Falling Awake

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Dave sat down slowly, shaken. “I still don’t understand why you think the magazine proves anything. Katherine probably bought it as a sort of keepsake because it represented something she shared with Scargill.”

  “That may be why she purchased it but I don’t think that’s why I found it where I did on the floor. It was located only a short distance from where she fell, Dave. I believe that she managed to grab it just before she was shot. The impact of the bullet probably caused her to drop it. That’s why there’s no blood on it.”

  “Wouldn’t Scargill have noticed it and recognized his own game avatar?”

  “The magazine was facedown when I found it,” Ellis said softly. “My hunch is that Scargill never saw the cover.”

  Dave studied the magazine as if he were trying to read a half-forgotten language that could be deciphered if he just worked at it. “The police said the place had been vandalized as well as burglarized.”

  “If I’m right, Scargill tore up Katherine’s apartment in order to simulate an out-of-control murder-robbery. He’s a game player, remember. But now that we know the magazine had some personal meaning for her, what are the odds that Katherine would have been killed with it practically in her hands?”

  Dave’s eyes lit with understanding and savage pride. “She did her best in the last moments of her life to name her killer.”

  “I think so, yes,” Ellis said.

  Dave dropped his head into his hands. “She left the clue for me. She must have known that I was the only one who could make sense of it. I did eventually go to her apartment to help Mom and Dad pack up her things but by the time we got there the place had been cleaned.”

  “You mustn’t feel bad, Dave.” Isabel put her hand on his shoulder. “Even if you had seen the magazine immediately after the killing and understood its significance, it’s highly doubtful that the police would have paid any attention to you.”

  “Because Scargill is officially dead and cremated,” Ellis reminded him softly.

  Dave raised his head, his face bleak. “This is crazy.”

  “No, it’s not,” Ellis said. “Not if you go with my theory that Scargill is still alive. Then everything else falls into place.”

  There was a long silence. Both men drank their coffee.

  Ellis set down his empty cup. “How did you find me, Dave?”

  Dave had gone back to staring at the picture of the cobra. He seemed distracted. “What?”

  “How did you locate me?” Ellis repeated patiently. “I wasn’t deliberately trying to hide but not very many people know that I’m here in Roxanna Beach.”

  “Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.” Dave shrugged. “I tracked you online. It wasn’t that hard. You may be some kind of hotshot secret agent when you work for Frey-Salter but the rest of the time you maintain a legitimate business identity. You’ve got corporate credit cards, a driver’s license and a Maserati, for crying out loud. How hard could it be to find you? Especially since, like you said, you weren’t trying to hide.”

  Ellis smiled, evidently satisfied. “Are you as good as Katherine was when it comes to computers?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “Because I’ve hit the wall when it comes to online research and I can’t trust my usual sources. I need some help.”

  “I’m still not completely sure you’re the good guy in this thing,” Dave muttered. He flicked a speculative glance at Isabel. “But I agree that finding that picture of the cobra in Katherine’s apartment does point toward Scargill.”

  Ellis checked his watch. “I’m in a hurry here. Want to help me find your sister’s killer or not?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Dave said.

  32

  halfway through the first session of “Tapping into the Creative Potential of Your Dreams,” Isabel knew she had a disaster on her hands. An atmosphere of restless boredom had enveloped the seminar room five minutes into her lecture. One man in the first row had gone to sleep. Most of the other attendees were glancing at their watches every few minutes. Tamsyn, observing from a seat at the back of the chamber, appeared increasingly concerned.

  Okay, so I’m not cut out to be an instructor of the Kyler Method. Another career path down the drain. So what else is new?

  The fact that half her mind was fully occupied in wondering what Ellis was doing was not helping her stay focused on the job at hand.

  She glanced at the clock. Half an hour to go. She would have given anything to walk off the stage but she knew she had no choice but to plow ahead.

  “People tend to recall only the dreams they have just before they awaken and very often not even those. But researchers are convinced that most of us dream actively all night long. You can prove this easily enough by waking people up at various points during the night and asking them about their dreams. Trust me, they’ll tell you. Probably more than you really want to know.”

  No one laughed at the small joke.

  A man seated in the third row raised his hand. She had noticed him earlier, in part because he was one of the few men in the room with a beard. His was closely cut, with a stylish flair that accented the handsome angles of his cheekbones and jaw-line. The other reason she had picked him out of the crowd was because he was one of the few people who seemed genuinely interested in her lecture.

  “Yes?” she said brightly, so desperately grateful to him for showing some interest that she wanted to hop over the first two rows and kiss him on both cheeks. “You had a question, sir?”

  “I was just wondering,” he said in a low, resonant voice, “why we don’t remember many of our dreams?”

  “Theories vary but one that sounds reasonable to many researchers is that we simply aren’t paying much attention while we sleep. We don’t focus on a dream unless it happens to be particularly vivid or unless it contains a strong emotional element.” She held up a notepad. “Which brings me to the first step in the process of tapping into the creative potential of your dreams.” She paused for effect, as she had learned in her instructors’ classes. “Take notes. Keep a pen and a pad of paper beside your bed. Or try a recorder. Whenever you wake up in the middle of the night, write down whatever you can recall of your dreams. Your goal is to create a dream log.”

