by Angela Hunt
“We don’t know him,” the professor said. “But I like him. He’s educated. Cultured. Plus, the man has more degrees than a thermometer.”
“I like him, too,” Tank said. “Only because he promised to take good care of you.”
I looked at Brenda, hoping for a little saltiness to counteract the sweet, and she didn’t disappoint. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said, taking Daniel’s hand. “It’s not every day that you get to be the princess.”
CHAPTER
5
Getting away that afternoon wasn’t easy. After we returned from the memorial service, the professor wanted Brenda and Tank to dive back into their reading, and he wanted me to conduct experiments with the orb. But I told him I’d do a better job if I could get my head on straight, and Dr. Drummond might be the key to helping me feel like my old self.
Reluctantly, the professor agreed.
So I drove to the building where Dr. Drummond had taken an office. The door was locked, of course, but I knocked and only had to wait a couple of minutes before Drummond let me in. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, pointing to a slurry of papers spread over what should have been a receptionist’s desk. “And come on back. I’m trying to get my paper ready for a professional publication, and it’s kept me so busy I don’t have time to tidy up.”
I stopped in the hallway. “Are you sure I’m not interrupting? I could back another time.”
He smiled. “As I said before, you’re a welcome distraction. All work and no diversion makes a psychiatrist a little crazy.”
I laughed and dropped into the same wingback chair I’d chosen last time. “Did you make that up?”
“That bad, eh?” Drummond dropped into the chair across from me, then casually leaned over the arm. “All right, lass—what’s up with you?”
I rubbed my damp palm over my jeans. “I’m having weird dreams.” I forced another laugh. “I bet you get that all the time, huh?”
“I hear it a lot, aye. Sometimes our dreams are the way our subconscious speaks to us. But dreams have a unique language.”
“Then I definitely don’t speak dream.”
I watched as Drummond got up and moved to a counter on the other side of the room. The counter held a small sink, a single-serve coffeemaker, and a spinner that held about a dozen single-serve coffee pods.
“What can I get you?” he asked, turning. “I’ve got all kinds of coffee, various teas, plus hot cocoa and apple cider.”
Considering the steamy weather outside, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a hot drink, but the man was from the United Kingdom. Maybe he preferred teas and coffees out of habit. “Um . . . tea,” I said. “Any kind.”
“Sugar or the fake stuff?”
“Sugar, please. And cream if you have it.”
“I like a woman who knows the proper way to drink tea—though my friends on the other side of the pond would be aghast if they saw me brewing tea with this machine.” I heard the hum of the coffeemaker, followed by the sound of dribbling liquid. While Drummond prepared the tea, I looked around the office.
The room was more library than office, with tall shelves lining three walls, most loaded with books. Papers and books cluttered the desk in front of a wide window that opened to the parking lot. His laptop sat on the rolling table beside his wingback chair, so perhaps he preferred to work away from his desk.
Unlike most doctors, he hadn’t hung any degrees or award certificates on the wall, but this was a borrowed space, after all. “No degrees?” I said, glancing back at him.
“Pardon?”
“On the wall—most doctors prominently display their degrees to impress patients.”
“Ah.” He lifted a steaming mug and brought it over. “University of Edinburgh,” he said. “Masters in Psychological Research in 2007, Doctorate in Psychology of Individual Differences with an emphasis on Depression and Personality in 2010.” He handed me the mug. “I’ll hang a few diplomas if you think it will enhance my credibility.”
“No need.” I felt a blush creep across my cheeks. Did he think I didn’t trust him? “So what made you choose psychiatry?”
He chuckled as he sank into his chair. “Fascination, I suppose. People are amazing, and I am easily intrigued. We have so many differences and so many commonalities.”
“Sure—some of us are crazy and some aren’t.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Andrea. You seem completely sane.”
“You may not think so after you hear what I’ve been dreaming.”
“If you’re ready to tell me, I’d love to listen.”
I took a sip of tea, then wiped my hands on my jeans again.
“You’re tense,” Drummond said. “Why don’t you close your eyes and pretend I’m not even in the room?”
I didn’t like the idea of closing my eyes—what girl would, with a gorgeous man sitting across from her?—but maybe he had a point.
“I’ve had this dream before,” I said, obediently closing my eyes. “I’m in the back of an auditorium, watching a scene. It’s dark, and there are people all around, but they’re only silhouettes. There’s a platform down front, and it’s lit with a bright light. I see a short pedestal with a basket on it, and a blanket is covering whatever’s in the basket. A young woman steps out—she’s wearing this sort of Grecian gown, all draped and flowing—and she pulls the blanket away. Then I come down the aisle and look into the basket, and somehow I know I’m looking at an infant version of myself. I’m a baby, but I’m not solid—it’s like I’m made of flesh without bones, and some invisible force is shaping me. I look at the face—it has three eyes, one in the center of the forehead, then the face shifts so there are only two eyes, but they’re vertical instead of horizontal.
“Then the woman says that the child’s father has the right to say what the baby will become, and this is what he’s chosen, and then I turn and look at a shadowed figure over to the left—it’s huge, with horns and wings and scaly skin . . . and I know it’s Satan. And the people in the room are chanting things like you are god while I’m screaming and the baby’s face continues to shift . . . and that’s usually when I wake up.”
