Evil Dreams (14 page)

“I’ll be all right, I guess. What time is it?”

He turned, looking at her watch on the all-purpose table. “Eight-thirty.”

She got to her feet, finding the pain, which tore at her midsection, not as great when she stood upright. Perhaps her muscles had become cramped from inactivity for the hour and a half she had slept. “S’funny,” she said, “I feel fine now that I’m standing.”

“Why were you so late?”

“I stayed and listened to the last patient’s tape.”

“Oh. Was it a good one? Anything we can use?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said approaching him. “They’ve got money, but the first two tapes didn’t really offer anything. I—I love you, Howie.”

He accepted her embrace before pushing her away.

“Mrs. Nelumbo has an appointment tomorrow,” she said softly, tantalizing him with a seductive smile.

“That one should be money in the bank.” His mood suddenly changed. “Can you get into the office anytime you want?”

“Hey, yeah! I’ve got my key. Why couldn’t we just go down at night and help ourselves, Howie?”

“Because, you dumb bitch, that’s running the risk of getting arrested for unlawful entry,” he snarled. “I was just curious in the event Dayton ever caught on, or was told by one of his patients about being blackmailed. It might not look so good for you if it appears to be an inside job.” He flashed his teeth in a cruel smile.

“I never thought of that. Maybe we shouldn’t go through with it, Howie.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” he said smoothly. “Lots of people got keys to those offices; cleaning ladies, janitors, watchmen.”

Tory thoughtfully nodded. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

Sam and Marie lay side by side, their naked bodies barely touching. His eyes unblinkingly stared at the ceiling while Marie had hers closed, her long lashes resting against the lower lid. Their lovemaking always satisfied them and tonight had been no exception. Shortly after her arrival, he had told her everything he knew about Jon Ward and his peculiar dream. She found it interesting but hadn’t given it her full attention until after they’d made love. Now, with her afterglow diminishing, she mentally reviewed the strange case he had outlined.

“You know, Sam,” she began after several long minutes of silence, “the fact that his dream never varies is one interesting aspect of his case. But, and I find this the most intriguing part, the symbols are almost movielike in the way you described them.”

“Not my way,” he said without taking his eyes from the ceiling. “Jon’s way. He’s so absolutely precise in his descriptions that it makes one wonder.”

“Wonder about what? The fact that he’s a writer and might be embellishing the actual scenes to make them fit his conscious interpretation of the dream?”

He thought about her statement. The idea had passed through his mind several different times while pondering the dream since he had first heard it described by Jon three weeks earlier. But the Vienna-trained psychiatrist lying next to him voiced the question after hearing the dream content only once. “The same thought occurred to me but after today’s session, I don’t think that’s the case. He answered just about every question I put to him. While in the hypnotic state, his statements told me the dream was exactly the same as he had described to me before.”

“What do you mean—just about every question?” she asked, sitting up on the bed.

“It was really peculiar. There were several questions he absolutely refused to answer.”

“Under hypnosis? Impossible!” she said intently.

“Really, Marie. I’m not fooling. He absolutely refused—didn’t speak. I think—I
know
he was going through a mental struggle. One part of him wanted to answer but something prevented him from doing so.”

Marie bemusedly stroked her left breast, studying him. “Do you think he might have two personalities?” she asked slowly.

He quickly sat up next to her. “I—I never once thought of that. Not at this point, at least. It’s too early in the analysis to even consider that. Still—”

“What? What is it, Sam?” Her voice showed real interest.

“His wife told me about a total change of personality Jon went through one evening because of a bottle of wine.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t recall all of the details but, and this is the important part, she was very upset by it. She said he was totally different; his views, opinions and things he said, were completely out of character for him. Even his voice sounded different, according to her. Another intriguing thing she mentioned was his occasional limp. I noticed it the first time I met him but didn’t think anything of it.”

“Do you have in your notes what he said when he changed?”

“Not word for word but the subject matter is there.”

