Hidden in Dreams Read online

  And Elena thought the day could not hold any more surprises. “Hold on. Okay.”

  “He asks you to check out a secure website.” Vicki read out an Internet address, then, “Password is ‘urgent hyphen urgent,’ no spaces. He’s ready to crawl over a bed of hot coals if you’ll spare him five minutes. He left a number.”

  “Jacob Rawlings expects me to call him.”

  “I know. The nerve.” The suppressed laughter almost broke through. “The only thing that would have shocked me more would be hearing you’ve started work on your new book.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Girl, you have got to call me back the instant you’re done roasting the man.”

  Elena had a sudden urge to tell Vicki about the dream and the warning. The aching need penetrated so fiercely she had to fight to hang up the phone.

  • • •

  Jacob Rawlings’s encrypted website was actually a hidden component of the best-known forum used by clinical psychologists. Elena had attended numerous web conferences here. She had posted her own lectures and articles. But she had not known such a confidential side-area even existed. She typed the location into the empty search box in the site’s top right corner. Beneath it appeared a second box, requesting a password. She hesitated a long moment, fearing this invasion of her professional world by a man she loathed. Elena sighed, defeated by morbid curiosity, and entered the password, “urgent-urgent.”

  Before her appeared a blank white screen showing a series of five electronic files. Each file was labeled simply, “Clinical Study,” and numbered. Below each was a date, time, and location. All of the dates were from the previous seventy-two hours. The locations gave her pause. The first file was from Atlanta. The second, New York City. The third, Montreal. Then Tokyo. And Christchurch, New Zealand.

  She clicked on the first file and found herself staring at Jacob Rawlings. His face filled the screen as he adjusted the camera’s position. Even distorted by his proximity to the lens, the man remained both magnetic and extremely handsome. His hair was a coppery blend of red and blond. His features were even, his gaze penetrating. Even his frown was attractive.

  An unseen woman said nervously, “I don’t see what possible good this can do.”

  Elena felt a macabre fascination in observing Jacob Rawlings in his office. It was like tracking the beast to its lair. She watched him walk in front of the camera and settle behind his desk. “I would like to share your experience with a trusted colleague.”

  Elena backed away from her computer screen. The man could not possibly have been referring to her.

  The woman asked, “Who is this person?”

  “Dr. Elena Burroughs was formerly at Oxford. Now she’s in Florida. She’s a recognized authority on dream states. Perhaps you read her bestseller, The Book of Dreams.”

  “No.” The woman was square and heavy in a manner that defied her elegant dress and makeup. “I can’t possibly have strangers discussing my personal affairs.”

  “Dr. Burroughs is a highly trained clinician with a great deal more familiarity with dreams than myself. She is utterly trustworthy. I can assure you, this will go no further.” When the patient remained silent, crouched in the chair on the desk’s opposite side, Jacob went on, “You wanted to share this experience with the world, isn’t that what you told me?”

  “I don’t want to. I must. I am compelled.”

  “Think of this as a way to satisfy your urges, while retaining a very real confidentiality.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Let’s start with a few personal details. Your age?”

  “Fifty-seven.”

  “Your current professional status?”

  “I hold the Lloyd Chair of Finance at Emory. I am also a member of the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta.”

  “Your marital status?”

  “I am married to my husband of thirty-six years. Four children and two grandchildren.”

  “Have you ever before sought professional help or counseling for any psychiatric issue?”

  “No. Never.”

  His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Would you please repeat what you have related to me about your dreams.”

  “First of all, I didn’t have dreams. There has been just one. But repeated every night. And second, I’m not sure it was a dream at all.”

  “How would you describe the experience, then?”

  She was silent for a very long time, then, “I have no idea.”

  5

  Elena taught the day’s three classes in a haze. Images from the previous night came and went in emotional waves. Twice she was almost overwhelmed by the urge to shriek her warning to the students. She maintained a grip only by turning to the board and clamping down, just clenching up from her toes to her creased forehead. She recalled how her addicted patients described the sudden lurching need to inject or ingest or sniff their drug of choice. The struggle to resist. How they had to hold tight and ride it out. Elena had never truly understood what they meant until now.

  Between classes was no better. She reviewed the five electronic files again. The people were quite different, but their patterns were astonishingly similar. The term was clinically parallel. This signified case histories in which, when individual traits were removed, the underlying symptoms were identical. Elena was not concerned when the Montreal patient spoke French and the elderly Tokyo man spoke Japanese. She scanned the attached written translations for deviations, and found none.

  Elena’s phone rang five minutes before the end of her final class. She had left it open on her desk, in case Rachel called. The phone’s readout said “International.” Elena released her students and answered.

  Rachel’s first words were, “Did you review the material?”

  “Yes. Can you talk?”

  “I’m in the back of a Rolls limo. The only problem with a Rolls is, they’re too comfortable. I want to sleep. But I can’t. Reginald says he explained what we’re up against with the global release of SuenaMind.”

