Dreamscape (26 page)

Henry had chosen this day. This would be his day. He leaned forward over the dashboard. He wanted the best view.

A mile back, he pulled down this country road, having previously surveyed the area, studied it until he knew it well. Traffic down this country road was spotty, except when they let the kids out of school. Kennedy Elementary School sat less than half a mile from his view point. He sat and watched on this, the last day before winter break. Sounds of escape echoed down the road. Buses departed, leaving a trail of minivans and SUVs picking up their precious cargo. He smirked. He’d watched many times before. The walkers, the last dismissed, would soon fill the sidewalks.

He’d purposely chosen this spot, his most advantageous point to carry out his devious intentions. A gas station lay on the corner of the road that wound around to the school. For a short span, a few quaint stores rubbed one against the other. Nat’s Ice Cream store stood vacant until the summer months. Attached, open all year round, Maggette’s Subshop. Across the road, Holmes’s General Store serviced all the local patrons of the community. A scene straight from a Norman Rockwell painting, he thought, as he sat in his stolen, rusted white van. That picture would be broken in just a matter of minutes. He laughed.

Henry’s frustrations had built over the past few weeks. His master demanded he be patient. He had to follow his master. The urge gnawed within him. He yearned to fulfill his needs having been thwarted. He needed a kill to satisfy his desires, but his master had denied him. He had to execute a plan. No careless mistakes. His master promised him he would soon be able to relieve all his frustrations. His master was always right. He didn’t want to anger his master. His master had become furious about Dr. Lewis.

“Trust me, Henry, she will bemoan the day she tried to stop us. I will make that Dream Walker wish she had never been born.”

Henry snickered. Since the day his master led him to the poor excuse of a mother, to inheriting the wealth of his uncle, to the challenge of the game, his master had showed him how to succeed in his ventures and to enjoy the spoils. In the course of the years since he first heard the voice within him, he’d never made his master infuriated until he’d gone back to Dr. Lewis. He never wanted to evoke such rage or face punishment for failure again. He couldn’t endure that once more. He couldn’t fail this time, not an option.

His grip tightened as his redemption walked down the sidewalk. The van he’d stolen a month back, modified it for the occasion. The van parked slightly to the side so that in an instant he could swing the door open, grab his victim, and have a clean escape. All sat in readiness. He twiddled his thumbs in anticipation. And smiled. His victim rounded the corner walking with two of her friends. Her long dark hair escaped from under her knitted cap. He liked long hair. His heart beat faster. He held tight as he latched onto the hatch door. He cracked it open and lunged for his young victim.

Leila O’Donnell.

* * * *

Jackson Dunn hung up the phone reluctantly. Another dead end, another headache. The last few weeks turned into months. Even after all the leg work, having Henry DeNair’s face plastered over the FBI’s ten most wanted list, searching from coast to coast with every resource available, he had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He’d gone over and over the files and facts, almost all in agreement that DeNair had gone underground with a new identity. The forensic accountants lost the trail of where he kept his money. He didn’t have to be a cracker jack detective to figure out Henry DeNair would continue, feeling confident that no one could stop him now.

His worries mounted. Callie had been transferred to a rehab facility with no apparent reason for her coma. He’d obtained an unofficial explanation from one of the nurses that worked with the deceased.

“The way I see it, Agent Dunn, not that the hospital would ever suggest this as an explanation, is that maybe Barbara was confused before her heart attack and gave your friend medication that was for another patient. Don’t get me wrong. Barbara was a wonderful nurse, but a bad drug reaction would explain the coma, wouldn’t it, Agent Dunn?”

Jackson nodded. It was a feasible explanation, one that he’d have considered if he hadn’t been with Ramona. If he hadn’t seen what happened in that room.

He poured a cup of coffee and walked back to his office, strangely subdued. Jackson had never panicked in his life; it wasn’t part of his nature. He dealt with facts even if given along a supernatural trail, but this trail didn’t add up. He felt all sides converging upon him.

