Dreamscape (31 page)

Thorpe felt the weight of Ramona as she lost her footing. She turned her head into his shoulder. He held her tight even while his own being was shaken. She slowly regained her composure. She gently pushed back from Thorpe, and he kept his gaze on her. The scene was still; his uncle lay dead on the floor by his son’s casket as he had years before. Ramona stood, her attention on the sight in front of her. Her tears dried, her eyes resurged, a look Thorpe understood. Resolve shone in her eyes. She said not a word. He knew, the realization dawned upon him. She readied to face her path, but she intended to do so alone. He shook his head.

“No, Ramona. Don’t.”

She glanced back at Thorpe. The small smile surfaced once again, serene. She took a step back away from him.

“It’s what’s meant to be, Doug. Can you feel it? Leila’s protected. All these years I’ve been afraid, and we’ve been protected by an act of a man I never knew. I questioned. I should have never questioned. I should have understood.”

“No, Ramona. Listen. You’re letting your emotions take control. Think. We have come together. You feel it. We’ll beat this thing together, Ramona. Together.”

She shook her head. “No, Doug. Look around you. Your cousin, your uncle, they died because of me.”

“Ramona. Stop. It’s not you. Can’t you see? There’s a connection. There’s more here. What about the drunken Indian? Do you know who that is? That’s my father. I don’t understand any of this, but I know we have come together for a reason. Together.”

“There is a reason, Doug. The fear is gone. I can feel again. For once I’m going on faith. I have to face my past.”

She stared at him. He ran at her, but she faded away leaving him alone within the memory.

* * * *

Jackson walked into the hospital. He pushed away thoughts that came rushing back of when he’d brought Callie to this place. Didn’t do any good to think of it at the moment. Jackson heard Thorpe plain as day when he walked down the hall. He didn’t even look at the room number. Thorpe’s voice bellowed as a homing beckon.

“Thanks, but I’m all better,” Thorpe told the two nurses who tried to get him back in bed. Special Agent O’Malley stood by, his clothes disheveled. Thorpe twisted in his hospital gown, exposing more than Jackson wanted to see.

Thorpe caught sight of Jackson and stood still. “My God, Jackson. You look worse than I do. Here, take my bed.”

A nurse ran in with security. She held a syringe. “Sorry, Chief Thorpe, doctor’s orders.”

“I believe Chief Thorpe can sign his way out if he so chooses against doctor’s orders, which should satisfy everyone here.” Jackson reached over and grabbed the syringe from her. He placed it down on the side table.

“You know everyone, Chief Thorpe is leaving. Give him the clothes, Officer Warren, he’s obviously called for them. He’ll sign whatever you want. Give him a moment to change, and we’ll be out of your hair,” Jackson said forcefully in a manner no one was going to question.

The nurse threw her hands up and pounded out the door. “I have to explain this to the doctor.”

Thorpe reached across for his clothes. With one foot in his jeans, he asked about his only concern, “Where’s Ramona?”

“We don’t know, Thorpe,” Jackson said. “She dropped Leila off with Miriam in Roslindale, which I found strange in itself. Why not the Dills? She lost her detail. She slipped right through them. We don’t know how long she’s been missing because they thought she was upstairs sleeping in her condo. She disappeared without her car, credit cards, or purse. Do you know where we can find her?”

“No,” Thorpe said as he pulled his arm through the sweater. “I just know she’s not planning on coming back.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lying on the outskirts of Newport, Rhode Island, sat a quaint seafaring village. A pretty little town with old houses and a few new but discreetly designed modern shops. From the top of a small hill on Narragansett Avenue, one could catch a glimpse of the harbor in summer lined with white-sailed boats. A charming town.

This chilly morning, the inhabitants of the small town had gathered at St. Mark’s to say their final farewell to one of their own, a gentle soul, a retired grandfather who had been a mainstay in Jamestown all his life.

