Hidden in Dreams (3 page)

“See we’re not disturbed.”

“You have ten minutes. Otherwise—”

“I’m well aware of the time issue.” She stepped to the windows and pulled down one shade after another as Reginald left the room.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s possible for an observer to bounce a signal off plate glass, turning any window into a listening device. Your shades will render this impossible. It’s unlikely that anyone was able to track us. Reginald is very thorough. But we can never be too certain.”

The room was bathed in a vague gloom. Elena seated herself slowly behind her desk. This woman clearly was comfortable only when in utter control. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Instead, Rachel Lamprey began pacing in front of Elena’s desk. “I am trained as a biochemist. Perhaps Miriam told you that. I am well aware of how my sister pushed you into sharing her obsession over dreams. I positively detested Miriam’s determination to taint every discussion and every topic with her religious obsession.”

Elena’s chair creaked as she shifted. “Two points of clarification. Miriam was not obsessed. And the issue was not religion, but faith.”

“Another point on which we must disagree.” Yet Rachel Lamprey showed no irritation. At least, not at Elena. “My division at SuenaMed, my company, is at the point of making a major breakthrough. The news will be announced at any moment. And yet here I am, forced to take time I do not have, to deal with an issue related to dreams.”

Elena found herself resuming her mode as a clinical analyst. Listening and watching and absorbing. It was as if she had slipped into an old favorite suit left at the back of her closet for far too long. Elena could thus separate Rachel Lamprey from the memory of her sister. Because whatever else Rachel might be, she was most certainly not Miriam.

Rachel’s heels formed a sharp cadence across the linoleum tiles. “Dreams and foretelling have been a burden or a calling or a passion or an obsession that has remained with my family for centuries. I call it by different names depending upon the season.”

Elena asked, “How do you refer to it now?”

Rachel’s glittering black eyes held a fierce intensity. “I have no idea.”

“What has changed?”

“My division is confronting an issue that specifically relates to your work on dreams.” Rachel faced her squarely. “One of my clinical patients has been having dreams that follow a very disturbing pattern. The sequence is precise. Repetitive. And overwhelming in its power.”

“I don’t understand. You fear this is due to some adverse reaction to your new drug?”

“I did. At first.” Rachel Lamprey’s eyes flashed a dark fire. “Until I learned that others with no discernible connection to our company were having the same dream.”

2

R
eginald Pierce must have been listening at the classroom door, because he opened it the instant Rachel started down the center aisle.

She demanded, “You have the flash drive?”

“Of course.”

“Leave it with Dr. Burroughs.”

Reginald stepped into the classroom. “The chairman called.”

Rachel blanched. “When?”

“Five minutes ago. I said you’d be coming out of the conference soon. You are to phone him immediately.”

“I’ll be in the car.” She started to leave, then paused. “Forgive me, Dr. Burroughs. This day is fraught. And our chairman . . . Look through the material and call me, would you please. And soon. Please. Good-bye.”

Reginald set his alligator attaché case on Elena’s desk and popped the locks. “Can you help her?”

“That’s an interesting way to phrase your question,” Elena replied. “She does not need help often, does she?”

Up close, Reginald possessed a spicy scent, like the fragrance
of some uninhabited Caribbean isle. He was strikingly handsome, in a preppy and tightly wound sort of way. “Personally, I can’t get my head around this dream stuff. But it has Rachel seriously rattled.”

“You genuinely care about her,” Elena observed.

He held out a memory stick. “Nothing rattles Rachel Lamprey.”

Elena accepted the stick. She felt the young man’s fingers trembling, or perhaps the memory stick held a force so potent it created a vibration all on its own. “I see.”

He gave her a business card. “My own details are on the back. You can contact me day or night.” Reginald shut the case and started for the door. “She wasn’t kidding. You really do need to hurry. You know. Just in case she’s right. And this really is a crisis in the making.”

•    •    •

When she returned to her rented condo, Elena turned on her tablet computer and popped in the memory stick. Her fourth-floor balcony overlooked the southernmost portion of the Banana River. Farther north, the river was over three miles wide and separated from the inland waterway by Merritt Island, a peninsula jutting south from Cape Canaveral. From Elena’s balcony she could see the narrow spit where Merritt Island ended, marked by a drawbridge much loved by locals and tourists alike. Here the Banana River was crimped down to just fifty meters wide. It was quiet here, on the western side of the barrier island. The tourists clustered over by the Atlantic Ocean, where the hotels and the beachfront condos rose like concrete teeth. The traffic was heavy there, and the glitz was as constant as the noise. Over here it was still possible to savor the fragrances of frangipani and bougainvillea and old Florida.

Her apartment complex was a cluster of four low-slung buildings fronted by palm trees and docks for pleasure craft. The boat traffic was held strictly to a crawl, because the manatees used the narrow water as a haven for birthing their young. As Elena sipped her iced tea, a pod of river dolphins passed. She could hear the soft puff of their breaths as the westering sun turned their backs into slick copper. It was as good a place as any to call home.

Elena set down her drink and turned her attention to the tablet.