“I should like to see it,” she said, her words no longer reflecting interest in her personal, physical satisfaction. A cool, professional tone had replaced the throaty, beckoning voice of Marie, the woman.

“Multiple personalities?” he pondered aloud. “Could that be possible?”

“Why do you say multiple? It’s bad enough having a patient display two. What makes you think there might be more?”

“Nothing. Still, every case history I’ve read where there were two strong personalities fighting for possessing of one body, there usually were more, minor personalities looking for release.” He got off the bed slipping into his robe.

“And usually the subjects are women,” she reminded him.

“It’s not impossible for a man.”

“Of course not,” she said, standing. “Still, men are definitely in the minority when it comes to evidence of dual or multiple personalities.”

“I know. Want to shower?”

“If we can continue talking about this Jon Ward. I find him and his dream fascinating,” she said, following him toward the bathroom.

“Want to stay the night?” he asked, adjusting the temperature of water in the shower.

“Naturally,” she purred, casting aside her professional aplomb. She stepped into the shower, focusing her thoughts on Jon’s dream once more. Something vaguely familiar about the highlights persistently eluded her probing. She’d want to read Sam’s file and listen to the tape of the hypnotic session. Maybe then, it would come to her.

Trina and Jon sat across from each other at a small table in the basement restaurant of Mumman Manor. They had spent a relaxing Saturday and Sunday browsing through the antique shops lining both sides of Galena’s Main Street. Other, more elaborate shops, set up in nineteenth century mansions, had been scoured for relics which would appeal to both of them. Tired but happy, the couple finished their meal.

“The prime rib was delicious, darling,” Trina murmured contentedly.

Jon raised his glass of Beaujolais. “I propose a toast. To us; may we always be as happy with each other as we are right now.”

She lifted her glass, sipping to the proposed pledge of never-ending love. Lifting the bottle, he attempted to pour more but she stayed his hand.

“Let’s take it up to our room and toast each other there,” she whispered, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Nodding, he winked. He motioned for their waitress, and stood as the string group playing melodies in lush, rich tones, began the familiar strains of Strauss’
Voices of Spring.
After signing the bill, he caught up to his wife.

“This is so unique,” she said as they left the vaultlike room. “I could do this every night. It’s so—so—”

“Continental?” he offered.

“Yes, continental.”

“Well, let’s go upstairs and do it the continental way,” he quipped.

“The continental way? How do—?” She paused, turning to face her husband.

“You have a cup of coffee with your roll,” he explained lightly.

She laughed, continuing up the narrow stairs with Jon following closely. Once on the main floor, they made their way side by side to the wide staircase leading to the second story where they had spent the last two nights. It had been her idea to leave Chicago Friday afternoon when she got home from school, which enabled them to have all day Saturday as well as Sunday to roam through the quaint old town. Jon suggested an early departure Monday morning to avoid the holiday traffic they knew would begin building shortly after noon. If they were lucky, they would arrive home by midday.

When they stood outside their room, Jon scooped Trina in his arms. Once inside, he laid her on the antique bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Don’t I get a chance to undress?” she asked.

“Of course. Be my guest,” he said gallantly, bowing deeply.

When Trina stood nude, Jon enveloped her in his embrace. Their tongues gently probed each other’s mouth, hands tenderly massaging muscles tensed in anticipation. Lowering his wife to the bed, he covered her full lips with his mouth, tracing a route of kisses down her chin, throat and shoulders. Her nipples stood erect, aroused to their fullest by his love making. His lips slid to the center of her chest, touching first one mound of flesh and then the other before exploring the brown aureoles of her breasts. He bit teasingly while running his free hand down her stomach, gently kneading her lower body, until his fingers intertwined with her pubic hair.

She arched her back, feeling the tingling burn of passion rising within her loins. Groping for his hardened manhood, she gripped it carefully yet savagely, sending a wave of pleasure through her husband’s body. Grasping his head, she brought it back to her shoulder and then, their faces touching in another deep kiss, he penetrated her. She moaned softly while the tenderness of his rhythm built to a gentle frenzy.

