Dreamscape (29 page)

And here he stood, months after, no closer to apprehending the culprit. He remembered the young girl’s face. In all that had happened, he didn’t need to forget. He didn’t need to forget the reason they had to put an end to this monster’s reign of terror. He had to take the emotions out of the case, one of the first lessons he’d learned as a detective. Emotions interfere with facts. Go with the facts.

A wave crashed sending salt water spray over Thorpe’s boots. Put yourself into his world, the way he would think. DeNair reasons situations out, plans ahead, always plans ahead. His Achilles heel would be his temper. His perception of revenge would lay against anyone who stood in the way of his plans, actions.

Jackson reasoned to Thorpe that DeNair had another identity in place, probably walked right into it. With his height and his deformed hands that would have been no easy accomplishment. The question, though, was how he’d react to his failed attempts. Twice he’d been thwarted, badly. DeNair had to be at boiling point. After this debacle, what would he do?

Thorpe tired as he looked over the horizon. Dawn would soon be upon him. He wanted answers. His mind raced back to his case. In Tampa, DeNair had used the ruse of a medical sales rep. That hadn’t happened here; probably used the ruse of a vacationer. The summer influx of vacationers’ rentals would be at its peak in July and August.

He stared across the bay. Houses lined the beach on the other side with a clear view of the ocean. The answer hit Thorpe. To get the full effect of his kill, what better way than to watch the scene unfold safely in a house across the bay? His mind raced. That’s exactly what the smug little varmint had done. A rental? No, surely DeNair wouldn’t use a rental. He had to get a listing of those houses. Thorpe turned back as one last wave crashed after him.

* * * *

“Ralph?” Thorpe yelled from his office. “Who do I need to get up to get into Town Hall?”

Officer Ralph Toomey walked in the office. “Chief, it’s six o’clock. They don’t get in until ten.”

“Has to be someone. What about Gilmer? She’s the tax assessor, the one I need anyway. Didn’t Warren do her kid a favor the other night?”

“Warren drove him home from an underage party, sir. Did so with half a dozen of them. Didn’t want anyone driving.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thorpe responded. “Get her number. Have her meet me at her office now.”

Thorpe sat in his car outside the town hall until he saw a green Lexus pull into the parking lot. A well-dressed, middle-aged woman, Hannah Gilmer, stepped out greeting Chief Thorpe with a reproachful smile.

“Good morning, Chief Thorpe,” she said as she unlocked the door. “You’re fortunate I’m such an early riser.”

“I wouldn’t know about early rising. Haven’t slept much lately,” Thorpe responded hastily and more sharply than he’d intended. “I need access to the owners of the houses on Bay Side Road, in particular, four of them. I need their history.”

“Important? That case from last summer? You know you’ve been in the news quite often, Chief…,” she trailed off.

Thorpe gave her a look telling her he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He stood over the counter thumping his fingers against the top. His impatience grew.

Mrs. Gilmer took her coat off. “It shouldn’t take but a minute, Chief.”

Less than ten minutes later, Mrs. Gilmer had the information he needed. “Looks like three are summer rentals, but one isn’t. I know this house, Chief, an expanded cape along the shore line, beautiful house, has a wrap around porch, a dock. 232 Bay Side Road. Says here it’s owned by a Paul Buckley. He bought it from an Allison Heffernan three years ago. I think I remember something about his house because it was quite unusual. If it’s the same one, I mean.”

“Go ahead, Hannah.”

“A couple was real upset because they loved the house, had rented the house next to it. Offered a lot more money than the house sold for. I believe seventy-five thousand less. I remember Robin Marketa complaining to me about it. You know Robin from Best Homes. She wanted me to try to find out why someone wouldn’t take a higher offer. What did they need to do? Of course, Chief, I would never do anything unethical.”

“Anything else on its background?” he said, not caring if she had or not at this moment.