  She waved the pointer with a flourish, trying to regain the attention of some people in the back row who were chatting among themselves. The tip of the wand moved across the top of the podium, sweeping her carefully arranged notes to the floor.

  For a moment everyone in the room, including her, stared at the fallen note cards.

  “Excuse me.” She crouched and frantically gathered up the cards.

  The murmur of conversation in the back row got louder.

  She staggered erect and put the cards back on top of the podium. Gripping the edges of the stand she looked out at her audience, half of which was now engaged in low-voiced conversations. Someone’s cell phone rang. Just to make matters worse, the person took the call.

  I don’t believe this, she thought. It’s just a really bad dream. Okay, maybe not as bad as a crime scene dream, but darn close.

  With an effort of will she gathered herself. Thirty minutes to go.

  “Step two,” she said through gritted teeth, “is to look through your dream log at the end of each week. You will be searching for recurring themes and ideas, but my advice is not to waste time on the more traditional interpretive approach, which relies on symbols. In the old days of dream research it was felt that every element in a dream actually meant something other than what it appeared to be. If you dreamed about a closed door you were experiencing a fear of change. If you dreamed about a mirror in which you cannot see your reflection you were worried about how others see you, and so forth.”

  The man with the neatly trimmed beard raised his hand. “What’s wrong with taking that approach? I’ve always heard symbols are important in dreams.”

  In the back row, Tamsyn gave a tiny, negative wave of her hand and shook her head. Not hard to int
erpret those symbols, Isabel thought. Tamsyn wanted her to leave the topic and get back to the discussion of dream logs.

  But she couldn’t ignore the one person in the class who was actually paying attention, she told herself. She smiled at the bearded man.

  “The idea that our dreams contain critical symbols that must be interpreted is extremely ancient and comes down to us from a variety of cultures,” she said quickly, trying to rush through the explanation. “It was strongly reinforced in the twentieth century by Jung and Freud and others who took a psychological approach to dream research.”

  Another hand went up. She pretended not to notice.

  “It is extremely risky to put too much emphasis on symbols in dreams for the simple reason that there are as many interpretations of various symbols as there are people who try to interpret dreams,” she continued. “While some analysts would see that closed door I just mentioned as a symbol of fear of change, others would interpret it as the rational barrier that stands between our civilized nature and our deepest, most primitive thoughts and repressed desires.”

  The woman who had just raised her hand spoke up loudly.

  “But the door must mean something,” she insisted.

  Isabel spread her hands. “It could be just a door with no particular significance at all. Maybe one you noticed out of the corner of your eye earlier in the day when you walked down the street. That’s the problem with dream symbols. If you attempt to use them to interpret the meaning of your dreams, I suggest that you do not rely on a dream encyclopedia or theories of universal archetypes. Instead, think of the objects and events in your dreams in terms of personal context.”

  In the back row, Tamsyn sagged in her chair, apparently resigned to disaster.

  “What’s context?” the bearded man demanded.

  Isabel turned to him. “I am talking about what is going on with you in your own life. Are you facing a major career decision? If so, maybe that door does represent a fear of change or having to make a choice. But deal with the decision-making process while you are awake. Don’t look to your dreams for solutions. A decision that appears rational and right in a dream is actually quite arbitrary and may be entirely wrong for the waking world. Dreaming and waking thought are two different states of mind, literally.”

  “I thought this class was supposed to be about tapping into our dreams to get creative answers,” someone whined from the fifth row.

  Another phone warbled. A man in the tenth row dove into his pocket to respond.

  In the back, Tamsyn put her face in her hands.

  Let me out of this nightmare, Isabel thought. But she knew there was no escape. She couldn’t even tell herself that she would eventually wake up and discover it was all just a dream. She was trapped.

  ellis slipped the twenty-dollar bill across the counter. The plump, good-natured café owner made it disappear into the pocket of her apron. She had told him that he could call her Daisy.

  “All I know is that the doc was real regular in his habits.” Daisy leaned forward a little, providing a view of her generous cleavage. “He ate his dinner here, same as usual on that night. Had the special. On Thursday nights he always ordered the special. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy. It was his favorite.”

  “He didn’t look ill?”

  “Looked fine to me.” Daisy shrugged well-upholstered shoulders. “But that’s the way it is with a heart attack, ain’t it? One minute you’re fine. The next, you’re a goner.”

  “Not always,” Ellis said softly. “In a lot of cases there are prior symptoms. Nausea. Shortness of breath. Chest pain.”

  “If he was having any of those things, he didn’t let on. Ate every bite. Doc had a good appetite. One of my best customers.”

  “Do you know where he went after he left here that evening?” Ellis asked, dutifully making a note on a pad of paper.

  “Sure. Said he was headed straight back to his office at the center. That’s where they found him, wasn’t it? Dead at his desk?”

