Evil Dreams (13 page)

They’re burning up,
Jon’s voice said.
Burning all up!

Do you know why they’re burning, Jon?
he asked. The silence following the question seemed interminable until it was punctuated by Jon’s high pitched shriek.

Sam listened to himself giving the instructions to bring Jon out of hypnosis. The psychiatrist recalled approaching him to touch his shoulder and then:
I’m floating up—up,
Jon’s voice said clearly, strongly.
I feel concussions. Explosions—

Sam shut off the machine, a concerned look crossing his face. Jon’s dream apparently continued and by awakening him, he had inadvertently stopped his patient from revealing this new aspect. The next session would have to begin where this one had stopped. Maybe then, the thread leading to an answer would be found. He wondered if Jon knew of any additional details which belonged to the dream. Would his patient hold back information for some reason?

He turned on the recorder once more to rewind the tape and then moved to his desk, retrieving his notebook. His reminders were not too plentiful. He had found the answers to his questions fascinating and had written only terse remarks about incidents that had bothered him at the time. Why hadn’t Jon answered the question concerning the reason for his being cheered? He wondered if his patient knew the answer.

Sam frowned deeply at the next written passages:
Patient is able to resist answering questions. Not all, just some. Thirty-one minutes into hypnotic state: Again refuses to answer. Thirty-five minutes into hypnotic state: Third time he refused. Thirty-nine minutes: Is he lying? How can he refuse to obey simple commands? Fourth time: forty-four minutes, appears as if he wants to tell me the answer but for some reason he cannot obey.

After Tory transcribed the session, he would play back the tape, focusing on the questions at the different times he had noted. Perhaps Jon had merely misunderstood the questions.

When the tape was rewound, he removed it from the recorder, placing a new reel on the machine. Since Jon had been the last patient for the day, he was looking forward to a martini and a quiet evening at home. Maybe he’d give Marie a call. Turning out the lights he went to the outer office.

Tory looked up without smiling. “Calling it a day, Doctor?”

“Yes, I am,” he said, handing her the tape. “After you transcribe this one, I don’t want you to erase it. Label it and put it on the shelf in my office. Good night, Tory.”

She wondered if she should ask Doctor Dayton for the rest of the afternoon off. The last thing Howie had done before she left for work that morning, was to order her home immediately. Knowing he was anxious to read any files purloined that day, she thought it would be a pleasant surprise to arrive home half-an-hour early. Tory opened her mouth to speak, suddenly deciding against it. Why ask for something that might possibly arouse Dayton’s suspicions? What if she inadvertently revealed something of their plan? Howie would be furious.

She turned the reel over in her hand. Was there something special about this tape? Only cases out of the ordinary were not erased. Once transcribed on paper those tapes were kept intact in the doctor’s office.

“Good night, Doctor,” Tory said softly as the door closed. She stared at the reel he had given her. She’d have to pay particular attention to it. The digital clock on her desk showed four-thirty-five. Deciding not to waste time, she removed the tape she had been transcribing. She threaded Jon’s onto the machine, pressed a button, and sat back.

CHAPTER 7

“It was absolutely fantastic, Trina,” Jon said, describing the sensation of being hypnotized. “I felt like a million bucks when I came to. At first I thought only a few seconds had passed but I knew differently when I looked at my watch.”

“I’m glad to hear you like the treatment,” Trina said, smiling to herself. Ever since Jon had arrived home he had raved about his appointment. She looked at the remaining tests to be graded.

“You know, I think for the first time in my life, I’m going to find out what the hell this goddamn dream is all about.”

“I’m happy for you, darling.” She closed the folder. If they weren’t ready tonight, she’d finish them in the morning at school before class.

Locking his fingers behind his head, he leaned back. “I can’t help talking about it. I feel positively exhilarated.”

“When’s your next appointment?”

“Week from tomorrow. Next Monday is an off-day for you, my dear. Memorial Day.”

“I forgot,” she squealed. “Let’s do something.”

“Like?”

