Dreamscape (17 page)

As with any small town, Lewiston had its rumor mills, and rumors would run rampant when the news broke. James McNeely’s family held a position of social importance. Besides the fact that James McNeely still wore his own wedding band from his second marriage. To make matters worse, or at least it would for most people, James’s wife, Janie, had spent the last month on bed rest on doctor’s advice. Eight months pregnant, she had a condition known as placenta previa, from what Thorpe had gathered from previous conversations.

Contemplation of the two going public disturbed him. Not sure whether they intended on doing so, the fact remained that at some point their affair would become common knowledge. He could say he cared only because of his children. He’d keep telling himself that, not that the whole of his private life would go public.

He poured a cup of coffee and pulled out the stool from beneath the kitchen counter. The days had been long. He rubbed his forehead. Yesterday, he’d taken the long drive to his aunt’s. Ramona had reluctantly allowed Thorpe to bring Miriam down to Marshfield, a short visit to begin with, a perfect Christmas gift for a woman who had suffered so much. Ramona acknowledged Leila had been excited about the prospect of seeing her grandmother. Young children accepted news without question. It had been Ramona that bothered him. She looked like she held the weight of the world on her shoulders. The fact his presence made Ramona uncomfortable wasn’t lost on him.

His aunt, anxious to meet her granddaughter, grew nervous about the child’s reaction. Beyond her wildest dreams, the greatest of gifts, a grandchild had been given to her, and she’d found a source of light, hope.

Thorpe had tried to stay in the background, grateful that Ramona had allowed his aunt this opportunity. He wondered why she hadn’t done this before, certain she had her reasons.

“What if Leila doesn’t like me, Doug? What if she doesn’t like the presents I got her? I don’t know what she likes,” Miriam rambled on the drive. She held the gifts on her lap, gripping them tightly. Her nerves worked on her. “Do you think she knows about her father?”

“Aunt Miriam, don’t worry. I believe you’ll find a beautiful little girl excited to meet her grandmother. Knowing what I know of Ramona, Leila hasn’t been kept in the dark about her father,” he said. Turning the focus of the conversation, he added, “Wait until you see her. She’s the spit of Rick, especially her smile.”

They entered Ramona’s condo, and she met them with a tentative smile. She invited them to take a seat while she called Leila down. Christmas decorations decked her home. Stockings hung from the mantle, and beautiful ornaments adorned the small tree: Santas, bells, reindeers. Snow foam covered the bay window, and the beginnings of an old New England Christmas village decorated the window ledge.

They turned their attention from the room upon hearing footsteps bounding down the stairs. Without hesitation, a grinning Leila flung her arms around her new found grandmother.

Thorpe silently crept out of the room, taking refuge in the kitchen. Within minutes, Ramona joined him leaving Miriam time alone with her granddaughter. She pulled out a chair and sat across from Thorpe.

An awkward silence ensued, broken by Thorpe. “Thank you for seeing Aunt Miriam. She was waiting, patiently, I might add. She already had a picture wrapped for Leila. Leila was wonderful with her. That had to come from you.”

Ramona shrugged. “It’s better for Leila now. It’s time for her to know her family. I just don’t want her overwhelmed.”

Thorpe nodded. “A little at a time. When you feel it’s right, I’d like my kids to meet their cousin. They’ve heard a lot about Rick.”

She smiled. “Strange, isn’t it? Leila will love it. She’s never known an extended family. I have to admit she’s excited about the prospect. Tell me about your children.”

He eyed Ramona carefully and went through a brief synopsis of his kids, the cousins Leila could now enjoy. The wall she had so built up, secure around her, crumbled a little when she, too, talked of her child.

“What about you? Do you have family?” he asked, his tone casual.

The wall immediately resurfaced.

“None to speak of,” she said stiffly, not inviting anymore questions on the subject. He ignored her reaction—too many years of investigating.

“You know, my uncle raised me. My mother couldn’t handle me as a teenager. She got remarried. She didn’t want to have to deal with me. My father, I never knew, but you probably already know that,” he said.

Silence overcame Ramona. She looked as if she wasn’t certain where he was going. “You know, Chief Thorpe—”

“Doug.”