Quietly in the back pew sat a short man pulling at his leather gloves, his blond hair long enough to make a small ponytail. His blue eyes gazed over the others. Whereas most showed up in classic suits, this man came casual, flip flops on his feet, worn jeans. He stood as the family followed the casket out of the church.

“Cody Lyttle, by God. Don’t believe I’ve seen you for ages. Heard you might have been seen back here in town. Must have heard about poor Jim here. Happened quickly, thank God. Couldn’t have been a better man. Here for good?” asked a man named Charley.

With his gloves intact, Cody Lyttle shook hands. “Not sure about my plans. You know me, Charley. Can’t ever tell.”

They walked side by side down the steps of the church. Cody walked in the midst of a community as one of their own. Henry DeNair reveled in the identity of Cody Lyttle. He’d used it for over eleven years. Had never given anyone any reason for suspicion. Having sailed into this harbor so long ago, his propeller broke, he’d anchored for repairs. Henry had entered a world that would give him a perfect alias.

In repairing his boat, he got caught up in conversation about his yacht. Before long, he bought a small cottage by Jamestown Bridge, a summer residency. These residents accepted him, eccentric behavior and all. He dyed his hair blond, wore blue contact lenses, and eased into the life of independently wealthy artist, sculptor. Over the years, he breezed in and out of Jamestown on a whim. He knew everyone’s name. The one place he did not keep his normal low profile.

Everything perfect for a new life here now, except for the Legacy—he’d bought his yacht, his beautiful yacht, from an acquaintance here in Jamestown. The lovely yacht he’d had to burn and sink. The voice echoed within him that he’d have to leave it or it would be traced back to him.

Henry had barely escaped. He scraped together everything he could from the Legacy and used his instincts to elude the coast guard. Time had been of the essence. He’d had to find a safe harbor to explode his beloved boat. From the shoreline, he’d watched the Legacy go up in smoke sinking only moments later. All his beautiful work sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

YOU FOOL. YOU DO NOT KNOW MY POWERS. I PLAN TO USE HERS AGAINST HER. IDIOT! WHILE YOU SLEPT LAST NIGHT, SHE TRIED TO JUMP. THAT FOOL DOCTOR FRIEND OF YOURS GAVE HER THE CONNECTION. I KNEW IT WOULD COME.

“Jump inside my mind?”

SHE WANTS TO KILL YOU, HENRY. LIKE YOUR MOTHER. REMEMBER HOW SHE TORTURED YOU, HOW SHE TAUNTED YOU? SHE WANTED YOU DEAD. DEAD. THEN YOU FOUND ME. I SAVED YOU. I WILL SAVE YOU AGAIN.

Henry DeNair waited. The same feeling, fear of getting caught, shivered within him as it had a few nights prior on his yacht. In all his years, the thought had never occurred to him that someone might catch up with him. That morning he’d woken up in a fright hearing someone at his kitchen door. After the fiasco of the attempted abduction, the only conciliations he had were his films, his trophies, his conquests. All the years of work lost: perfecting his technique, his identities as if he had been a secret agent. But mostly his heart ached for his lost yacht.

Henry had poured every bit of affection he had left into that boat, his forty-nine foot beauty with a twin 300 hp engine that could cruise up to twenty-six knots. Although, for his trips down to Tampa he slowed it down to thirteen knots for the long trip. He had the best ISIS system available. He’d modified the lower deck for his needs. He had all the tools that he had required and the stateroom wired to film all his work. Now it sat at the bottom of the ocean.

The voice had been right. He needed to enact revenge for all that he’d lost. The voice sounded confident that his plan would work to enact a worthy revenge. They’d learn he could reach out to enact it. He alone had been and would always be in charge, Henry DeNair. After tonight they would know the power he had. How weak the FBI had become, for there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do.

With her attempt from the night before, the voice felt Ramona would be alone. That attempt to jump would have left her weak. Her disappearance would mistakenly leave pretty little Leila Damsun alone, alone and vulnerable in her own home. Tonight would be the night that Ramona Damsun would regret interfering in his business. Yes, tonight would be the perfect night of revenge.