“Anything.” She left the couch, moving to sit on the arm of his chair.

“Okay. Let’s go someplace.”

She looked askance at her husband. Would this be another instance of forgetfulness when and if the idea were mentioned later?

He caught the mistrustful expression. “Hey, come on,” he reprimanded. “It’ll give us an opportunity to practice for that vacation.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. This time, I promise, I’ll remember. Where do you want to go?”

Her lips puckered in thought for several moments before a wide grin dazzled her face. “Galena!” she cried.

“Galena? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Seriously. Marilyn Frazer, one of the teacher assistants at school, told me about it. It sounds like heaven.”

“Or a step back in time,” he added.

He knew Galena well. Since it was less than thirty miles from Morris College, he had passed through the old town on every trip between home and school. “What’s there that’s such a turn-on?’”

“Antique shops by the score and a delightful old mansion where we could stay. It has a great restaurant, too. Ahhh, I think Mumman’s Manor is the name of it. I’ll ask Marilyn tomorrow, to be certain.” She smiled gleefully, clapping her hands in anticipation. Then she sobered. “You do feel up to a trip, don’t you, darling?”

“Oh, for—of course I do. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine.” He sat forward in his chair, a touch of disgust flashing for a second across his face.

She instantly regretted her question but saw him brighten, which told her everything was normal, or as near normal as she could hope for. “I’ll check the name of the place tomorrow and we can call ahead for reservations.”

Jon leisurely settled back in his chair again. Anticipating an enjoyable long weekend out of the city matched his buoyant mood. Nothing could possibly interfere with his life now. He had everything under control.

While thoughts of Howie’s fury over an accidental disclosure of their plans persistently bothered her, Tory forced herself to concentrate on Sam Dayton’s explanation of dreams. Would this Jon Ward be a suitable candidate for their scheme? Would he disclose something to the psychiatrist that might be right for Howie’s plan? Some embarrassing incident for which the patient’s wife would be willing to pay a large amount of money to Howie for his silence on the subject?

When the psychiatrist began hypnotizing Jon, she listened closely, no longer thinking of any possible mistake on her part or the resulting retaliation from her lover. Once Jon began answering the doctor’s questions, she recalled the dream sequence she had typed following his initial visit. Each question and answer issuing from the machine refreshed her recollection of the previous session.

Unaware of the time, she listened to the entire tape, shaking her head in disbelief at the peculiar descriptions. When it finished, she went to the bank of file cabinets, quickly finding Jon’s folder. She withdrew the several sheets of paper it contained, crossing the room to the copy machine. She’d need everything she could get since last week’s patients had given them nothing. If only the transcriptions she made were not put on microfilm, she would be able to copy anything she wanted. But, since she could not devise a system to make such records for Howie and herself without arousing suspicions, she would have to be content with Jon’s file. There had been nothing else of consequence today, other than the new patient. Tomorrow, Mrs. Nelumbo would be in for her appointment.

Turning off the copier, she stuffed the papers into the brown manilla envelope before returning the originals to the file. After locking the drawers, she straightened the top of her desk and left.

Once out of the office building, she hurried along the streets clutching the precious envelope to her breasts. Gradually, she felt pangs of fear eating at her like a cancer. Howie would be furious—she just knew he would. She was late. It would be well past six-thirty by the time she arrived home. Would she be able to calm him if he were upset? All he wanted was the chance to leave the Midwest for Santa Fe or someplace in the Southwest. There, they could be happy. She knew if they failed, it would be her fault. Reaching the old building where he waited, she sniffled, tears welling in her eyes. It would be awful.

She ran up the stairs two at a time. In seconds she stood on the fourth floor heaving for air. Her legs trembling, she slowly made her way down the darkened hallway toward her apartment where she could see light seeping from beneath the door. Hesitantly turning the knob, she had it ripped out of her hand when Howie roughly pulled the door open.

“Where the hell you been?” he demanded. “Did you get anything today?”

“Howie?” she said in a tiny voice.

