Evil Dreams (27 page)

“How can he? Why would he do that for us?” She shadowed him like a puppy.

“He’ll do anything I ask. Especially when I kidnap him and have him in my power.” His voice had a strange, tinny ring to it.

Trembling, Tory moved to the window and rested her back against its frame. She watched Howie sit on the bed and pick up Jon’s folder.

He went through the papers, throwing them aside one by one until he found what he had been looking for. Running a dirty-nailed index finger along the neatly typed lines, he stopped when it rested beneath the words,
blue trees.

Howie looked up, staring unseeing at Tory, through the open window into the dark beyond.

CHAPTER 14

Despite the clouds, thin, reedlike shafts of sunlight broke through on occasion, spilling into the kitchen where Jon lingered over his morning coffee. When Trina laid her handbag on the table, he snapped out of his brown study.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, darling,” she apologized, sitting down. Pouring a half cup of coffee, she thought back to Monday night when her husband had acted out of character again. She shuddered inwardly, trying to negate the memory with the fact that he had acted normally ever since. Last night he had been particularly enjoyable and restful—one of their soft music, reading, talking, and eventual love-making evenings.

“I was just thinking about the trip we want to take,” he said flashing his toothy grin. “When are you completely through with your job for the summer?”

“June fifteenth. That’s a Friday. Now, let me ask you a question. Will you be far enough ahead on your writing schedule to enjoy a vacation without worrying about working?”

“I should be. I have to admit that I feel more relaxed since beginning my visits with Doctor Dayton.”

“I’m happy for you, darling.” She felt relieved about her husband’s admission, considering how upset he’d been about going to see a doctor first, then to the hospital before seeing the psychiatrist. It could not be easy concentrating on his work while having the worry of analysis hovering in his thoughts. “Will your manuscript be good enough to be published?”

With a look of mock indignation, he stood. “When have I ever produced anything that wasn’t?”

They both laughed before he continued. “I really think it might stand a chance.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“And because I feel so good about it, I think we should plan on leaving for our vacation the Monday following your last day. What do you say?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “The eighteenth?” .

“Right.”

“How long will we be gone?”

“I’ve still got a long way to go, so I think no more than a week or ten days.”

“Is that long enough?”

“It’ll have to be, won’t it?”

“What about your appointment with Doctor Dayton?”

“I’ll clear it with him,” he said quickly. What difference would one appointment more or less make? He simply knew he had to go west, or southwest, for—for something. But what? What made him feel almost obligated to go there? He wondered if moths experienced the same curious attraction when a flame beckoned. He shook his head when reasons refused to form.

“Fine,” she said, missing his head shake when she moved to put her cup in the dishwasher. “We are agreed now on going out west—someplace?”

Standing, he said, “I hope you understand. I just feel I have to go there. It’s almost like a compulsion.”

“No reason?”

“None that I know of.”

A look of concern briefly crossing her face, she turned to leave, remaining silent rather than pose another question.

“What time will your meeting be over this afternoon?” he asked.

“Probably not before five. I don’t think it’ll run beyond that. What have you got planned for today?”

“I want to get away from the typewriter for at least a day. I’m going to the library to do a little research on an idea I’d like to incorporate in the book.” He took her outstretched hand and they walked to the front entrance.

“You’ll be home when I get here, won’t you?”

“I should be. Probably between two and three.”

“Do you want me to drop you now?”

“It’s too early. Besides, a walk’ll do me good.”

They kissed and she left. Locking the door, he limped to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee. Bringing it to his lips, the aromatic fragrance suddenly turned his stomach. Dumping the liquid into the sink, he retched for several minutes, dry heaves pumping his abdomen.

The gentle chimes of Marie’s telephone rang through the quiet apartment. Fluttering his eyelids at the intruding sound, Sam stretched, rising from the couch where he had slept all night. Stumbling to the phone, he lifted the receiver and managed, “Hello?”