* * * *

They hit the parking lot, and Jackson threw Thorpe the keys to the car. He hadn’t even zipped up his jacket as he caught them in his left hand, transferred them to his right. In one motion, he was behind the wheel.

“Just drive,” Jackson said. He slid into the passenger side and rubbed his eyes. “Sam called. Said he got this message. I’m so freakin’ tired of these so-called messages. Can someone for once just come out and tell me what the fuck they want me to do? Goddamn riddles.”

Thorpe looked back over his shoulder as he backed up. He eyed Jackson in the process. On edge, strain beginning to show. The last few months had drained them both. Warren told him the evidence obtained at the house would be enough to send anyone over the edge. He hadn’t seen any of the evidence but he’d heard it was bad, graphic.

“We’re in the same boat, pal. If I remember correctly, I was a normal, sane police chief, trudging along in my own messed up, mundane existence. You walk into my office, and look at us now. We’re two high profile law enforcement officials chasing supernatural demons.”

A smirk escaped Jackson, but immediately his manner reverted back. He shook his head, seemingly uncertain. “It seemed so easy before. Black and white. Looking in from the outside, using the information. It wasn’t personal. Didn’t have to justify, just react to bring in the suspect. Can’t lose your objectivity in this profession. I seem to have fallen into this head first. I feel like I’m swimming in murky waters.”

Thorpe drove silently for a while. He hit Route 6, turned left, his gaze focused on the road. Then, “No, you’re right, Jackson. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this. I’ve never been this frightened of something I’m not sure of. Never would have admitted that a couple of days ago. You put on this face like you know what the hell you’re doing. I haven’t a clue.”

He slammed on his brakes as a car pulled in front of him at a snail’s pace. “Goddamn it!” He responded by switching his blue lights on. His foot pushed down harder on the pedal, and he merged onto the fast lane, accelerating past his obstacle. He didn’t slow down. “Don’t have time for this. It’s funny. I’m thirty-nine years old. I’m married to a woman I thought I’d be with for the rest of my life. Oblivious to everything around me. Didn’t even notice my wife was having an affair. Looking back, there were signs. Just didn’t want to deal with them. The truth is, I don’t think I cared enough to want to know. It had to literally slap me in my face. Maybe it’s the way I’ve always dealt with issues in my life. I just ignored them.”

“Sometimes it’s easier than dealing with complications in our lives,” Jackson said. “I know it was for me. Callie comes along and brings up the past. Pressing about my birth parents. I know how you feel; I had no desire to know anything about them. Is that normal, I ask you? Who doesn’t want to know where they came from?”

Thorpe’s eyebrows rose. “Me. Couldn’t be worse than me.”

“What the hell do you mean? Weren’t you born and raised right here in Boston? Boston through and through.”

Thorpe exhaled heavily. “You don’t know much about my life, Jackson. My uncle took me in when I wasn’t much older than Liam. In reality, been with him well before that. Too much trouble for my mom. She was a single parent after my dad left. Didn’t know how to handle me. Can’t say I blamed her. Reminded her, I guess, of my dad. She gave me up when she remarried. Don’t really keep in touch. A card every now and then. She moved to Chicago.”

“Your dad?”

“Don’t know. He was a drunk from what I can remember. The last time I saw him I was probably around seven, eight. He slapped my mom down on the floor. I came rushing in between them. He hit me, hard, knocking me down. All I can remember is lying on top of my mom with arms extended across her. Defending her the best I could. Even after he hit me, I got back up. He stood there staring at me. I thought he was going to hit me again. Instead, he laughed, ‘Chief Landato would be proud. He finally has his defender,’ he said. He stumbled out the door, leaving it wide open. That was where Uncle Joe found me with my mother. From that day on, Uncle Joe was my father. I promised myself never to think of my real dad again. I didn’t until last night.”

“And what of last night?”