They climaxed simultaneously and clung to each other until their passion ebbed.

Later, several hours after falling asleep, the nightmare happened for the first time since Jon’s discharge from the hospital. Vividly, each detail presented itself in sequence. Raising the gun to his head, Jon opened his mouth but his face was pushed into the pillow, muffling his suicidal scream.

Trina breathed deeply, lying on her back, completely oblivious of his cry.

He dreamed of floating, of being buffeted, of being drawn to the personality exuding lust and violent sex. Slowly, he rose to a kneeling position on the bed, straddling his wife’s naked body. His hands groped at his bare waist, seeking the belt that held torn, tattered pants. Satisfied that he had dropped the trousers, his frame suddenly grew rigid, every muscle contracting, knots of hard flesh flexing over his body. Clenching both fists, he raised his blank eyes to the ceiling of the Victorian bed chamber and screamed,
“ICH LEBE NOCH!”

Trina immediately awoke, stifling the urge to scream when she saw her husband kneeling over her, his massive erection throbbing, thrust out in front of him, a maniacal look incising his handsome features.

CHAPTER 8

While the relays clicked into place and before hearing Sam Dayton’s office phone ringing, Trina glanced about the teachers’ lounge to be certain she was alone. She needed isolation to speak freely. The episode at Mumman Manor hammered at her mind. All the way from Galena to Chicago, Jon remained tacit about the incident. It had given her the opportunity to review it, to prepare her for the trauma of telling the psychiatrist. Monday evening had been equally quiet and they had lain awake for hours before finally dropping off to sleep. Now, away from Jon and the suffocating atmosphere of tragedy and doom that had effectively engulfed them, she felt the strength and determination to tell everything to Doctor Dayton. Jon had to be helped—cured, rid of this nightmare once and for all.

“Doctor Dayton’s office,” the voice broke into her jumbled thoughts.

“This is Mrs. Jon Ward. May I speak with Doctor Dayton?”

“One moment, Mrs. Ward,” Tory mewed.

“Yes, Mrs. Ward.” Sam’s voice sent a wave of reassurance coursing through Trina. Suddenly, she felt foolish. Should she tell him of the peculiar thing that had happened in Galena? Of course she should tell him. She wanted Jon free of this—this thing.

“Doctor?” she said, “Do you have time to speak with me now?” She looked at her watch. Not quite nine-thirty.

“Yes, I believe I have time. What can I do for you?”

Quickly relating the bare facts of how she and Jon had gone to Galena and Mumman Manor, Trina reached the moment in her narrative she dreaded.

“Everything had been perfect,” she said quietly with marked determination, “until Sunday evening. We finished eating and went to our room.” She hesitated. Did she dare tell him about their lovemaking? Why not? He dealt with this sort of thing all the time and she feared the consequences if she left a single detail out. “We made love and after a while went to sleep.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Ward,” Sam interrupted. “I’d like to record the rest of our conversation if you have no objections.”

Her mind raced. “Would you ever play it for my husband?” she asked, summing up her apprehension.

“Of course not. It’s merely to assure me that I have an accurate account of whatever it is you’re going to tell me.”

“I see,” she said, slowly regaining her composure. With an evenly spaced “ping” sounding every few seconds, she continued at his request. “About four o’clock Monday morning I awoke, or rather, I should say was awakened by Jon screaming at the top of his voice. When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling over me, a—a—aroused to the fullest. His erection, his penis, seemed larger than I’ve ever seen it. And he had the most frightening expression on his face.”

Sam waited to see if she would continue. When it became apparent she was soliciting a question with her silence, he asked, “Can you describe his face, the expression he was displaying?”

She closed her eyes, the awful scene smashing into clear perspective once more. She related how in the gloom, Jon’s tumid face had appeared to be creased with countless worry lines, his breath pumping in short gasps. Once wide awake, she had screamed, realizing he had been trying to rape her while both were sound asleep. His trancelike manner frightened her more than the appearance of his exceptionally swollen penis or his dominant position over her.