When she had completed her first read-through of Rachel’s documents, Elena entered the condo and made a Cobb salad for dinner. She stood up to eat, watching the golden glow of another Florida sunset. The afternoon storms had passed, leaving the skies amazingly clear. The air remained very humid, the temperatures in the low nineties. Elena found she minded neither. Her screened balcony had a ceiling fan, which shifted the air enough to dry her perspiration almost as soon as it formed. She loved padding around in a sleeveless T-shirt and cotton shorts. Formal attire around here meant a shirt with a collar. She found it positively refreshing after Oxford’s stuffiness.

When the salad was eaten, she returned to the chair and the tablet. Rachel’s information came in two segments. The first was a file of clinical data, supplying an overview of SuenaMed’s new drug. The medicine was a new means of treating ADHD in both children and adults. If successful, it could revolutionize the entire field of attention disorders. Elena could only imagine the pressure Rachel Lamprey was facing as the company approached its worldwide release date.

The second file contained a video named simply, “Clinical Debriefing, Patient 303.” The file was dated two afternoons ago. Elena hesitated, then clicked on the tab.

The setting was a well-appointed office. The camera was situated
so that it looked across the desk and focused on the chair and its occupant. The desk appeared to be black lacquer. A sterling silver clock read the same time as the file’s heading. A vase held a spray of orchids.

Elena heard Rachel’s voice say, “Will you describe the experience for me, please?”

“I already told the lab guy everything.”

“I understand. And I’ve read his report. Which is why I asked to see you.” Rachel’s tone was soothing. She offered her guest a genuine concern. Despite Elena’s doubts about the woman, she found herself impressed with Rachel’s professionalism. “I’m very grateful for your taking the time to see me. A personal discussion is called for, given the details you gave my lab technician. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The man appeared extremely nervous. He was overweight, almost round, and showed a clinical disconnect from his personal appearance. It could have been caused by his agitated state, but Elena did not think so. He wore a blue and yellow and green short-sleeved shirt, a web belt, and creased khaki trousers. His hair, though short, was unruly, as though he had not brushed it in days. Elena knew such traits were common in severe adult ADHD cases.

The patient asked, “Am I having these dreams on account of your spray? ’Cause if I am, I want out. Today.”

“There have been over three hundred patients in our human trials,” Rachel replied calmly. “These trials have now entered the third phase and have been going on for almost two years. No one, I repeat, not a single other individual, has reported anything like your symptoms.”

The man was distraught. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Before we discuss treatment, I would be grateful if you would please describe your symptoms for me.”

“What are you, some kind of doctor?”

“I am a clinical biochemist. I am also director of this project.”

Elena had the distinct impression the man was unaware of being videotaped. Which was not entirely ethical, since most clinicians would make an official statement with each new taping. The patient had undoubtedly signed release forms before beginning the trial. Which would legally cover this. But Elena disliked the secretive corporate nature revealed in this action.

Rachel pressed gently, “You have been involved in this study for how long?”

“I got my first spray last week. Today was supposed to be dose two. Now I ain’t so sure.”

“And the dreams began immediately after the first dose?”

“Nah, it was three nights ago. But it ain’t no dream. It’s an attack.”

“Who attacks you, sir?”

“The thing, the place, all of it. Over and over.”

“So the dream is repetitive.”

“Nine, ten times now. It comes more than once every night.”

“Will you describe it for me, please?”

Elena gripped the tablet with both hands. When the patient leaned forward, she did the same. Caught up in the man’s evident fear. And everything that had come before in her own life.

“It starts out, I’m standing in the bank lobby. The line, it just goes on forever. Out the doors and down the block and back for miles. I’m in line but I see this too. Don’t ask me how. I’ve been standing there for, like, days. We all have. And we’re scared.”

“You share this sensation of palpable fear with the others standing in line?”

“All of us. Every last one. You bet.”

“What precisely are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know. Not then.”

“What happens next?”

“The line starts moving. Only the fear, it just gets worse. I’m so scared, man.” Dark patches streaked the patient’s shirt. His face glistened. His voice shook as he continued, “Finally it’s my turn. I tell the lady behind the counter, I want all of it. Every dime. It’s mine and I want it now.

“She goes, ‘Certainly, sir.’ And she dumps this load of confetti on the counter. I can see it’s money. But it’s been shredded. Worthless. Then I wake up.”

“Can you describe for me the moment of waking?”

He wiped his face with both hands. “I’m screaming my head off.”

“I understand this is very difficult for you. I genuinely appreciate the effort this requires.”

The patient’s haunted expression said he knew what was coming.

Rachel asked, “Is there anything more you would like to share with me?”

The patient mashed his hair down tight to his skull. Over and over.

“Any lingering impression or feeling that might—”

“I got to tell somebody.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked what I feel. That’s it. That’s why I’m sitting here. Going through this again. Because I got to. You hear what I’m saying?”

“You are telling me that you are filled with a strong urge to share this dream.”

“I already told you, lady. This ain’t no dream.”

“What would you prefer that I call it, then? What word would you say best—”

“A warning.”

“Is this warning intended for you?”

“For everybody. That’s what I feel. It’s either stand on the street corner and shout, or sit here and tell you. I figure, if I’m nuts, this is at least a way to keep it private.”

Rachel did not speak.

“Am I nuts?”

“Nothing you have expressed to me indicates any abnormal symptoms,” she replied slowly. “Other than your evident stress.”

His laugh was coppery with weakness. “You got that right.”

The screen went blank.

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