him. On his couch, engrossed, lay his wife in the arms of another man. Cindy giggled at something her guest whispered in her ear. Thorpe silently stared. James McNeely laughed back until he caught sight of Thorpe standing in the doorway.

“Oh, Doug, didn’t hear you come in.” James stood awkwardly, knocking Cindy off of him. “Been watching you in the news. Been busy, I hear. Good work.”

Cindy moved to place her glass of wine back on the coffee table but missed. The wine sloshed onto the rug. Frantic, she tried to wipe it up to no avail. She straightened herself up.

“So you decided to come home,” she managed. She wouldn’t look Thorpe in the eyes.

James took the opportunity to hurriedly grab his jacket on the back of the couch. He glanced at Cindy helplessly. “Believe I’d better be going.”

Thorpe didn’t utter a word as James passed him. His attention remained on his wife who had regained some of her composure.

“Trying to surprise me? Was it worth it?” she said, smug.

“Keep your voice down. I assume the kids are sleeping.” Thorpe moved slowly in the family room. The lights on the tree flickered. A small fire dwindled down. There was a time when the Christmas decorations, the tree glittering, a warm sparkling fire, would have been a welcoming sight, a homey sight. Not tonight. “I called. Left a message. I take it you didn’t get it.”

Cindy picked up her glass. Thorpe noticed her unbuttoned blouse. Her bra undone, showing her breasts. Any doubt evaporated. She pulled her shirt together.

“Molly’s not here. If you care, she’s over at Katherine’s. Liam’s exhausted from practice and he tried to stay up all night last night. He’s been asleep for hours.” Cindy looked up. Her eyes bored into his. She wouldn’t give him an inch. “It’s not like you didn’t know we had problems.”

“Problems. Problems, Cindy.” Thorpe’s blood ran cold. His heart raced, blood pumping hard. His mind raced too.

Hold back. Liam’s asleep upstairs. Hold back. Liam’s asleep upstairs
.

He said, “Not this. You put me through hell, therapy. You made me think it was me. You made me think it was me.”

“Don’t come back on me,” she countered. “You’re never home. What did you expect?”

“Expect? Cindy, what the hell do you mean? I gave you everything you wanted. You didn’t want to live in the upper level of Aunt Miriam’s two family, so I bought you a house. You decided the kids couldn’t live in the city, so I gave up a job that I loved to move you and the kids here.”

She moved to leave the room. “My God, Doug. Who wouldn’t have wanted to leave that two family? I had to look after my kids.”

Thorpe bored a hole through Cindy with one look. “Now you’re bringing my family into it?”

Cindy shrugged. “What do you want me to say? Look at them. Your aunt lives in the past. Look at her house. It’s a shrine to your uncle and cousin.”

“How dare you. Her only child, her husband.” Thorpe’s voice rose with each syllable. “What would you know about how someone grieves?”

Her chin lifted, and she looked him in the eye. “It isn’t my problem anymore. Is it?”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Oh, come off your high horse, my darling. I was going to wait until after the holidays.” She shrugged. “For the kids. I personally didn’t even think you would notice. Not with all the time you’ve been spending on your case.”

“So this is it.”

“Look, Doug, it wasn’t like I was looking for it. It just happened. I was lonely. You haven’t been the same since your cousin and uncle died. What was I supposed to do? I’m a vibrant woman, Doug. You haven’t noticed for years. I have needs, needs that weren’t being met.”

Thorpe couldn’t say a word. The woman he thought he knew and loved seemed as a stranger standing before him. And to bring her lover into their home with Liam sleeping upstairs! Had she done this before?

“You damn fool. Why is it always about you?” Thorpe asked.

“I’m not going to be able to reason with you in this state. You’re acting like the victim in this. I’m not the bad guy here, my dear, darling husband.”

“You fucking bitch. Why go through therapy? Why put me through the last year if there was no chance? Why? For show? You put me through it, the kids, all for show.”

“It’s been coming for a while, Doug. Don’t act so shocked,” she said and pressed down her skirt. “I’m tired. This isn’t going anywhere. You can stay through Christmas. Then I suppose you can move back to your little apartment you had before.”

Thorpe backed up into the middle of the room. She brushed by him to the stairs and didn’t look back. No heated denials, no lingering of a forgotten love, no tears. His denial of the state of his marriage had just slapped him in his face.

* * * *

Thorpe thought about it long and hard. Cindy had taken the kids down to her parents for their family Christmas. She’d already told everyone he had to work on the case. Liam didn’t believe him.

“I heard you guys arguing last night, Dad.”

“Nothing to worry about, Liam. I’ve been working too much. You know that. Go have a good time. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. I should get done and be freed up until after Christmas.”

Liam smiled. “Good. Can’t wait until you see what I got you for Christmas.”

Thorpe watched his son run off and jump in his mom’s car. His family left, leaving him alone in the house. There had been times when he would’ve given his right hand for a moment to himself, but he didn’t like the feeling now. The whole day stretched in front of him. Then a thought came to him. The case could wait. His issues weren’t going anywhere, but there was one thing he could do. He went to remedy a wrong.

Chapter Nine

Nine-fifty-five a.m. The plane arrived on schedule at Tampa International airport. Jackson held tight to his briefcase, afraid to let go of the sketch of the face of the man that eluded him. He had to figure out how to handle distribution of the sketch—certain, though, that someone down here in Tampa would recognize the face; someone had to. The killer had spent enough time in the area; they had enough evidence of that fact.

Jackson hadn’t long exited the plane when a familiar voice carried down the tunnel. He shook his head and laughed. It only took a second to notice Sam standing talking with a pretty airport employee behind the counter near the gate. He looked good, gotten some sun as of late—nice tan—and he seemed to have lost a little around the waist, probably could afford to lose a little more. The sun couldn’t do much for his balding head, though.

Samuel M. Caldwell smoked too much and ate too much fried food. Not that he hadn’t heard it from his wife, Sue Ellen—his third wife. Jackson reasoned that Sam owed his recovery to Sue Ellen. He also figured being forced to retire had saved his marriage.

“I ain’t no prize, Jackson. Never have been. Always felt I was married to my job more than any woman, but I can’t seem to stay away from beautiful ladies. One of my many vices. Can’t say I ever made any of them happy.”

Sam made it plain how unhappy he felt about being forced to retire, but he now loved working as an independent behavioral profiler for the bureau, his specialty, serial killers. Sam had been a damn fine agent and solved some of the toughest high profile cases for the FBI. He had a knack about situations, how to read people. Jackson had felt fortunate when Sam took him under his wing, not that he didn’t feel he deserved it. He worked hard; obsessive he’d heard more than once.

Sam scolded him more than once when Jackson had first left the academy. “Look, pretty boy. Yes, we need to decipher every piece of information. Can’t tell ya how important it is to work on fact, the evidence at hand, but ya have to expand your mind, too, son. You’re going to have to learn to think outside the box to catch them sons of bitches.”

Jackson hadn’t realized how far outside the box Sam meant, not until he met Franklin, but it had paid off. Franklin said they’d find the ones they needed; they had to if they wanted to succeed.