Dreamscape (21 page)

A fleeting thought of retreating evaporated. She’d willed this. She inched slowly along the wall. A cry startled her, and she jumped back. Another loud cry rent the air. Shadowy forms floated, slowly becoming clearer. She made out a sickly woman in a fetal position on a dirty floor in a seemingly abandoned house. Trash and broken furniture littered the floor. Planks boarded shattered windows. Drug paraphernalia lay strewn across the room.

The piteous woman grasped at her knees, her skeletal body worn by years of craving the drugs that sapped the life out of her long before her heart would stop. The fixtures of the dingy room faded. A young man stood over the figure. Incomprehensible cries and pleas echoed in the vanishing surroundings. From the back view, Ramona saw the towering figure make an absurd gesture with a quick swift kick for the anguished woman who gasped her last breath. The figure spat on the corpse uttering without pity, “Goodbye Mother.”

He turned toward Ramona. His face showed without doubt a younger Henry DeNair. The scene dissipated. Again, she faced the long, cold hall filled with white fog. She glanced back over her shoulder. A part of her urged her to take the escape, go back. The other part entertained no thought of running. She stepped forward in the fog.

Another scene unfolded. A cold gust of wind hit her in her face. Her feet felt the pavement. She stood over a wooded ravine. Trees were as bare as before winter called. Down the embankment a good twenty or thirty feet, a car had found a resting place against an old oak tree. The car’s hood bent and smoking. Within, two bodies lay sprawled in the front, no evidence of life. The unrecognizable male victim wore a Yale sweatshirt, his face smashed. Blood dried around what was left of his nose, and an eye socket splayed open, empty. His skull appeared cracked, and blood dyed his hair red.

The female passenger’s face remained frozen in terror. The loveliest young face couldn’t be masked by the slashes across her cheeks. A pool of blood stained the tee-shirt leading Ramona to believe she’d been stabbed before someone replaced her clothing. A snap of a twig caught her attention. On top of the embankment loomed a figure, a smile on his face. He held a lit bottle. With a flick of his arm, the bottle flew in the air landing under the trunk of the car.

Ramona ran. In an instant, an explosion erupted and forced Ramona face down upon the ground. Momentarily stunned, she lifted her head. Voices emanated from the fog.

“I should have known!” echoed down the hallway.

“Doesn’t matter now, does it, Uncle?” a sarcastic tone rang out.

Ramona regained her stance in the fog. She lifted her head to see a man, short in stature, muscles bulging through his tight shirt. He leaned over the old man’s bed, syringe in hand. On the nightstand sat a drug bottle labeled KCL.

“Don’t fight it, Uncle. It will only be minutes.”

The fog rolled back in. Ramona walked further down the hall to a room, an office. In the corner lay a couch. A soothing ocean picture of waves crashing over rocks hung behind a high-backed leather chair, a mahogany desk in front of the chair resting on a hand-woven oriental rug.

The chair gradually turned, its occupant facing, Ramona. Slumped over in the chair, his head hung down. A despairing little cry escaped him. Ramona sensed pain seared within the man. She walked around, gently tilting the chair toward her. He tried to lift his head.

“Dr. Lewis? Why?” She knelt down, talking softly to the distressed man. “I told you, Dr. Lewis. Why?”

“Did you see? You saw. You had to see.”

A force of wind hit Ramona and tossed her backwards. Tumbling head over heels, she scrambled back to her feet. With a wave of her hand she sent the next gust of wind back toward its source. Her heart pounded as if it wanted to leave her body. Emerging from the fog, the creature showed himself again.

Surmoas stood at full height towering above her in his demon form, not hiding behind a human disguise. His red shimmering skin reflected the glow of flames burning behind him. A gorge formed, and his extended arms reached across it. His claws stretched to try and grasp hold of Ramona. Her long dark hair flowed back with the wind. She walked in the white robes that had been worn by others before her. She stared back at the monster and with a wave of her hand held back his grasp.

“Fool! You’re too late,” Surmoas blared as if a bomb exploded. “A fool’s errand. It’ll be the end of you both.”