She shot him a look, smiled a small smile. “Okay.” She leaned forward. “Doug. I get the distinct impression that you’re digging for something. I’m not a mind reader, not a psychic, to the contrary of common perception. It might be better to ask me outright.”

“Okay, Ramona,” he began. “What exactly can you do?”

She sat back in her chair and looked over her shoulder into her living area. Thorpe followed her gaze. Miriam and Leila sat engrossed in the game Miriam had bought.

Ramona turned her attention back to Thorpe. “I believe that if you are to know, it will come in time.”

He persisted. “Ramona, I really want to understand. I can see you have a lot weighing on you. I remember vividly the dream I had. I want to understand what you can do.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I believe I could. I’ve never tried. To press within might hurt that person, me pushing in. I don’t know. Do you want me to try?”

“No, no. That’s okay.” Thorpe laughed. “It was strange enough the other night.”

He stared at her as she turned away from him to watch Leila. He reached across and placed his hand gently under her chin, turned her head to read her eyes. “When you do this walking thing, what do you learn from taking that walk into someone’s mind?”

She reached up and grabbed his hand, holding it for a moment. Her eyes stared into his. “You’re worried I might discover a secret. Maybe that you’re having trouble with your marriage.”

He withdrew his hand back. She merely shrugged. “Don’t worry, Doug. Had nothing to do with walking, just that when I made sure you were okay, you know, when you had that dream about Rick’s funeral, you were sleeping on the couch in your living room. It wasn’t hard to figure out. It’s Christmas Eve. I have a sneaking suspicion you’d rather be with your kids than me. It’s okay. I’m not going to say a word to your aunt. Believe me, I have enough to worry about.”

Thorpe didn’t have a chance to reply. Leila skipped in, jumping onto her mother’s lap holding a picture frame.

“Oh, look, Mommy. Nana said I can have this. Isn’t this the best? Daddy looks so handsome in his uniform,” the little girl cried, barely containing her excitement.

Speechless, Ramona took her daughter in her arms. Thorpe watched as she hugged her tight for a moment, staring at the photograph of her husband. Tears welled up in her eyes

“Nana said she has more things that will be mine someday. Daddy got a medal. You were right, Mommy. He was a hero.”

Thorpe jumped up and clapped his hands. “You know what, Leila? Why don’t you go in with Nana and I’ll take a picture of you with her. I know she brought a camera.”

With another quick hug, Leila jumped down and ran back in with her Nana, picture in tow. Thorpe followed. As he passed he squeezed Ramona’s shoulder. She was right—she had enough to worry about.

At least he’d made one person happy this holiday season.

He took a sip of his coffee now and unfolded the morning paper. He needed to start looking for an apartment. He didn’t have a clue what his next move would be except to move out. The shock had worn off, and he’d pushed the hurt aside to be dealt with another day. Waves of despair sporadically overtook him still. Even though they’d been through troubles, he’d never imagine she would betray him. He racked his brain to figure out when it started. He knew she flirted, but this, not this.

Thorpe straightened up the front page of the Herald. They all had enough to worry about. He couldn’t shake the feeling of something lurking in the near future, something other than his marriage problems. As he took another sip of his coffee, he read. There, typed plainly in black and white, was Ramona’s name plastered in the headline for all the world to see.

PSYCHIC RAMONA DAMSUN HELPS FBI WITH BEACH FRONT KILLER!

A confirmed source within the FBI yesterday acknowledged that they had indeed used local psychic, Ramona Damsun, from Marshfield, to thwart an attempted abduction on December 11 in Orleans. The psychic used her ability to describe in vivid detail the attempted abduction. So much so that Chief Douglas Thorpe of the Lewiston police department acted upon it and saved the young lady in question. The FBI has connected the attempted abduction with a serial killer now known as the Beach Front Killer. The Beach Front Killer is known for leaving his mutilated, nude victims on beaches along the eastern sea board. His latest victim was last July in Lewiston, Massachusetts. With little evidence to go on, the FBI is now using a sketch from Ms. Damsun on a connected case in Florida. There was no comment from Ms. Damsun.

