Free Dreamscape by Carrie James Haynes Page A

the ground. I look around. A tall iron fence, painted black, encloses the surrounding area. Stones stand stiffly erect. It’s a cemetery. Epitaphs, homemade verses inscribed in the head stones. Through the haze, I get a transitory and elusive glimpse through the moonlight. As if an optical illusion, an object sits by an enigmatic gravestone.
    A young girl, pretty, sweet, her long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She has a Red Sox hat on, a pink hooded sweatshirt with jeans and sneakers, and crouches. She’s directly in front of me at a gravesite. Her hand gently touches the headstone before her. She wipes her eyes and stands, returns to her bike behind her. She turns straight to me and smiles. I’m not afraid. She motions for me to follow as she starts peddling down the path.
    I’m on a street, a cul-de-sac. The houses are older capes and ranches, quaint, shingled. There are two houses at the beginning of the street—Keene Street, the sign reads—across from each other. Two more houses are on the straight way and three around the circle. I catch sight of the girl. She’s in a garage, the gray house, number forty-seven. She doesn’t want to stay. I can feel her fear. She turns to leave, and a man, an older man—short, glasses, balding, overweight, wearing old blue work pants, red flannel shirt—grabs her arm. I can’t move, want to help, but can’t move.
    I twist and twist, then I’m in the garage. The man returns, face distorted, slight manic smile, a prominent chin, forehead drawn with one dark eyebrow lifted, and intense dark eyes. He picks up the girl’s bike and crashes it into the side of his car. He puts it in his trunk. A cap…he throws a cap in the trunk? The trunk of an old brown or tan Chevy. He’s gone.
    Terror seizes me, but from the darkness I hear a whisper, ‘Brooke, Brooke.’ I have to find the girl. Through the garage door into the small kitchen. The kitchen and dining room are empty. There’s no one around. The cellar door is cracked open. It’s cold, so cold, damp, and dark. Eyes have to adjust. Slowly, I walk down the wooden cellar steps—a dirty cellar. My feet touch the damp dirt—the floor is dirt. I hear her calling. She’s calling to me. She’s here. I’m led over to the corner. Boxes are thrown over an old broken trunk…under the trunk!
    Stare at the spot. I can’t take my eyes off the spot. Flashes of scenes…man sitting in his car watching children get on the bus. He’s done this before. License. I see a license—Maryland. A name: Michael Richards. Step by step I make it over to the trunk and push it back.
    Her body lies under the dirt, still as if sleeping. Her right arm is bent in an unusual position. Her body…she only has on a tee-shirt. Is the white shirt covered with blood from her head wound above her right ear? Hit with a blunt object… hammer, I see a hammer, that man’s hammer. I don’t want to be here; I don’t want to see this.
    Then I flash to a young girl playing in a beautiful backyard. A man, tall, handsome smiles down at her. She hugs him tight. I don’t feel fear anymore; I feel peace, love, contentment. She’s safe, happy. Tell her mother that she’s where she has to be. Tell her mother.
     
    Jackson waited until Thorpe finished reading. “Details. True?”
    Thorpe nodded thoughtfully. “I ran the name through the system. Michael Richards had a warrant out for child molestation in Maryland. Had jumped bail. Changed his name—not too hard to do if you know the right people. Married a widow. Worked down at a local sub shop under the table; told everyone he was on disability.”
    “Believe I know the type. Hard to detect, especially someone on the run. Couldn’t control his urge but had planned well enough ahead, set the stage to throw suspicion off of himself,” Jackson added, matter of fact. “You had him then, though, with this new information.”
    “Got a search warrant, and it provided all the evidence we needed. The girl’s