He’d always been the hunter. His instincts told him the tables had turned. His dad hadn’t given him much more information about his birth mother except that she had been their informant and died saving them. He’d given his word he’d raise Jackson as his own and had held to that promise. The information didn’t help decipher where he came from nor what connection he had to Ramona.

Sam was no help either. He pushed forward with his investigation in hopes of saving his stepdaughter. Jackson’s only concern at the moment remained on Callie.

“I’m going to the northeastern part of Mississippi. Personally digging up all the information on this dream walker demon,” Sam said. He’d been researching Indian legends, anything remotely connected to these legends for the last couple of weeks. “Something somewhere has to tell us how to bring Callie out of this. Not going to rest until I find out what it is.”

He looked down at his coffee. Thorpe logically said they needed to stay the course. Focus on what they could control, which was the investigation.

“We need to find DeNair and bring him in. It’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s what brought us together, and if we’re connected it’s the path that we should follow,” Thorpe told him in their last conversation. “We can’t go following shadows, Jackson.”

For a man who didn’t believe in psychics he’d readily embraced this connection. Jackson had to admit that Ramona and Thorpe had a connection, but just what kind of connection bothered him. He’d seen them together. Thorpe was overprotective, getting too personally involved, which turned into a major source of irritation to Jackson. Not that he cared what Thorpe did in his personal life, but Jackson was well aware of Thorpe’s impending divorce. The last thing either of them needed was another distraction.

If the truth be known, he wanted both Ramona’s and Thorpe’s full attention on the case. DeNair had to be captured. Besides the fact that Jackson had mixed feelings about Ramona. He needed her, her abilities, but doubts troubled him whether he could fully trust her.

Words from his dream echoed in his head. “Those have to work as one.”

One? questioned Jackson. They couldn’t even get on the same page much less the same direction. Jackson sensed this put all three in immediate danger.

The ringing telephone brought Jackson back to the present. He placed his coffee cup down, grabbed his jacket. The door slammed behind him.

* * * *

Jackson stepped out of the car into a sea of curiosity seekers lined up by yellow tape. The whole of the road was closed off. He ducked under the tape ignoring a reporter who’d already responded to the scene. A television crew’s van pulled up behind his own car. He walked down the street and found Detective Ronald Turner interviewing a witness outside the gas station.

“Special Agent Jackson Dunn,” Jackson stated.

Detective Turner shrugged. He nodded to the left for Jackson to follow him. Seemingly not one to get his feathers ruffled, too old, been around too long, Turner obviously had no issue cooperating with the FBI.

“Doesn’t look like a place something like this would happen,” Turner said.

“They never do,” Jackson countered.

Dusk lay on the horizon. It wouldn’t be long before darkness settled in. The street was deserted of all civilian pedestrians but littered with state troopers, local police, and FBI agents converging on the scene.

“Everything’s shut off,” Jackson said, more of a statement than a question.

“Yep. We’ve gathered all the witnesses too. Taken some statements but haven’t released any of them. Thought you might want to re-interview them.”

Jackson eyed the older man, smiled. He followed Detective Turner up a small hill along the sidewalk. Turner had been right. Jackson could smell the ocean from here. Calmness surrounded the area, surreal, giving no indication of the violence that had occurred earlier in the day.

“This is where the girls were walking,” Detective Turner offered, pointing up the hill where the sidewalk wound around. “There were three of them. Kelsey Losman and Emily Altobelli were walking with her. They’re fine. They were sent down to the police station to give their statements. Best option with their age and the media coverage that’s bound to happen. They’re already upset enough. Their parents are with them.”

“I want a couple of my agents to talk with them,” Jackson said. “I’ll send them on down.”

Turner pointed to a spot by the gas station. “The van was parked just beyond Phil’s, positioned to make a fast exit. Pulled in almost sideways. It’s not unusual. People wait for inspections or work on their car, park in that area, but this one was parked by itself right by the sidewalk.”

