Hidden in Dreams Page 5

  Elena cut off the computer and opened the drawer by her bed. Despite the trauma she had endured around the time of the book’s arrival, she had gained a number of vital insights. And one of them was that the book itself was nothing. The only purpose the book held, the only value, was in drawing the viewer closer to God. And she did not need the book to do that. She never had.

  Elena had felt that the time for the book’s practical application had ended; that moment and that particular purpose lay in the past. Now, as Elena examined the image, she wondered if its time had come again.

  Elena opened her Bible to the book of Daniel. Her fingers found the place before she consciously knew what she sought. But there it was before her eyes, a vivid reminder of another man given the unwanted responsibility. Elena read the opening passage and felt an easing away of her stress and her worry. No matter what else, she was not alone. She never had been. Not for an instant.

  When the phone rang, she was tempted not to answer. But then she saw the readout and knew she had to take the call. She pressed the button and said, “Vicki, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve been wondering if maybe I did something worse than usual, to have you not call me back.”

  “No, no, it’s just this day became a little overwhelming.”

  “Did you talk to the man?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “I’m driving to Orlando after class tomorrow to meet him.”

  “Do you need my gun?”

  “No, thank you. You own a gun?”

  “Hey. I’m a single lady, and this is Manhattan.” Vicki’s voice took on a delicious edge. “Did you two kiss and make up?”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Not before you promise me a book from all this mess.”

  “Mess is right,” Elena replied.

  • • •

  It seemed as though she had only just turned out her light when the next dream began.

  The faceless messenger rang her doorbell. Elena did not want to open the door. She fought against moving forward, as strongly as she had struggled against anything in her whole life. For whatever the dream might reveal, however vital the images might prove, she did not want them. She did not want to be filled anew with dread. She did not want her life to slip even further from her control.

  But she answered the door anyway. She had no choice. It was, after all, a dream.

  The faceless messenger was as well dressed as before. She could clearly see the fine cut to his suit, the polish to his shoes. Even the lovely design in his knitted silk tie. His cuff links flashed as he lifted a hand toward her. Offering something she did not want. He spoke, and she recognized his voice from the previous time. But his words were just as unclear as before. Even so, they rocked her. She saw nothing of his face. There was a round gray cloud where his features should have been. The voice emerged from this vague cloud, and pummeled her. She shut the door, and instantly the next phase of the dream attacked. Her whole being was assaulted by its force.

  Only it was not the same dream as before.

  It was something else entirely.

  And it was far, far worse.

  6

  The Peabody Hotel in Orlando was surrounded on three sides by one of the nation’s largest convention centers. Elena left her car with the parking attendant and entered a vast lobby of granite and bronze sculptures. As she passed the concierge desk, she noticed how most of the people crowding the lobby were watching a television suspended from the rear wall. Elena drew in close enough to hear the newscaster describe how the previous day’s London bank run had continued to develop overnight, impacting shares of every bank listed on the British exchanges. They replayed images from the Lehman Brothers’ collapse several years earlier: the thousands of bank employees leaving the crippled establishment with their professional lives in cardboard boxes, and the pandemonium that had struck the international markets. As she turned away, Elena saw the tense and worried faces, and felt the dreams assault her once more.

  Jacob Rawlings was moving toward her as she emerged from the crowd. “Dr. Burroughs, you came.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Well, yes. But I couldn’t help but have my doubts.”

  The tension trailed along with her as they left the lobby and entered a grand central chamber. “I didn’t want to come,” she confessed. “I had no choice in the matter.”

  “Honesty. Excellent. I agree that we should do our best to move on.” He gestured to a pair of cane chairs by a glass table. “Would this do? Or, if you prefer, I could try and arrange a private meeting room.”

  “This is fine.” She could not tell if her own apprehension resulted from the television images or the proximity of her former nemesis. All Elena knew was, she wasn’t about to be alone with this man.

  Jacob Rawlings was far more handsome than she recalled. Which was hardly a surprise, since they had spent most of their one highly public encounter shouting at each other. He was also very courtly. He held her chair, then hovered by her side as he asked, “Would you care to freshen up?”

  “No, thank you. Let’s get started.”

  “What about a coffee? Or tea, perhaps. I could arrange sandwiches, a light lunch?”

  “Later, perhaps.” She pointed at the chair beside her. “Sit. Please.”

  He launched into his apology before planting himself in the seat. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what I said at our debate. In light of present events, I feel like such a total fool.”

  “I appreciate your comments, Dr. Rawlings—”

  “Please, call me Jacob.”

  “But words are cheap.” Elena had spent the entire journey up deciding upon what she was about to say. “I was publicly flayed by your hand. Your scorn still burns.”