“Goddamn it!” Thorpe said.

Liam ran into the kitchen with the headlines plainly spread on the table. He gave his dad a look of bewilderment. “Dad, what’s going on? Tony just called me with his new cell phone. He says you’re on the news.”

Liam didn’t say anything else. The look on his father’s face must have stopped him. He inched back into the family room. Thorpe picked up his cell phone. Christmas was over for the Thorpes.

* * * *

This Christmas morning, Henry DeNair woke up late. He brushed his hair away from his eyes, disheveled, unkempt, not his usual state. During his thirty-five years, he’d always been sensitive to his appearance; important to make just the right impression. In particular, his height bothered him. Short in stature, Henry compensated by working out excessively at the gym. He took pride in his body: one-hundred-seventy pounds of pure muscle.

Henry lived in a four-story brownstone on one of the most elite streets in Boston, his home since his uncle became his guardian over twenty-four years ago. The house, furnished as his uncle had left it, boasted dark, heavy Victorian tables, bookcases, and molding. His living room held overstuffed couches and chairs upholstered in rich brocades. Antique Persian carpets covered the hardwood floors. The collection of art in the house was Henry’s pride and joy.

Henry lived simply, never calling attention to himself. He had only a limited number of acquaintances and preferred to keep a low profile even though he had a considerable fortune behind him.

Henry had come a long way from the poor, pitiful nephew to living in the splendor he now enjoyed and had grown accustomed. His uncle, Marcus, had graciously taken Henry in and treated him as his own. And now all this in which he lived was his. Of course, that came after the tragic accident involving his cousins, Alex and Maureen. The thought of them brought a malevolent smile to his face.

He’d pressed the memories of his youth to the far corners of his mind. Years of being shuffled back and forth between his abusive mother, foster care, and his uncles damaged his ability to feel for others. During those years, no one cared enough about him. His worthless mother—if anyone could call her that—Eliza DeNair, used him to obtain her needs and wants. No one looked after him then. No one saved him from enduring the unthinkable.

His uncle had taken him in when the state took Henry from his mother’s care for the last time. Uncle Marcus’s precious wife, Lynn, had him removed from their home after only a month. He wasn’t good enough for her or her precious family. She called him a devil child. He’d only been seven then.

He endured being transferred from one foster home to another, seven places in four years. When he turned eleven, his aunt Lynn fell ill with breast cancer. After she died, Uncle Marcus took him back in. Guilt, Henry realized, guilt and pity caused his uncle to come back into his life. Pathetic. Marcus DeNair had opened his home, and now everything was Henry’s. He considered his uncle almost as pathetic as his mother. Oh, yes, dear old mother. Her one and only ambition in life had been to get her next fix no matter what she had to do to her son.

Henry had been taken into DSS custody on numerous occasions as a youth, but each time they handed him back over to his mother. He implored them not to send him back. He even begged his uncle. But each and every time until the ‘accident’ they returned him to the woman who sold him to get a fix. No, it wasn’t until she burnt his palms that they finally severed all ties to his mother.

Fighting, he remembered fighting. Terrified as his mother dragged him over to the stove, her yelling at him. He couldn’t remember what she said. But he remembered the sheer panic and then the pain as she seared his hands. In the back of his subconscious, he still heard the echoes of his own screams. His begging and pleading fell on deaf ears. “Please, Momma. Don’t. Momma, don’t hurt me. I didn’t take it.”

“It’ll teach you, you dirty, thieving boy,” she said.

Only the fact that the police raided the next door neighbor’s at the same time saved him from further harm. His uncle commended the quick medical attention to saving Henry’s dexterity, and now only scars remained. Quick fixes, that’s what his uncle wanted.

Memories had no quick fixes. Memories Henry tried to erase and refused to talk about to anyone. Uncle Marcus sent Henry to one psychiatrist after another. The last one, what was his name? Doctor…Doctor…oh, Dr. Lewis. Dr. Nicholas Lewis diagnosed Henry as a sociopath. Didn’t hold out much hope of saving poor little Henry. He’d overheard the doctor talking with his uncle after Marcus took him in for good.