  “Yes,” Ellis said.

  “Doc hardly ever went home. Had a real problem with insomnia, you know.” Daisy tut-tutted. “Told me once he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in forty years, poor man.”

  “I see.” Ellis finished the bad coffee and got to his feet. He should have brought along some bags of green tea, he thought. Evidently he had become addicted to the stuff at some point during the past few months. “Thanks for the information.”

  Daisy squinted a little. “Mind if I ask why you wanted to know what Doc had to eat that night?”

  “I’m retracing his movements on the day of his death.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “Insurance investigation,” Ellis said. “My boss wants me to be sure it wasn’t suicide. Company doesn’t pay out on suicides.”

  “Damned insurance companies. Always looking for a way to get out of paying.” Daisy snorted. “I’ll tell you one thing. Doc wouldn’t have taken his own life. Leastways, not that night.”

  Ellis tried not to look too interested. “What makes you so sure?”

  “He was real excited about something he was working on at the time.”

  “Did he talk about the project?”

  “Not to me, he didn’t. But he had a couple of meetings here with a tall guy who looked like he’d gone through a windshield sometime in the past few months. Had some bad scars on his face, right about here, you know?” She tapped her forehead and jaw. “Wore his hair sort of long and he looked like he was trying to grow a beard to hide the scars.”

  Ellis kept his expression polite and as casual as possible. “Any idea what they discussed at the meetings?”

  “Nope. Sat over there in the corner booth and talked real quiet like. But I could tell they were both real intense and Doc was excited. If he was gonna commit suicide, you’d think he would have waited until after he finished his special project.”

  Ellis pocketed his notebook. “Sounds like a logical assumption.”

  after what seemed like an eternity, the class finally ended. Tamsyn made her way forward while the students surged toward the exits.

  Isabel slumped against the podium. “You don’t have to tell me, I know I was terrible.”

  “Not terrible,” Tamsyn said, speaking very precisely. “It was a very interesting talk.”

  “One man in the front went to sleep. Everyone else looked like they were thinking about lunch or picking up their voice mail messages.”

  “Okay, there were some dry parts, but we can work on those.”

  “I appreciate your positive attitude, but we might as well face facts here. I don’t have your flair for this type of work. It was kind of you and Leila to talk Farrell into giving me the opportunity, but I think it’s clear that I don’t have what it takes to be a Kyler Method instructor.”

  “You can do it, Isabel,” Tamsyn said, shifting into full Kyler Method mode. “Let’s go over your presentation points before the next class.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Isabel gathered up her notes. “I’m going to talk to Farrell right now and let him know that I’m resigning. Something tells me that he’ll be thrilled.”

  randolph Belvedere felt as if he had just found out he might be holding a winning lottery ticket. He struggled not to let his desperate hope show on his face.

  “Are you telling me that my father took out a large life insurance policy?” he asked, stacking his hands on the desk in what he thought looked like a calm, centered, controlled pose. The truth was, his fingers were shaking so badly he was afraid the dangerous-looking insurance investigator might think he had a tremor.

  The man seated on the other side of the desk had introduced himself as Charles Ward. When Mrs. Johnson had shown him into the room a few minutes ago, Randolph’s first thought was that Ward didn’t look like an insurance company employee. His suit was expensive but it was cut along Euro-sleek lines, not the traditional, conservative, more boxy style favored by most American businessmen.

  B
ut it wasn’t Ward’s clothes that worried him, it was Ward himself. The suit might have come from Italy, but Ward looked like he came from the wrong side of the tracks.

  “All I am allowed to say is that I am looking into the circumstances of Dr. Belvedere’s death,” Ward said, making it clear that he was not about to give out unauthorized information. “If my findings warrant further action, someone else will contact you to discuss the details of the policy.”

  “I see.” Randolph pressed his right hand very tightly on top of his left. “Can you tell me whether or not the policy is a large one?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m expensive.” Ward smiled enigmatically. “The company doesn’t send me out to investigate a claim unless the policy is large enough to make it worthwhile to hire me.”

  “I understand.” Randolph realized that his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. He had to swallow a couple of times before he could continue. “Well then, what is it you want to verify?”

  “Cause of death.”

  Randolph’s first reaction was bewilderment. “There’s no question about that. My father died of a heart attack.”

  “I’m sure that’s correct,” Ward said easily. “But with so much money at stake, my company wants to be absolutely certain.”

  “What other possibility is there?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Are you crazy?” Randolph was dumbstruck. “My father would never have taken his own life.”

  “Relatives often say that. It’s amazing how few people see it coming.”

  Randolph shook his head once, absolutely certain. “My father lived for his research.” He grimaced. “I’ll be the first to admit that he was very much on the fringes of his field, but that doesn’t change the fact that he believed in his work. He wouldn’t have taken his own life.”

  “The center does sleep research,” Ward pointed out calmly. “I’m assuming that means that your father would have had access to a variety of sleep medications, some of which are probably experimental, right?”

  Randolph ground his back teeth. “I assure you, my father did not conduct experiments on himself.”