“Dr. Von Keltzer, please,” the man’s voice rasped in his ear.

“Who’s calling?” he asked, stifling a yawn while he scanned the room to find evidence of her presence in the apartment. He saw her curled up in an easy chair. “One moment please. Who’s calling?”

“Dr. Nash.”

A quizzical expression forming on his face, he yawned again. Crossing the room to where she slept, he gently shook her shoulder. “There’s a Doctor Nash on the phone for you,” he whispered, not wanting to wake her too abruptly.

Opening her eyes at the sound of his voice, she comprehended what he had said when he repeated the message. She quickly stood, running to the phone. Watching her, he wished he could wake up as easily.

In several minutes, she replaced the phone in its cradle and turning, discovered he had left the room. Hearing noises from the kitchenette, she hurried to the tiny room where she found him making coffee.

“That was Doctor James Nash, a linguistics expert at the University of Chicago. I called him last night after you dropped off to sleep, to have him find the word
Zozobra’s
origin and meaning.”

“And?”

“It’s Spanish for anxiety. He also told me it’s used as a name for an effigy burned each year in Santa Fe, New Mexico to begin the
Las Fiestas de Santa Fe.
The word
Zozobra,
as they use it, means Old Man Gloom. The burning allows the celebrants of this fiesta to experience unbridled joy-“

Moving past her once the coffee was made, he went to the living room and began thumbing through Jon’s folder. Several minutes later he said, “Here is it.
Zozobra took the people away —no one there because of Zozobra.
That means
anxiety
took the people away? No one was there because of
anxiety?
That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Try using the other meaning,” she urged.

“Old Man Gloom
took the people away. No one was there because of
Old Man Gloom.
What do you think?”

Entering the living room, she said, “It makes a little more sense than using anxiety. I see it possibly meaning that people were drawn to this fiesta, and a certain place was deserted because of the celebration. What do you think?”

“Assuming that’s what it means—what does it mean?”

She shrugged.

“Did you get through to Vienna last night? And forgive me for falling asleep, but I was completely shot.”

Marie thought back to the early morning hours when her call finally had been put through. The fact Sam had fallen asleep had been fortunate since she could speak more freely with Helmut. When she learned that he was married and the father of a daughter, she managed to control her frustrated emotions. Then she explained the purpose of her call and they agreed he would call back as soon as possible with the information. She hung up, and alone with Sam sleeping on the couch, gave vent to her feelings and cried. Not because of Helmut. She had accepted his loss when leaving her home five years before. She wept for her own stupid, romantic notion of assuming the role of the injured woman where her family was concerned. That and the fact she had wasted three years keeping Sam at a comfortable distance.

“Yes, I did. And yes, you are forgiven,” she said. “First, I’ll tell you about the conversation and then about a discovery I made.”

“A discovery?” His eyes searched her face, waiting for an explanation.

“Be patient, Sam,” she said quietly. He’d been noble for so long. She breathed a silent prayer that he would bear with her for a few more minutes. “Helmut recalled the manuscript vividly and agreed to find it and check out certain bits of information.”

“Such as?”

“These coordinates seemed somehow familiar to Helmut, too,” she said hesitantly. “At first, they didn’t seem to ring a bell with him. But after talking for a while, they began sounding familiar. However, I guess, based on what I told him of Jon Ward and the other voice, his mind began working at a furious pace. He seems to accept the fact Hitler’s spirit could be locked in with Jon’s. He believes that shortly after Hitler committed suicide, his spirit transmigrated, becoming linked with Jon’s.”

Sam snorted. “You’re kidding!”

“He seems to think the explanation you managed to acquire from Ward, or Hitler, if you will, is too plausible to be the product of a dream. He also agrees about the first part being too traumatic for Hitler to dwell on while his spirit speaks through Jon. However, Helmut warned me to make certain Ward is not allowed to manifest the dream while he’s alone.”

“What do you mean—alone?”