They walked over to the exact spot where the van had parked. Distinctive tire patterns were in the process of being molded.

“Shame. Waste of time,” Jackson said. “My guess is that he stole the van. By this time he’s dumped it. Burnt it out, probably.”

“That’s probably a good guess,” Turner agreed. It would have been the logical course of action for the suspect. Turner nodded toward Maggette’s Subshop. “We have a witness inside that saw the whole incident. A Richard Bradley, retired gentlemen. He was checking out in the general store. Probably got the best view by an adult.”

“The other two girls, did they see anything relevant?”

Turner shook his head. “Not that I heard. Mr. Bradley said when the door of the van swung open it caught his attention. He was at the shop door when the struggle ensued. The assailant grabbed the little girl’s arm. Bradley heard the screams from where he was. He ran out the door, but a flash of light momentarily blinded him.”

“A flash of light? What the hell do you mean a flash of light?”

“You’ll have to ask him, Agent Dunn. When Bradley looked back the little girl had broken free. He ran across the road and grabbed her. Bradley got a good look at the assailant. He recognized him immediately as DeNair. Said he caught sight of the eyes. He said DeNair wanted the girl badly, but by that time chaos ensued. People were coming out of the woodwork. DeNair took off. Almost hit some kids walking behind the little girl. Did hit a parked car. We’ll have that paint analyzed, but as you said before, it’s probably useless.”

“And the little girl?”

“As you can imagine, pretty upset. Ambulance came. Took her down to Plymouth’s Hospital.”

Jackson surveyed the scene one more time then called Montgomery. He motioned to Agent Josh Vassar, a middle aged, broad-shouldered man. He’d be heading up this end. Jackson could leave the scene in his capable hands. For the next few minutes, he gave orders of what he wanted to accomplish. He walked toward his car intending to head to the hospital. He heard a commotion.

* * * *

Douglas Thorpe’s patience had worn thin. He pushed his way through a crowd.

“Get the hell out of my way.”

One of the local cops tried to detain him. Thorpe almost crammed his ID badge down his throat. Panic built within him that he wasn’t used to. He blamed himself for not foreseeing this possibility. If anything happened to Leila he’d never forgive himself.

“It’s okay, Officer. He’s with me,” Jackson called out from behind the yellow tape. Thorpe ducked under it. “She’s fine, Thorpe. A bit shook up, I imagine.”

Thorpe abruptly pushed Jackson back hard against his car. Heads turned. Jackson motioned he was fine. Thorpe stared at Jackson as he collected himself, trying to fight back the instinct to slug the agent. Before he had the chance, Jackson shoved Thorpe back.

“Don’t say a word. Get in the damn car. Now.”

Thorpe hesitated a second. He grabbed hold of the door handle. Jackson followed suit. He backed out of the scene. Neither spoke until they’d left the crowd behind.

“We’re heading to the hospital,” Jackson began, only to be interrupted.

“When the hell were you planning to tell me? Damn it, Jackson. One of my own men asked me if I’d heard. He heard it over the news.”

“I didn’t tell you yet because of what just happened. You’re too emotionally involved at the moment.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tell me I’m lying. For God’s sake, Thorpe, do you know what I’ve been bombarded with lately? I don’t need the press questioning ethics with a married police chief on my task force having an affair with our informant.”

“What the hell, Jackson? I’m not having a damn affair. Since when do I have to justify my personal life to you?”

“Then try discernment.”

“You’re kidding? Right?” Thorpe shook his head. Jackson glanced at him. He ought to be glad he’s driving, or my fist would just about being finding his face right now. “My God, Jackson, what makes you think it’s any of your damn business?”

“Because it complicates our case, Thorpe. Do you really know Ramona? Do you have any idea what you’re walking into? Some of the information coming in on Ramona is questionable at best. We’re looking into her family background. Did she tell you that she was a suspect in her grandfather’s death? From the look on your face, I guess she didn’t.”