Glaring, he leaped forward, punching her in the stomach as hard as he could. She tried desperately to breathe, managing only to inhale spasmodic gasps of air. The glaring light bulb hanging from the ceiling spun around in a circle, changing color as she sank to the floor in a heap.

Sam Dayton absently swished the olive around in his half-finished martini. Normally, he had no problem leaving his work at the office but for some reason he found it impossible to dismiss Jon Ward’s dream from his mind. Jon had continued referring to impressions he witnessed after the scream, something he apparently had never done before, to the best of Sam’s knowledge.

Emptying the glass, he filled it again, raising it in a toasting gesture to the lavishly decorated apartment. Tasting his drink, he nodded his satisfaction and walked slowly across the room toward sliding glass doors which opened onto a small balcony. A little night air would be a good chaser for the martinis he’d already drunk, and the one he’d finished now before eating. He closed the doors behind him, inhaling deeply. He took several deep breaths of the cleaner than usual air.

If the dream did not finish at the scream, what else followed? Had it ever occurred before? And if it had, why had Jon neglected to mention it? Did he even know of it?

“I think,” Sam said loud, “I shall call Marie and confer with her. I also should not talk aloud to myself.” He grinned foolishly, looking about. Even though several other tenants were enjoying the balmy spring evening on nearby terraces none were within earshot. Reentering the living room, he turned on the stereo, adjusting the volume to gently flood the apartment with soft music.

Marie crossed his mind again. Marie Von Keltzer. An eminent associate in his field, he had called on her as a confidante on more than one occasion. The fact that she was a brilliant psychiatrist had reassured him when he found himself falling in love with her. At thirty-eight, he had decided he’d never find the perfect woman—one who could share his profession, his lifestyle, and still be able to fill the role of wife and lover. He found Marie capable of fulfilling the requirements of the perfect mate he had set down as a young, ambitious psychiatrist. As thorough as his perusal had been, he had been totally unprepared when she subjected him to much the same scrutiny.

His frustrated emotions reacting, he realized his desire to consult her on a professional basis outweighed the prospects of a social evening. They seldom mixed business with pleasure, but tonight he felt he should talk with her about his new patient.

Picking up the telephone, he dialed her unlisted number, listening to the buzzing ring six times before she answered. “Marie? Sam.”

“Hi,” she said, her throaty contralto dangerously titillating his senses beyond his three martini level of resistance.

“What took you so long to answer? With a patient?” his liquor-softened voice teased gently.

“Naturally. In the shower, no less.”

“Sounds like interesting therapy. Busy tonight?” He didn’t really have to ask. They had reached the point of advising each other of any activities that did not include them as a couple.

“You know I’m not. What do you have in mind, Sam?”

“I’ve already had three martinis and dinner’s just about ready—for one, unfortunately. However, I’d like to get together to discuss a patient I’m just starting into therapy. Want to visit? Maybe have a few drinks?”

“I thought maybe you had some ulterior motive in mind. Would you care if I came dressed for work? You never know, we might exhaust your patient’s case in record time and have nothing left to talk about.”

“Bring a bag. In fact, why not move in tonight? You know—”

“I will, when I’m ready, Sam. See you in an hour.
Ciao!”

Staring at the quiet receiver in his hand, he smiled before returning it to its cradle.

Tory’s period, due the next day, had been precipitated by the vicious fist Howie had unleashed to her lower abdomen. Now, she lay on the open Murphy bed clutching her stomach, still aching several hours after the blow had been delivered. God, it hurt. She hoped nothing was injured. Having slept fitfully after wiping the bloody discharge from the threadbare rug, she was horrified to find the pain still present. She opened her eyes and could see Howie sitting on the backless chair hunched over, holding his head.

“Ho-Howie?” she managed through clenched teeth, the pain increasing when she attempted to sit up.

“Are you all right?” he asked, hurrying to her side.

“Fi-fine. You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, sitting up with his help.

“I know. I feel like—like—I don’t know what. You’re going to screw this whole operation up if you do something to yourself and can’t work,” he said, passing over the opportunity to apologize.