Dream Merchant: Jackson Stone, P.I., #2

Chapter I

Dolores – 2012

Blood! Everywhere! Oh, God! So much blood! What have I done? I never meant to ... Short of breath from running, her words came in short gasps. Every few steps she glanced behind her, hearing footsteps where there were none.

She stumbled up the front porch steps, frantically searching through her purse for the keys. With only the dim reflection of the streetlight, the inside of her cluttered purse seemed merely a dark vault, revealing nothing.

My keys! Where are my keys? So dark out here. Why didn’t I leave the light on? Trembling, she thrust a hand into her coat pockets, first one then the other. She felt the cold metal of her key ring, pulled it from the pocket then heard the clink when the batch of keys struck each other.

Finally!

Her hands shook while she fumbled for the right key, repeatedly dropping them. Finding the right key, she turned the deadbolt then pushed the door open in exasperation. The door slammed against the wall, rattling the pane of glass in the old wooden door. The sound echoed through the darkened apartment.

Dolores continued berating herself while she stood in the entryway, her chest heaving as she tried to take a deep breath. A wave of dizziness and nausea passed over her, leaving her shivering despite the beads of sweat on her forehead.

What have I done? What have I done? She looked up and down the street, saw no one, and slammed the door closed. Turning the deadbolt, Dolores flipped on the hall light, hands trembling, and teeth chattering then paused squinting with the sudden bright light.

Her eyes caught her image in the full-length hall mirror. She gasped in horror, appalled at the spectacle before her eyes, barely recognizing herself as the person in the mirror. Her face glistened with sweat and spattered droplets of blood. Her eyes bulged with disbelief then shock and fear, beads of sweat trickled down her face mixing with the blood.

Her hair stood on end, poking out at odd angles, sparkling from the melted flakes of snow. She shuddered at what she saw, something out of a grotesque and gory slasher movie.

Deep red splotches covered her face and hair. A closer look revealed the blood on her face, in her hair, down the front of her coat, and all over her hands.

Must get rid of it! Get rid of everything. Not my fault. None of this was my fault! She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a garbage bag then raced into the bathroom.

Gathering a smidge of courage, she flipped the light switch, and gasped when she saw her image in the mirror. The undeniable truth was before her eyes. Flecks of blood and tiny black clots covered her face from forehead to chin. Even more in her hair, and a considerable amount down the front of her coat.

She turned on the faucet, grabbed a washcloth then rubbed at the blood spatter on her face. But she only succeeded in smearing it all over as the clots dissolved. For a moment, the results reminded her of playing dress-up as a child, trying to put on her mother’s lipstick. Her mother had yelled at her for using her favorite lipstick to play with.

Mother!

Quickly she pulled off her black coat, boots, socks, jogging pants, and shirt. Everything off down to her panties. Wiping her hands and face on the soiled clothing, she rolled each article into a ball then stuffed it into the bag.

Wait! The knife! Oh, God! Where’s the knife? Reaching into the garbage bag to search, felt a sharp stab then metal raking across the palm of her hand. She sighed briefly with relief despite the intense pain. The knife was still in her inside coat pocket.

Her mind numb to the pain, she grabbed the knife by the blade and pulled it from her pocket. Fresh blood trickled from the ragged cut on the palm of her hand. Paying little heed, she simply blotted her hand with her coat, her own blood now mixing with the rest.

The knife still held fresh blood imbedded within its deepest parts, close to the hilt and the carved wooden handle. She held it up in the light as if made of delicate crystal, fragile to the touch, admiring its shine, then saw her eyes wide with excitement.

Hide the knife! Her whispery voice barely hid the thrill she felt while the blade gleamed in the light.

She’d find a special place to store the knife. But for now, she’d put it in her secret spot in the basement. She carefully set the knife on the cabinet, smiling and nodding to herself, pleased with her decision.

She hurried into the kitchen, her bare feet pattering on the tiles as she crossed the room to a tall storage cabinet. Grabbing a clear plastic storage bag, she hustled back down the darkened hallway and into the bathroom.

Carefully placing the knife, blood and all, into the bag, she sealed it closed.

She stared at the knife for a few moments longer, mesmerized by the glint of steel and the blood. The drying blood formed black clumps on the blade and handle. She let out a long sigh and set the package on the back of the sink, patting the bag with her blood-stained hand.

She still had too many things to do to stand around admiring her latest treasure. Things she had to finish before Mark came home from work. He would never understand what she had done to protect herself.

Turning on the shower, she adjusted the temperature then watched when billows of steam began to rise. She slid off her panties and stepped inside while the soft clouds of steam rose to the ceiling quickly filling the bathroom.