I opened my eyes. Dr. Drummond sat with his elbow propped on the armrest and a finger pressed to his mouth. “Well,” he said, smiling across the distance between us, “I can tell you a few basic things about dreams and their meaning. To dream of yourself as an infant means that you want to be nurtured and cared for . . . that you might be feeling a bit unloved. The third eye is supposed to be a window into the spiritual world, so perhaps you’ve been seein’—or you want to see—into other realities. And if you see Satan in your dream—that’s a sign of some wrongdoing or evil in your environment.” He lifted a brow. “Have I provided any keys that might help you interpret this dream yourself?”
“Well . . .” I raked my hand through my hair in the hope that it might stimulate my brain. “Ever since I’ve become involved with the team, I have felt like we’re chasing something . . . really evil. In fact, Safta, my grandmother, jokes I’ve been hanging out with ghostbusters. I tried to tell her that our work is nothing like that, but then again”—I shrugged—“we have seen dead people, so maybe she has a point.”
“These . . . ghostbusters.” Drummond smiled. “Are they the people I met at the funeral?”
“Yes.” I tilted my head as a sudden thought struck. “By the way, what were you doing at Dr. Mathis’s service?”
“He was the friend of a friend—didn’t know him well, but I respected his work.”
“His work with jellyfish?”
Drummond’s brows lifted, then he smiled and cocked his index finger at me. “He worked primarily with dolphins and manatees, but nice try. Testing my veracity, are you?”
Again, my cheeks burned. “Sorry. But we have been chasing evil—and I’m no longer sure who I can trust.”
“Back to your dream.” Drummond crossed his legs. “You said a blanket covered the baby, and a Grecian goddess-type remov
ed the blanket.”
I nodded.
“Could the woman represent your mother? How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
My mouth went dry. “My mother,” I said, struggling to speak, “was a drug addict. She gave birth to me, then both of us went through detox. But about a month later, someone broke into her apartment and shot her up with enough heroin to kill an elephant, or so the medical examiner said. The police never found the murderer, but they suspected a couple of drug dealers who might have been upset about her leaving that lifestyle behind. The cops turned me over to social services, but my grandparents picked me up before I entered foster care. They adopted me, and I’ve been living in their home ever since I can remember.”
Dr. Drummond listened with his eyes closed, and I watched emotions—sympathy, anger, resignation—flicker over his face as I told the story. When I finished, he grunted softly and looked at me. “Incredible,” he said simply, his eyes sparking with interest. “Did your mother use drugs while pregnant with you?”
“Yes. I don’t know what she took, but I do know that we were both in the hospital for a while. I’m okay, though. No long-term impairment—the doctors say I’m lucky.”
“Indeed you are.” He shook his head slightly and looked at the chair’s armrest. “I suspected that your background might hold some sort of mother/daughter separation because of the woman’s role in the dream. She was the presenter, you see, just as your mother presented you to the world.” A frown line crept between his brows. “Do you know anything about your father?”
“Only that I hope he isn’t the devil.” I forced a laugh, but the effort sounded weak even to my ears.
“If your birth mother was a heavy drug user, she may not have known who your father was.” He hesitated. “The older gentleman with your group—your employer?”
“James McKinney,” I said. “And yes, he is a sort of surrogate father figure. I met him in my freshman year and started working for him right after college graduation. He might appear to be curmudgeonly, but he has a soft heart. It’s just buried under layers of logic and rationalization.”
“Any sort of romantic—?”
“No,” I snapped, having heard the question one time too many. “It is completely possible for an older man and a younger woman to be platonic friends.”
“Indeed it is.” The doctor looked down, the suggestion of a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for the background,” he said, “now let’s talk about the issue that brought you here. Your family doctor said that you experienced a physical trauma and a break from your sense of self. How are you doing physically? And are you beginning to feel more normal?”
“Yes . . . and no.”
“Explain, please.”
I pressed my lips together and struggled to find the right words. “Yes, I feel strong, and I’ve been getting back to work. But no, because I’m not sleeping much, because I keep having that dream. And sometimes I hear the voices in my head again, but at least this time I’m in control, not them. But shouldn’t they be gone? I worry that I’ll let my guard down somehow and they’ll take over again.”
Dr. Drummond leaned forward. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know. We’ve heard rumors about a group called The Gate, but we don’t know how they are connected to the various situations we’ve investigated. We’re trying to learn all we can, but it’s not easy to investigate a group that doesn’t want to be investigated.”
Dr. Drummond’s face cracked into a smile. “Surely you’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged. “The Gate is a favorite topic of conversation among those who like to talk about the Illuminati, the second shooter on the grassy knoll, and the captive aliens at Area 51. No proof exists for any of those things, but the rumors persist.”
I stared at the floor. If he didn’t believe in The Gate, he wouldn’t believe any of my stories.
“Andrea, you’re a bright young woman. You don’t really believe in the existence of The Gate, do you? You might as well believe in Santa Claus.”