  Their antagonism had not started with the unexpected debate. Jacob Rawlings had been one of her book’s most vociferous critics. He had written a scathing review carried by two key journals, one in the US and the other in England. He had then publicly lambasted her at a professional conference, one that she thankfully had not attended. She only learned about it following the Emory debate. She had made a point of not paying attention to such things, especially since Vicki had sheltered her from most negative publicity. Then had come the Emory debacle. Elena considered it her own fault for not having been better prepared, as Jacob certainly had been. Even so, the memories still burned.

  Elena went on, “I want three things. First, you will write a letter to be published in the next issue of Psychology Today, expressing your deep regret for your previous stand. And that in light of new evidence, you have decided to retract your statements and come fully around to my perspective on dream analysis.”

  Jacob Rawlings took this in. The retraction would be a major event among her professional colleagues. That spring he had been appointed to the journal’s editorial board. Even so, he slowly nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Second, you will arrange a public forum, preferably at Emory but another major assembly will do. You will renounce your former position. You will apologize to me publicly. And then we will engage not in a debate but in a dialogue. On where dream analysis should go next, and how it can be fit into the mainstream of psychological study.”

  She saw the subtle shudder, saw him repress it. And found herself reluctantly admiring the inner resolve this represented. Jacob nodded again. “And third?”

  “You will come up with something on your own. A gesture of your own making.”

  She almost regretted this third idea. It sounded almost petty as she spoke the words. She was about to tell him to forget it, when he said thoughtfully, “I was invited to speak at the national convocation of behaviorists. I had decided to turn it down. I will accept, and I will use the platform to discuss your concepts in a positive light.”

  It was Elena’s turn to feel pushed back into her chair. Behaviorists were the most rigid of all psychologists. Jacob had started his career, done his initial studies, at
a university dedicated to behaviorism and the determination to make psychology a science. Which meant stripping down everything about the mental process into tightly measurable phenomena. There were a multitude of problems with this. Behaviorists shunned anything to do with emotions. One of their principal tenets held that virtually all human behavior was based upon genetic makeup and measurable physical and environmental factors. Past traumatic experiences or emotional states were considered both superficial and subject to change, and so should be discounted. Dreams were an anathema to behaviorists. For one of their own, risen to the ranks of national stardom, to discuss dream analysis at their national gathering would have the impact of a hydrogen bomb.

  Elena said softly, “Thank you, Jacob.”

  His smile carried genuine relief. “Does this mean we can now move on?”

  “Yes.” She wished she had the ability just then to return his smile. Perhaps another time. One when she was not required to say, “I’ve had another dream.”

  • • •

  Jacob Rawlings paced the foyer on the other side of the fountain. As he talked into his cell phone, a growing number of very young children gathered near him with their mothers. Many of the women gave Jacob lingering glances. Elena could well understand why.

  Three years earlier, Jacob had been tapped to host a three-part series on childhood development for the Discovery Channel. There had been a good many chuckles over the news when it first broke, as Jacob had never married. But the program had been a surprise hit, drawing the highest numbers of any cable-network fact-based program for the entire year. Elena had watched an episode once, and despite her resentment over his scathing review of her book, she had been forced to admit the man had a magnetic quality.

  A recent analysis of successful movie stars had resulted in a remarkable discovery. The study had concluded that an actor’s talent and general attractiveness were only part of the equation. Of great importance was what the scientists termed as physical equilibrium. By this they meant the actor possessed almost ideal proportions. They had compared a number of stars to a computer image of perfect form—stance, balance, shape of head and shoulders, and so forth. Both the male and female viewers tended to be drawn toward the person who represented the ideal physical form, rating them higher than those typically considered more attractive.

  As Elena watched him pace the foyer’s inlaid marble floor, she decided that Jacob Rawlings possessed both looks and balance. Not to mention intelligence. She found herself enjoying the sight. He was, she decided, almost too good a package. She had recently seen his photograph somewhere, a lovely blond model with a vacant gaze on his arm. The model had been signed as the new face for Lancôme cosmetics. Elena had decided the two probably deserved each other.

  Jacob paced and continued a conversation so grimly intense he remained blind to the attention being cast his way. Elena leaned back in her seat, wearied by the day and the night before. Against her will, she found herself being drawn back into the dream’s vivid images.

  The dream had carried with it a sense of jarring disconnect. As though reality was undergoing a seismic shift, one only she could see. The world tilted on its axis, and only she had a compass and could detect the coming tumult.

  The feelings of anxiety and pending disaster had been far stronger than the images themselves. If anything, the view had been almost benign, especially compared to the bank’s interior. Elena had left an office where she had formerly held a job. She joined a line, which quickly grew along the street. They did not march in step. They shuffled.

  As the dream continued, the line of people became a flood. They filled the street from one side to the other. They grew increasingly packed together. And still more came, piling in from all the doorways and offices and side streets.

  The crowd became so dense she could not draw a decent breath. She struggled, yet at the same time remained vaguely docile. She knew it was vital that she not lose her place in line. If she made a scene, she would be sent to the back. And that would be terrible. Why, she wasn’t sure. But she knew she had to behave if she wanted to remain where she was.