Sliding the frosted panel, she closed the stall door as the spray began streaming over her face then cascading down her body. She began humming some vague unidentifiable tune hoping to distract herself. A late-night shower was a rare occurrence for Dolores. The reason for this shower ... unprecedented.

If she tried hard enough, the memories would all go away, far away. All her bad memories down the drain, quickly erased from her mind ... in shades of red ... then pink and finally ... clear.

She viciously scrubbed and scoured her body with an old rough washcloth until her body tingled with her efforts. The blood from her face and hands spattered the shower tiles then drizzled into the white tub.

All came about as she hoped and predicted. The red water, tinged with flecks of clotted blood, gradually changed to a frothy pink. The water rushed in torrents toward the drain in swirls and spirals then slowly faded to clear as she washed and rinsed.

She had no desire to recall the events of the previous hour. But the memories continued to flash before her eyes. Fractured frames, torn snapshots, bits and pieces of information dancing before her eyes, assaulting her mind. She rubbed at her eyes, her temples then her forehead hoping to prevent the onslaught of one of her pounding headaches.

Better to forget everything that happened tonight at her brother’s apartment ... and she would forget. Eventually. Except for that one part.

She couldn’t seem to stop the sound of that one voice ringing in her ears over ... and over again. Even now, the recollection of the familiar voice made her cringe. Gasping for breath, she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. She felt as if she was suffocating.

The voice belonged to her mother, calling out to her over and over again, begging her to stop. Her mother’s arms flailing in the air, fingers reaching out to Dolores, her voice pleading.

Dolores? Stop! Dolores! You’re ... hurting ... me! I ... can’t ... breathe! Dolores! Pleeeee ease ...

With the first blow, Dolores felt her mother’s warm blood spray onto her face and hair, her hands, her coat and slacks. Then she heard garbled noises, wet gasps as her mother’s mouth filled with blood spilling in a pink and red froth across her cheeks and down her chin. A long, gut-wrenching moan escaped from her mother’s lips.

Then there was silence ... a cold penetrating silence that filled the apartment. She rose from the floor, eyes wide, staring at her mother’s body. Her blood seeped onto the floor, spreading slowly across the tiles. Dolores’s rage at her mother quickly dissipated with the deafening silence, but she needed to get out of there ... now!

Then she heard footsteps on the staircase leading to the apartment. Her brother. He was back. This was all his fault. This never would have happened if he and mother had listened to her. Dolores’s mind filled with rage all over again.

Dolores covered her face with her hands, uncontrollable tears streamed down her cheeks, her sobs echoing in the bathroom. Despite the hot water pounding against her body, she shivered until her teeth chattered, her jaw ached. The vivid memories from tonight raised prickles on the back of her neck as she fought to push them away.

With a loud gasp, Dolores bolted upright in bed, eyes wide open, unsure of where she was for a moment. Drenched in a cold sweat, she trembled with the recollection of that night as she pulled the comforter up, snugging it close to her chin. She gazed around the room looking for objects of familiarity.

Absentmindedly, Dolores scratched at the six-year-old scar running across the palm of her hand. The scar was tingling.

After six long years, Dolores was afraid all over again, very afraid.

Her nightmare was back.

Chapter II

Jackson Stone - December 2012

P.I., Jackson Stone poked his head out from under the warm comforter. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he peered bleary-eyed at the alarm clock: 7 AM.

An obnoxious sound emanated from the outer office disrupting his uncensored dream about his favorite lady.

Then Stone remembered: Check with Sam Sebastiano about Candy’s security status. It was at the top of his To Do list for the day.

After a few seconds of haphazard concentration, Stone managed to isolate the irritating noise. It was the incessant ringing of the office phone. Whoever it is had better have God on his side ... he’s going to need a priest ... real soon.

Stone threw off the covers then quickly pulled them back up, covering his legs, and torso, right up to his chin. He audibly shivered with the icy air wafting through his apartment. A barrage of obscenities flew to the tip of his tongue but remained unspoken. A semblance of rational thought took over his foggy brain.

Okay, important safety tip: Remember to close the window before hitting the sack. Heating the city of Buffalo is not within the realm of my bank account.

He tucked the comforter around his shivering body then pulled it over his head. He fumbled for his cell phone on the bedside table, bringing it under the comforter, removing the mute.

Immediately, it began to ring. Grrr!

Hello, he mumbled from under the covers, teeth chattering.

Stone? a voice shouted in his ear. Who the hell ...? The voice continued when he didn’t respond.

Hey, Stone! You sound like you’re in a cave. Am I bothering you? The now familiar voice of his former partner, Mike Wilkerson, seemed to come out of thin air.

Oh, it’s you, he responded, barely able to form the words. Bothering me? If you were worried about bothering me, you wouldn’t have called, Stone grumbled and growled, trying to raise his voice above a whisper.