  “He did, yes.”

  “This is the make-or-break moment for us. Today we’re doing the final run-through for simultaneous launches in all of Western Europe.”

  “Perhaps we should leave this for another time.”

  “If you have studied the material, you know that is not an option.” Rachel hesitated, then said, “Reginald tells me you had the dream.”

  “Last night.”

  “Was this . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know—”

  “Psychosomatic stress disorder. Most definitely not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I have been a practicing clinician for eight years. In that time, I’ve never experienced an empathetic reaction to a patient’s description of their symptoms.”

  “There is always a first time.”

  “Not like this.” Elena felt the gnawing ache grip her middle. “The dream was exactly as your patient described. Too vivid to be called a dream at all. And afterward . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I have had to fight down a desperate need to tell the world.”

  The silence crackled with distance and a frisson of tension. Finally Rachel said, “I’m speechless.”

  “I somehow find that comforting.”

  “Very few things surprise me.”

  “Here’s another. This morning I received a message from an arch skeptic of dream analysis, a man I personally loathe. Dr. Jacob Rawlings is a clinician and professor at Emory. He has reported another five cases. All have taken place in the past few days. They are spread all over the globe. Tokyo, New Zealand, Montreal. Three are senior corporate officials. One is a leading politician. Another is a politician’s wife. Their dream patterns are remarkably similar. All within the range of what you would classify as standard deviations. The bank, the line, the shredded currency, the need to share this with others. All there.”

  Rachel’s voice had dropped a full octave when she responded. “Can you forward m
e the files?”

  “I’ll have to ask Jacob’s permission. Knowing the man, I doubt he will agree.”

  “He has to.”

  “He will want some kind of official assurance the information goes no further. We may have to wait until waivers are signed. There are legal issues and different national—”

  “Please stress to him the urgency.”

  “You may have to settle for written transcripts.”

  “Only if absolutely necessary. Tell him our legal team is at his disposal.” Rachel accepted this with bad grace. “The car is pulling up to my next appointment. I have to go, Elena. One more thing. Reginald has just reported rumors of a bank crisis. I’ve told him to contact you with any details. I’m flying back immediately after this conference, so let’s talk tomorrow, yes? And try and convince your colleague that we need access to those testimonials.”

  “There’s one thing more,” Elena said.

  Rachel’s voice grew quite weak. “More?”

  “I need you to contact your patient. Ask him how his dream began.” Elena ran through a brief description of the faceless messenger in her own dream.

  “Just a moment.”

  Elena heard Rachel’s muffled voice telling the driver to circle the block. Then, “The man from our trial has disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “We’re not . . . His wife reports he never returned from the taping session in my office.”

  “That was days ago.”

  “Four. No, sorry, it’s five now. Transatlantic travel and time change. Forgive me. We only just learned this morning.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Our clinical trials are in their third phase. Do you understand what this means? The patients are released. They interact with their natural environments. They return once a week for monitoring. Every two weeks they receive their next dose and are retested. Up to this case, there have been no adverse reactions.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Almost nothing. He is a plumber, he runs his own small business based in Ocala. His wife reported him missing the next day. Generally the police give adults at least seventy-two hours before listing them as official missing persons. The wife apparently contacted our office as soon as she heard this. But the buffoons running our corporate security did not think to pass it on until this morning. I would be taking heads if I was not so overwhelmed by everything.”

  “The police have no leads?”

  “They have felt no urgency. That is about to change, I assure you.” Rachel sighed. “I’ve been so desperately worried. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to learn you have experienced this dream.”

  Elena’s shudder creased her reply: “I’m not.”

  • • •

  As soon as she cut the connection with Rachel, Elena dialed Jacob Rawlings’s office. She did not want to wait. Her resolve might weaken, and this call had to happen. But when the faculty secretary said he was traveling and would not return for three days, Elena heaved a great sigh of relief.

  The secretary asked, “Who is calling, please?”

  “My name is Elena Burroughs, and—”

  “Oh, Dr. Burroughs, thank goodness. Dr. Rawlings waited here until the very last moment, it’s a wonder he caught his plane.” The secretary had a honeyed Georgia voice, one that would have been quite pleasant except for the person they discussed. “He is scheduled to deliver a talk tonight. At a meeting of behaviorists at the Peabody Orlando.”

  “Dr. Rawlings is in Orlando?”

  “For tonight and all day tomorrow. He is then flying to Washington. He is so eager to speak with you. I can’t tell you how important it is. I’m sorry, but he didn’t say precisely what it was about.”

  “I was sent some files to review.”

  “They must be important. Why, the man wore a hole in my carpet, pacing around my desk. As if hovering and giving us all a case of the nerves would make you call him any faster.”

  “Do you have a number where I can reach him?”

  “Oh my, yes. For his cell phone and his hotel both.” She read off the numbers. “Wait, let me pull up his schedule. The opening event started half an hour ago. I’m sorry, he’ll be seated on the podium. Which means his phone will be shut off.”