“Only looks like a family owned it for years and transferred it over to Allison Heffernan. Families do that to get around taxes, but it looks like her estate that sold it,” Mrs. Gilmer continued, sifting through the computer.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“232 Bay Side,” Thorpe repeated to himself. He took a left. The morning sun tried to creep up over the horizon. He took a right. He radioed. “Toomey, have you requested the search warrant for 232 Bay Side Road?”

“DeNair’s family owned it. Sold it off to a Paul Buckley. B-u-c-k-l-e-y. Hunch is it’s an alias of DeNair’s. Wouldn’t show up under his ownership.”

Thorpe clicked the phone down back on his waist. He made one last turn into the driveway of 232 Bay Side Road. Officer Carl Morris pulled in behind him. Thorpe stepped out on the white pebbled driveway which led around the side of the house behind what appeared to be the kitchen. Bare sticks of hydrangea bushes, barren until spring, served as a barrier between the property line.

“Carl, walk around that way,” Thorpe said, pointing to the right around the front of the house. “Look for any signs of life. Do not move in. We’re securing the area only.”

“Yes, sir. Dowling and Warren will be here in minutes.”

Thorpe nodded an acknowledgement. Morris tried the front door. Locked. The same came of the side door, Thorpe tried. He walked to the left around toward the kitchen and looked in through the window. Modern kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, fridge, microwave, stove, immaculate white cabinets. Spotless except for an empty plate and glass in the sink.

Thorpe backed up away from the door, not wanting to disturb anyone that might be sleeping. He walked around the back. The early morning sky broke across the open ocean. A haze broke away, giving a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean. A beautiful view of the wooden dock. A small row boat was attached to the far end of the dock, and not far from the dock, anchored in deep water, lay a boat. A yacht. Thorpe felt a smile forming.

“Got a boat, Morris. Call the coast guard.”

“A boat in February? Got it, Chief. Be right there.”

Thorpe walked along the beach to the dock. He leaned over the planks. Rushing footsteps came from behind. The full blow of an attacker’s hit with a blunt object propelled Thorpe upon the dock. Thorpe closed his eyes, heard and felt the last blow. He splashed into the winter ocean, his last recollection.

* * * *

Douglas Andrew Thorpe felt no pain. He felt nothing; couldn’t see anything, either. Everything seemed black and cold. So cold. Wet…was that water? Panic surged within him. He had to get out of here—wherever here was.

In the distance, a faint voice spoke. He couldn’t make out what it said. It came closer, grew louder, soft, reassuring. “Don’t…,” he made out. He wanted to yell “Don’t what?” but couldn’t find his voice. Then it became clearer. Plain, simple.

The voice pleaded, “Don’t open your eyes, Douglas Thorpe. I’m coming. Don’t open your eyes.”

Momentarily, a soft hand took his. His first urge was to open his eyes, to see the person with this voice that sounded so familiar. A hand went over his eyes.

“Do not open them until I tell you it’s safe. Your life depends on it, Doug. Please, do not open your eyes.”

He nodded the best he could.

“Listen carefully. Do exactly as I tell you. Do not vary from what I’m telling you. We’re going to begin a walk. You’re going to hear sounds, feel things clawing at you, scratching at you. I’ll protect you. Do not, no matter what you hear or feel, do not open your eyes. Doug, this is extremely important. I won’t be able to speak again until we get to where we have to go. Do not open your eyes.”

There remained silence. A tug on his hand. Slowly, he walked as if in mud, the trek strenuous, murky. For each step he took, his foot sunk deeper into the mud. He struggled to move forward a minute amount.

Something scratched his leg. He jumped and swung his hands around his legs. It didn’t stop. It dug into his skin. Pain seared upward. It began on his other leg. He fell. The hand reached around him. He felt the urge to move. He reached down to his legs again, felt torn flesh, muscle, blood spurting out. The hand tugged at him, a gentle touch. He fought through the pain.

He jerked forward onto solid ground, the pain gone. He patted his legs again. They seemed whole. Eyes still closed, he stood tall. The hand grasped his. Again he followed.