Ramona didn’t move but stood her ground, sending his next blast back at him. Her arm sent out a gleaming light. It surrounded Dr. Lewis’s motionless body, disallowing Surmoas contact. A roar erupted as comprehension of his situation sunk in. His figure faded until he disappeared completely.

“It is not I who is in dire straits,” she said and clasped her hands together.

She left Surmoas in his own nightmare.

* * * *

“Dr. Lewis. Dr. Lewis?” Chief Thorpe called. He leaned over his body, feeling for a pulse. Faint, but it was there. “Can you hear me, Dr. Lewis? Help is on its way.”

“Nicholas? Nicholas!” his wife cried. Her wheelchair didn’t allow her access to her husband. “Is he alive?”

Thorpe stood up. He opened the door for the paramedics, who scurried in with their lifesaving equipment. They quickly loaded the ailing doctor onto a stretcher. He watched the ambulance drive off.

He had no desire to spend his morning answering questions of how he came to be knocking on the doctor’s door at three in the morning. Mrs. Lewis, bedridden, hadn’t noticed her husband’s absence. Her live-in nurse had answered Thorpe’s firm knocks, besides the ringing of the bell. The nurse, not fully awake, had eventually fumbled down the stairs, opening the door only when Thorpe showed his badge.

Obviously confused, she inched the door open. Thorpe didn’t hesitate and headed straight for the study. He found Dr. Lewis in his office, unconscious on the floor. Now, with Mrs. Lewis’s concern focused on her husband, he saw his opportunity to escape.

The brake lights of the ambulance disappeared down the street. Thorpe drove in the opposite direction, his attention on the only words Dr. Lewis had uttered before being swept away in the ambulance. “She saw.”

The EMT had been puzzled. “She saw what?”

Thorpe hadn’t responded. He didn’t know what ‘she saw’ but he knew who ‘she’ was.

* * * *

Ramona realized she’d have to gather up the energy to send Leila to school as the morning sun appeared. She’d lain down by her sleeping daughter after sleep eluded her coming back from her walk. She caressed the sleeping child’s soft cheek. Unconsciously, her daughter returned her touch with a smile. Did she know how much she was loved? Thoughts of her own childhood haunted Ramona. Many a time she’d wondered if she’d been loved unconditionally.

Naturally, losing her mother as young as she had, Ramona realized it wasn’t that uncommon to be raised by grandparents. They’d implanted the virtues and values that the family held, this tightly banded Southern Baptist clan, leaving no room for questions, until the end, the time, the day her grandmother sent her up north. As far away from her Southern roots as she could go, not to be found.

“Go, Ramona. Don’t look back. There is nothing for you here now,” her Mamaw pleaded. “No matter what. Promise me you’ll start a new life, a good life.”

She had promised, but it had turned shallow, a promise unkept no matter her intentions. In so doing, it led her here. A door had opened, and she had no idea how to close it. The wheel of fate was in motion and it turned out of control. Ramona’s stray tears fell upon her daughter’s flower-covered pillowcase. She only allowed herself tears at night when her daughter couldn’t see her.

Now, though, Leila had her grandmother. Miriam had instantly taken to the little one. Ramona chose to ignore the underlying emotional current that ran strong between the two women.

Ramona had stepped back, pushed her reservations aside. Leila needed to be connected to family, especially, well…it was just better. She had to keep reminding herself of that. The hurt and pain she felt must be swept aside.

Sunlight shone through the blinds. Ramona glanced over at her daughter’s clock. She gently pushed Leila’s hair out of her face.

“Sweetie, it’s time for school. You need to get up,” she said, sitting up on the side of the bed. She swayed slightly.

Leila scooted out of her side of the bed in her Sponge Bob pajamas. “Momma, are you okay?” Her little hand reached up to her mother’s forehead. “Who hit you?”

Ramona felt her head. A knot had sprung up. She fought back a wave of nausea and forced a smile. “I’m fine, Pumpkin. You know how clumsy Momma is. When I came in to check on you, I ran right into your door. Dumb, huh?”

“It’s good I take after my dad, isn’t it, Momma?”

“Yes, darling, it is,” she answered simply. With every bit of energy she had left, she stood. Breakfast had to be made.