Is that you on the office phone, too? Stone asked.

Yeah, it’s me. Well ... since you’re awake now, let me fill you in on what’s going on at the steel motel, Mike responded. He tried to stifle his laughter hearing the irritation in Stone’s voice. The office phone stopped ringing abruptly.

Hold on a minute! I feel it’s only fair to warn you: You interrupted the most incredible dream, and you’ll pay dearly for it, Stone said, hearing the tone of mockery in Wilkerson’s voice.

Okay, no sweat, put it on my bill, Mike said without hesitation, continuing with his reason for the early morning call.

"Listen, Stone, we have a situation down here, and it requires your attention ... pronto," he added, talking as fast as could before Stone hung up on him.

Hold on, Mike! Did you forget ... again? I don’t work for the BPD anymore and ... you know how much I like reminding you, Stone answered in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Stone relished the opportunity to remind Mike of his retired status. He wallowed in the moment, remembering that he was now in control of his daily schedule. He smiled with the knowledge that he no longer had to answer to anyone except his clients. He’d tried a number of times to convince Mike to retire and come onboard with his private detective agency. But Mike wasn’t ready to retire, yet.

Stone was still smiling in the wake of his euphoria. It lasted right up to the moment Mike started talking again.

"Or so you thought! It’s an old case raising its ugly head, Jack, and we predicted it would happen," Mike said with a bit too much of a smug, self-satisfied tone in his voice.

What old case? Stone asked, Mike’s words grating on his nerves. He could barely hide his growing irritation.

Does the name, Alice Garner, and the date, December 2006, ring a bell for you? Or, an even better clue. The detective’s names on the old Garner file: Mike Wilkerson and Jackson Stone. Remember? Mike answered then went on without missing a beat.

"Guess what? Wait until you hear this! You won’t believe it. New evidence in the case turned up at the BPD ... yesterday," Mike replied. He couldn’t hide the smile in his voice knowing Stone would help him. At least, once he got over his initial irritation.

Before Stone could ask a question or further dispute the issue of his employment, Mike launched into the story prompting the early morning call.

Mike’s story revolved around a six-year-old murder, one of the bloodiest of their careers as detectives with the BPD. The death of Alice Garner, two weeks before Christmas in 2006, had been Stone’s last case before he retired from the BPD. A case he couldn’t help Mike finish because of the time frame ending his employment, retirement.

While Mike babbled in his ear, Stone attempted to draw up the memories from the old Garner case file. After six years, nothing specific about the situation came to mind without looking at his own notes.

One memory about the Garner case did return: Stone and Wilkerson believed the wrong person was convicted and serving time for the grisly murder at Attica’s ‘SuperMax’, roughly 30-40 miles from Buffalo, New York.

Circumstantial evidence left too many unanswered questions from their investigation. And to their eyes, no obvious perpetrator. There were far too many missing pieces to the puzzle to make a strong case as far as Stone and Wilkerson were concerned.

In the aftermath of Kevin’s conviction, both detectives agreed this case would come back to haunt them, sooner or later.

And now ... six years later ... here it is.

What was it his grandmother used to say? Stone searched his memory, and then remembered: ‘Murder will out if the sun has to shine it out.’ Yep, those were her words. Maybe he should check the weather."

The primary problem with the culmination of the case: The DA’s Office pursued an entirely different agenda than the one the detectives carefully laid out to them. They chose a different angle, one that was all too familiar to Wilkerson and Stone. They focused on the easy mark, Alice Garner’s son, Kevin Summers.

Kevin was charged, tried, convicted, and sent to prison for life. It was all over for him within a couple of weeks. If they could have figured out a way to wangle a death penalty, maybe he’d be dead now, too, Stone thought.

Stone didn’t go to court to see the outcome of the trial. He’d read about the end of the case in the paper.

It was months later before Stone could shake the wide-eyed innocent look on Kevin’s face when he’d interviewed him in the early morning hours after the murder. At the time, he didn’t think he ever could. But the years passed, and the memories faded.

The longer Stone thought about the night of the murder the clearer his recollections became. He was not pleased recalling the frequently forgotten case.

It was December 2006, two weeks before Christmas. A massive snowstorm had descended on Buffalo in a matter of hours. The consequence of the rapidly developing blizzard wreaking havoc on inner city travel. The suburbs would have to wait their turn on this storm before they saw any kind of clean up.

At the time, Stone felt incredibly euphoric about his impending release from the BPD. He floated around the department like a helium balloon as he counted down the days until his retirement. All too frequently counting the days out loud, much to the irritation of his cohorts in the department.

Out of nowhere, he and Mike were officially invited to a crime scene on