  “When will the convocation end tonight?”

  “They break for dinner at seven thirty. If they’re on time. Which they never are. I’m sure if you were to call him in a couple of hours he could slip away. He was so concerned, Dr. Burroughs. I really do think it would be best not to wait an instant longer.”

  • • •

  Elena prepared and ate a solitary evening meal. She was seated on the stool pulled up to the kitchen counter. The dining room table had not been used once since she moved in. A small flat-screen television stood in the corner where the counter met the wall. The evening news kept her company. The newscaster described rumors of a London bank failure.

  Elena reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The business correspondent was reporting live across the street from a bank: “The problem with such rumors is being played out before our very eyes. A bank that was apparently healthy as of yesterday is now threatened with ruin. The bank run you see behind me threatens to become a self-fulfilling panic.”

  Behind the newscaster stood a line of customers that stretched from the bank entrance down the length of the sidewalk, before disappearing around the corner.

  “The fact that all deposits have been guaranteed by the Bank of England has not stopped these depositors from desperately seeking to withdraw their funds. One unnamed source claims the bank has seen a net extraction of eighty-nine million pounds in the last four hours of business. If this continues, the bank will be stripped bare of assets by the end of this week.”

  As Elena watched, it began to rain at the scene. Those who had come prepared opened umbrellas. The others cowered and shivered in the downpour. The business correspondent went on: “Given the British economy’s current fragile state, this run on the bank represents far more than the uncertainty felt by the general public. Such events could well threaten the nation’s economic health, and destabilize its recovery.”

  When the station broke for commercial, Elena turned off the television. She entered the kitchen and scraped the remainder of her half-finished meal into the garbage. What she had eaten sat in her stomach like lead.

  She took her phone out on the balcony. The sky was split by a pair of storms. Dark walls obliterated her view of the water both to the north and south. Directly ahead was a pyrotechnical sunset display. The rumbles of thunder formed a bass resonance as she dialed the number.

  He answered before the first ring was finished: “Rawlings.”

  “It’s Elena Burroughs.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. Wait a moment. I have to leave the stage.”

  Of all the things she might have expected to hear from Jacob, heartfelt gratitude did not make the list. She turned on the fan, and felt the air push at the cloying heat.

  Jacob Rawlings came back on. “Did you review the files?”

  “I did, yes. But there’s more.” She swiftly related Rachel Lamprey’s documented patient.

  Jacob responded with a silence so intense she could almost feel the man’s concentration. “Can you come to Orlando?”

  “I have a ten o’clock class, and another at noon, then my day is free. The trip shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half.”

  “I’m due to speak again at two. I can’t get out of it. I should be done by three thirty. Do you know the convention center?”

  “I’m sure I can find it.”

  “The Peabody is directly across the street from the main hall.” He hesitated, then said, “Dr. Burroughs, if you will permit, I will wait and apologize to you in person.”

  “All right.” She tasted the lingering flavor of words not yet spoken. “Are you in contact with the other clinicians?”

  “I certainly can be. Why?”

  “I
need you to ask if any of the patients experienced a faceless messenger at the beginning of their dream.”

  “I can tell you my own patient reported nothing of the sort.”

  “Their recollection might be vague. Perhaps because of this they assume it was part of an earlier dream.” Elena felt a sudden pressing need to share this image with someone else, even a stranger on the other side of the world. “A stranger in a dark suit who has no face, and whose words can’t be heard.”

  “Why are you asking me to do this, Dr. Burroughs?”

  “Because my own started that way.”

  “Sorry, you’re telling me you’ve found a patient of your own?”

  “No.” She stopped, held by a sudden fear that his ridicule might return, and be stronger still. But she had no choice. “I have had the same dream.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “I knew it was right to contact you about this. I knew it.” Then, “Have you seen the news about the London bank?”

  “I was just watching it.” She decided there was no reason not to add, “It was raining in my dream.”

  He huffed a single breath. “I will be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  • • •

  Elena cut off the kitchen lights and retreated to her bedroom. She had positioned a secondhand desk by the window, facing out over the water. She opened her laptop and drew up the picture of a page from The Book of Dreams. The images came from a book given to her by Miriam, the friend who had died the previous summer. Miriam had received the original book and five ancient copies from her own great-grandmother. The line of possession stretched back through time to the realm of myth and impossible age. The copies and the original all contained images drawn in Aramaic cuneiform. Each image was formed from a line of the Lord’s Prayer.

  Before Elena had left on her book tour, she had returned all of the books to her safety deposit box. Before then, however, she had photographed the pages so they could travel with her. Several times over the long summer she had raised the images and tried to enter into what the early church leaders once called a contemplative state. The images had previously helped intensify her prayer life. But all through that weary summer, Elena had felt nothing. Just like now. The only thing that came to her through the picture was a stronger sense of the storm gathering beyond her apartment.