“For your information,” I said slowly, “Saint Nicholas was an actual man who lived in fourth-century Turkey. Stories of his miracles evolved into the fat man who comes down the chimney on Christmas Eve, but no one can deny that Saint Nicholas existed. Rumors about The Gate and the Illuminati and the second shooter and the aliens may abound, but rumors have to spring from something.”
“Indeed—fable. Fantasy. As a Scotsman, I can tell you about haunted lochs, fairy hills, and clootie wells. They are part of my heritage, but not part of my reality.”
I didn’t know what to say. If I told him about some of the things I’d seen . . .
Dr. Drummond drew a deep breath, then settled back in his chair. “I believe that the voices you heard are nothing more than your own anxieties—your subconscious is literally giving voice to your fears. In the same way, your dream is your subconscious way of sorting through things your conscious mind puzzled over during the day.”
I frowned. “That sounds so simple.”
“Most problems usually are.” He smiled again. “All right. Let’s meet again in a couple of days, but I want you to think about something. I want you to consider hypnotism. It may help you clear out some of your subconscious anxieties. You’ll feel better and sleep better, too.”
I blinked as my thoughts veered toward nightclub acts and cheesy camp skits. “You want to hypnotize me?”
“I believe you may have memories buried deep in your subconscious, and you’ll be more willing to talk about them under hypnosis. It’s my job to convince your subconscious self that it’s safe for you to put those memories and feelings into words.”
I frowned at him. Aside from my recurrent nightmare, I couldn’t think of any memory horrific enough to be suppressed, but maybe I’d suppressed something I couldn’t consciously remember.
“Hypnosis will help you,” Drummond said as he opened his laptop, “so I’ll pencil you in for Tuesday, if that’s all right. We’ll have you feeling like yourself in no time.”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Don’t worry, Andi, just think about it. And if you’re willing to be hypnotized, we’ll have a session when you come in.”
I nodded numbly and walked toward the door, more confused than when I’d arrived.
Sunday night, after dining from a half-dozen boxes of Chinese food, we gathered in the living room to report on what we’d learned. “First,” the professor said, “we’ll hear from Daniel.” He turned his attention to the boy, who actually looked up from his current game of Battleship Megadeath. “Daniel, have you seen anything odd since we’ve been in Florida? Any—whatever it is you see—that we should be aware of?”
Daniel narrowed his eyes as if thinking, then shook his head.
“Have you seen any of your invisible friends around us since we’ve been together on this trip?”
Daniel’s face brightened.
“Really? Around whom?”
Without hesitation, Daniel pointed to Tank, who grinned an aw, shucks grin before replying. “Good to know, Daniel.”
The professor lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if appealing for help, then continued. “What about Dr. Drummond?” he pressed. “Anything odd about him?”
“No,” Daniel said. “No duch. No anioł.”
When the professor looked to Brenda for an explanation, she blew out a breath. “Daniel has his own words, and I’m still learnin’ some of ’em. But these two I know. From what I can tell, a duch is bad. An anioł is good.”
“So . . . ?”
“So Dr. Drummond is not good, not bad.”
“Could Daniel come up with something more useful?”
Brenda’s brows rushed together. “You wanna back off? He’s a kid.”
“As were we all, once.” The professor folded his arms. “What about your research, Barnick? Have you been able to identify any members of The Gate? Any location? M
ission statement? Anything besides what we’ve already seen on their website?”
“Whaddya think I am, a computer?” Brenda grimaced and pulled some notecards from her oversized purse. “I couldn’t find anything linking The Gate to the fungus, but I did find some interesting stuff about funguses.”
“That’s fungi,” the professor corrected. “One fungus, two fungi.”
“Whatever. Scientists used to think that fungi evolved from algae because they’re both green. But now they think that fungi are more closely related to animals. Fungi don’t make food through the sun like plants do; the stuff has a digestive system more like a human’s. I don’t get all the mumbo-jumbo about why that is—has to do with cells and a bunch of words I can’t even pronounce—but I think it might explain why The Gate wanted to use a fungus to do their dirty work.”
From the way the professor’s eyes widened, I knew he was pleasantly surprised by Brenda’s insight. “That is interesting, Barnick. What about you, Tank? Any progress?”
“Not really,” Tank said, his voice flat. “They do a good job of hiding. Remember when we met Sridhar at the Institute? We also met the director, Dr. Trenton, and Sridhar had heard Trenton acknowledge the school’s association with The Gate. But you won’t find that published anywhere. Last week, Mathis was babbling about The Gate when the professor and I found him in his lab, but he was infected with the fungus by then, so it wasn’t him talking, it was the . . . whatever you want to call it.”
“The collective,” the professor said. “A hive mentality. When many beings are controlled by a single consciousness.”
“Yeah,” Tank said. “I know it sounds crazy, but it makes sense once you’ve seen it in action. So I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you. I found lots of stuff about The Gate, but I can’t tell if it’s legit or just a bunch of speculation. Clearly, nobody wants to admit they belong to that outfit. Makes it easier to deny that the group even exists.”
“Which is also what I discovered.” I smiled at Tank, not wanting him to feel discouraged. “By the way, I thought I saw Sridhar at the funeral. Did anyone else see him, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?”