  With each step the crowd’s forward progress moved more slowly. The people turned a final corner. Elena felt a growing sense of desperation, as though she caught the smell of something on the unseen wind, and knew she was nearly there. Finally she was able to see what awaited her down that street.

  Ahead of her was a single narrow door. Everyone wanted to enter. Everyone tried desperately to hide their frantic impatience. They shuffled forward, and the closer they came the greater her anxiety grew. Just as her tension rose to a fever pitch, she noticed a woman standing beside the door. The woman’s voice was eerily calm. She spoke in a soft cadence, totally disconnected from what surrounded her.

  “Keep your place in line,” the woman chanted. “One person at a time through the door. Take your time. There is soup enough for everyone.”

  Two stone buildings formed the cavern that trapped her. Both walls held billboards covered with the same newspaper headline. The boards read GLOBAL STOCK MARKETS NOSEDIVE.

  The closer Elena came to that awful door, the more certain she became. The woman’s words were a lie. There wasn’t enough. There never would be again.

  • • •

  Jacob ended the call just as four liveried attendants placed a set of miniature stairs by the fountain’s edge and unfurled a narrow red carpet. He watched askance as the ducks waddled down the stairs and paraded across the carpet. Mothers and daughters cooed as the ducks entered the elevator. A sign was placed by the fountain, saying that the ducks had gone in for their afternoon naps.

  Jacob returned to their table and said, “Did that just happen?”

  “Every day, apparently.”

  He swept a copper-blond strand from his forehead. “This meeting certainly holds a surreal edge.”

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  As soon as she had finished relating her dream, Jacob had leapt to his feet, excused himself, taken his phone from his pocket, and started pacing. Jacob replied, “My patient.”

  “The Federal Reserve bank board member?”

  “The same.” He swept his forehead again, only this time there was no hair out of place. He did not notice. “Her name is Agatha Hune. She was referred to me three years ago with a stress-related disorder. She attended counseling sessions for six months. I consider her a friend. The woman is extremely intelligent, well balanced, with an honest perspective on life and her issues. As you can imagine, this whole situation has been extremely distressing.”

  Something in the way he spoke led Elena to surmise, “She has had the same dream, hasn’t she? The second one.”

  Jacob’s response was halted by the ringing of his phone. He glanced at the readout and said, “I need to take this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He took one step away and turned his back to her, but only for a moment. When he turned back around, his gaze held the same frantic edge Elena had seen in the mirror that morning.

  Jacob shut the phone and said, “That was my closest friend from university. Bob Meadows is a clinical psychologist in Miami.”

  The tense way he spoke those words told her all she needed to know. “There’s been another dreamer, hasn’t there.”

  Jacob nodded. “For the first time in my professional career, I have no idea what to do next.”

  7

  Rachel Lamprey’s call came while they waited for Elena’s car to be brought around. Rain fell in silver sheets from the hotel’s overhang. There was no wind, not a breath. Though the day was still warm, the mist gave off a chilling taste. From somewhere beyond the liquid curtain, lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

  Rachel had to shout to be heard. “Where are you?”

  “Orlando. But we’re—”

  “Excellent! I’ve just landed in New York. I have a meeting here in the first-class lounge, then I’m due back into Orlando around nine tonight. Can we meet?”

  “I�
��m headed to Miami.”

  “What on earth for?”

  The woman’s sharp tone surprised Elena. It shouldn’t have; Elena had noted the bossy edge lurking beneath Rachel’s polished surface. But she had assumed she was protected from Rachel’s wrath. Elena replied, “Jacob’s site has received a new hit. A psychiatrist in Miami has a new patient who has experienced both dreams.” Elena realized she had not mentioned the latest experience, and added, “Last night I had another dream. It has struck all the others as well. Jacob was confirming this—”

  “I know all about the second dream,” Rachel said impatiently. “Why is Jacob involved?”

  The attendant pulled through the rain and halted beside Elena. She tipped him and nodded her thanks as he held her door. “Jacob Rawlings is . . . a professional associate.”

  Jacob heard her hesitation, and offered her a rueful smile as he climbed in and shut his door.

  “Whatever or whoever is waiting in Miami is certainly not as important as our meeting tonight!”

  “With respect, Rachel, I don’t agree. We have not been told this new patient’s name. Jacob is friends with the psychologist involved. They have spoken. We’ve been assured the patient holds enormous—”

  “Do you have any idea how far out on a limb I have gone to include you?” Rachel’s heat was so blistering, the phone felt hot to the touch. “We have got to speak tonight.”

  Behind her, a horn beeped politely. Elena put the car in gear and pulled forward. Rain drummed on the roof. “We are talking now, Rachel.”

  “What is that noise?”

  “Another thunderstorm. Tell me what is the matter.”

  “Can you possibly be asking me that question? You, of all people? This is not the time for clinical analysis. This is time for action. Have you even seen the reports of the London bank run?”