Later, Ramona shut her front door after driving Leila to school, thankful it took only a short time, being a couple of miles down the road. She’d already had the pleasure of calling in sick to work, talking with Peggy.

“Well, did you get coverage for this?”

“No, I’m sick, Peggy. How could I do that?” Ramona said. Exasperated, she’d hung up.

Her head still pounded even after taking a couple of Motrin. She eyed her couch. Weariness finally caught up with her. She kicked off her sneakers. As she stepped toward her destination, her doorbell rang.

* * * *

Douglas Thorpe had driven all the way up from the Cape without any sleep, tired and confused. All the answers he sought lay with the person on whose front porch he stood. He wouldn’t take no for an answer this morning. Her car was parked in its usual spot. She hadn’t left for work. The door cracked open. Ramona stood leaning against the door frame. From the look on her face, she wasn’t happy to see him.

“Chief Thorpe,” she said. She opened the door only so wide, dressed in baggy gray sweats, her long, dark hair loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look like she would be leaving for work any time soon. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Thorpe didn’t wait for an invitation. He barged in and took a couple of steps in for her to close the door. She hesitated, but reluctantly did so, not moving away from the closed door.

“Good morning,” Thorpe offered in an offhand manner.

Ramona remained in her spot with her hand on the door handle as if waiting to let him out. “I don’t mean to seem rude, Chief Thorpe, but is there a purpose to your visit?”

Silence ensued. She stared at Thorpe and unwrapped her fingers from the door handle. She shrugged and slowly walked by him. “Suit yourself. Let me know if you can think of why you’re here.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her face to him. In a forceful whisper he began, “What the hell happened last night? I’m not leaving until I get some fuckin’ answers.”

Their gazes locked. She jerked back hard, bumping against the wall with a force that tilted the hanging pictures.

“Fuckin’ answers. You want fuckin’ answers,” she exploded with a vengeance. “You think I have all the answers? You’ve come to the wrong place if you think I have some kind of control!”

“Don’t you? What is it that you do? This has gotten way out of control. I need answers. Is this what happened to Rick?”

Ramona stopped dead, still. The color in her face drained upon the mention of his name. She leaned forward and clutched her scalp as if an intolerable flash of pain seared inside her head and the lights had gone out.

Chapter Seventeen

“Rick,” Ramona called out. “Rick, is that you?”

Was her mind playing tricks on her? She tried to focus and made out a room. She felt the couch under her, an old couch with a cover over it. It smelled of dust. She sat up. The room swirled around her.

The TV sat on a makeshift TV stand made out of milk crates. The stereo was positioned on the floor on the side opposite the couch, the speakers hiding. A Budweiser mirror hung on the wall over the couch. It didn’t take Ramona long to recognize Rick’s old apartment.

“Don’t get up there, girl. Got a nasty bump,” he said.

She turned to face the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard for years.

Rick O’Donnell bent over her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He needed a haircut. He always needed a haircut. His blue eyes shone down on Ramona, and he gave her his dazzling smile. “Lay back down. Let me take care of my girl.”

She swung her arms around him. “Rick. Rick!” she cried. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again.”

He returned her embrace, whispering in her ear, “I won’t leave you, ever. My sweet, sweet Mona. I love you. I won’t ever leave you.”

She clung tightly to him.

But he did! a voice echoed in her head.

A coolness on her forehead woke her. She struggled back to consciousness, aware of the familiar surroundings of her own condo. She tried to lift her head but had to put it back down. She closed her eyes hoping to wake back up with Rick, but a voice wouldn’t let her.

* * * *

“She refuses to go to the hospital,” Norah Dills said. She looked over her shoulder, easing into the kitchen. Her husband placed his cup of coffee down as she entered. Thorpe took another sip and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’m worried about her, Jeffrey. Besides the huge bump on her forehead, she’s scratched and bruised all over her arms and legs. What happened to her? Was she in a wreck? She won’t talk about it.”

Jeffrey patted his wife’s back in an obvious attempt to reassure her with his gentle manner. “We’re looking into it. Stay with her. Hopefully it’s just a concussion. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Thorpe breathed in deeply as Norah exited the kitchen to tend to her patient. He waited until he felt she’d moved well out of earshot.