“He believes that under clinical conditions we might succeed in forcing Hitler’s spirit from Jon. He suggested examining the dream very slowly. That way, it might become unbearable to relive the trauma of his career.”

“What about the post hypnotic suggestion I planted?”

“He merely said we should try to induce the dream in your office. It might be dangerous for him to have Hitler’s personality irritated, so to speak, under any but the most stringently controlled conditions.”

“What do we do? Christ, Jon could have the dream and go bonkers without us having a turn at bat.”

She approached him, slipping her arms around his neck. “I think we’re safe until tonight. If anything would have happened last night, we would have heard by now. As long as Jon Ward is awake and not sleeping or hypnotized, the dream should remain dormant. Right now there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

He looked into her eyes before puling her arms from around his neck. “It’ll have to wait for a minute. I just thought that no one knows where I am. I didn’t tell my secretary where I’d be.”

“Don’t, Sam.” Her eyes pleaded for the chance to make amends for three years of aloofness.

“Don’t?”

“Don’t tell her where you are. Check with her and tell her if she hears from Jon, she should call your answering service and you will check with them from time to time. All right?”

Puzzled by her attitude, he asked, “Why are you being so darned mysterious? Why don’t you want me to tell Tory where I am?”

“Because I want to spend as much time as we have until Helmut calls back, telling you how much I really love you and—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish, instead kissing her deeply on the mouth. He would check with Tory in a little while.

The gray skies reflected Millicent Tilden’s spirit. She had awakened early to find the sun battling clouds for possession of the skies over Chicago. Feeling more depressed than at any time since Sterling’s suicide, she elected to return to bed, hoping to feel better when she awoke from an extra hour’s sleep. Soon, after she had arisen the second time, the gray skies began weeping gentle tears of rain, in apparent sympathy with the grieving woman. The full impact of his death had not sufficiently impressed her to cause more than surface depression during the first few days. After spending all day Tuesday with their attorney, G. Carlton Hughes, going over his will and papers, everything crushed in on her spirit. Mentally exhausted, physically worn out, she cried herself to sleep well after midnight. She knew certain joyless duties remained for her to perform following his death. Acknowledging sympathy cards. Making personal phone calls to those few people who had gone out of their way at the funeral home to be especially nice. The closet full of his clothing to be disposed of and— She began weeping again, amazed that tears still existed in sufficient quantity to flow. Throwing herself across the bed, she resolved to get up, shower, dress, and start the cards of thanks as soon as she went through the mail. Tears continued flowing until they dried, deep sobs convulsing her body long after she dropped off to sleep once more.

When Howie accompanied Tory to Sam’s office Wednesday morning, he found it impossible to think of anything other than Jon Ward, his dream, and the riches waiting to be found. If he displayed any outward nervousness, Tory had not mentioned it. To keep him occupied and out of her way while performing her duties, she gave him access to the files containing the histories of the doctor’s patients.

Shortly after nine o’clock, she placed a call to Jon Ward but received no answer. Instantly upset, Howie paced back and forth mumbling under his breath. She caught only a few words whenever he pivoted in front of her desk to retrace his route.

“It’s gotta be today—During office hours— Logical to hear from the shrink—Absolutely vital or it won’t work—”

She still trembled, frightened whenever recalling his facial expressions the previous evening when he first began raving about suddenly being rich. Too timid to pursue the topic then, she still, found it impossible to ask him about it now. Perhaps when they reached Jon he would be in the right frame of mind to explain his plans. Until then, she accepted the fact that he knew they would soon be wealthy.

At ten o’clock she placed another call to Jon. Still no answer. Throughout the day, whenever attempting to complete the call, she could feel Howie’s resentment building against her. It must be her fault that the man didn’t answer.

Other than two phone messages for the psychiatrist, there had been a wrong number before noon but no other incoming calls. At one-thirty, when the phone rang again, he jumped nervously when the bell broke the silence.

“Doctor Dayton’s office,” she said tersely. “Oh, yes, Doctor Dayton.”