Wind blew against him, bringing with it a fury of piercing screams, agony. The hand squeezed his. He continued. The screams subsided to a degree. Suddenly, a voice cried, pleaded. A voice he knew so well. Liam.

“Daddy, I’m drowning. Save me.”

He turned toward the voice, panic enticing him to open his eyes. He kept them closed, felt an urgent tug. With everything he had he began his walk again on course. The cries haunted him. Without warning, another voice sounded. It screamed a cry of pain, terror. Molly.

“Father, it’s him. He’s going to kill me, Daddy.”

Laughter erupted in the darkness, an evil, revengeful laugh.

The strength of the tugs intensified. Every instinct within him urged him to open his eyes, save his daughter. A tingle tickled his legs. The tugs stopped. Remembering his legs, the cries, Liam, he questioned whether he’d been hallucinating. The tug again. He squeezed his eyes tightly, fighting back the screams, cries, ignoring all. He grasped the hand with both of his. With a huge jerk, he broke through a barrier, shattering it.

Sand beneath him. He shivered, soaked with freezing salt water. A hand caressed his cheek. A whisper told him he could open his eyes. Slowly, he opened them, focusing on a face. A beautiful face leaning over him. She drew closer, lightly kissing his lips. Tears fell from her eyes upon him. She caressed his cheek again, straightened up, her gaze locked with his.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Every fiber of Special Agent Jackson Dunn ached. Even the back of his eyes hurt. His muscles felt as though they moved in slow motion. His stomach churned. He would never admit to it out loud, but he’d lost the contents of his stomach once and the feeling surged within him again. He fought this wave of nausea. Sleep had not come in the last thirty-six hours, not since Thorpe had phoned with the address, 232 Bay Side Road.

Here he stood on the deck of that address. DeNair’s telescope perfectly placed to view the beach across the bay. This house held a treasure chest of information on Henry DeNair. Contrary to his house in Boston, this house held the keys to the psyche of a maniac. They’d been cataloging evidence for hours. I bet DeNair never dreamed this hideout would be discovered.

All his team appeared at the point of exhaustion. From the moment the call came in that Thorpe was down. For a short time, a report went out that he’d gone missing in the ocean. Jackson presumed Thorpe dead. He’d been over half an hour in the water. The next call went out that he’d washed up down the beach, alive and breathing. In bad shape, head injury, almost drowned in freezing water. What they called hypothermia.

At the same time, Jackson dispatched an all-out manhunt for DeNair. The van in which he’d attempted to abduct Leila, and his boat Legacy, had gone down in a flame of fire less than three hours later. Hard to hide on the water midday, DeNair had to be feeling the pressure. He’d been playing the game two to three moves ahead. The playing field had been somewhat even. The evidence DeNair had left behind documented his time of atrociousness in vivid detail—in gruesome, vivid detail.

The basement held all the evidence they’d ever need against Henry. From the looks of the basement, DeNair must have slept in his recliner watching films on his big screen plasma television. He’d made them himself, home movies, hundreds of movies. Pictures plastered the walls of an adjoining room, a torture room. He derived pleasure on reliving the kill over and over again.

It seemed the room hadn’t been in use recently, but from the films his yacht had been used. They found a film of Annie Crandell. He’d killed her on board his boat, but it would take a while to identify most of the other victims.

“The best I can theorize from these films,” Matt Tatum, a member of FBI forensic team that had been brought in, reported, “the torture and kills happened more recently on the boat which is now burnt out and at the bottom of the ocean. Even if we recover it the evidence has been jeopardized to where forensically it won’t help. The kills that were performed here, or from the looks of it, maybe in the Boston basement, we might be able to come up with DNA. It’s just going to be hard to match to a body we don’t have. My guess is, just from the films I’ve seen so far, he dumped the remains of the bodies in the ocean. Only the ones that he wanted found did he leave on the beach.”