by V. E. Lemp
“What?” queried a voice. A high, clear, female voice.
“Oh, sorry.” Karen surmised this was one of her students, calling to beg for a grade change. She sat in the car without starting the engine. This might take some time.
“Is this Karen Foster?” the voice asked.
“Yes, this is she.” Karen pulled a map from her briefcase and glanced over the route she’d marked the night before.
“This is Ariel. Ariel Tarrow.”
Karen dropped the map on the passenger’s seat. “How’d you get this number?”
“My father. He’s good at locating people.”
“Is he tracking me?” Karen thought of Mark’s warnings.
“No, no.” Ariel’s voice fell to a whisper. “I asked him to find your number. I had to call. I had a dream about you, Karen.”
“What do you mean?” Karen glanced out her car windows and then stared into the rearview mirror, reassuring herself that nothing was moving in the parking lot.
“A strange, very vivid dream. Which is weird ’cause I don’t dream much. Well, guess I do, but I never remember them. I remember this one”—Ariel’s voice grew stronger—“very clearly.”
Karen locked her car doors. “So what was this dream?”
“You were in a room. An odd, white room. It was empty. Just an empty box. You were standing in one corner. I recognized you right away. It was weird ’cause I wasn’t really there, but I could see you. Like I was viewing the whole scene from above.”
“Astral projection,” Karen muttered under her breath. The term just popped into her head, probably a memory of some discussion with Alex.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. So, anything else?”
“Yes.” Ariel drew out the word. “The really strange thing was these other people who appeared in the room. Ordinary looking, but they all had the same dark hair. And dark eyes,” she said, with an emphasis on the second word. “Really strange dark eyes.”
Karen coughed to cover an involuntary expletive.
“These odd people, they surrounded you. It was like they were trapping you, somehow. I tried to call out but couldn’t make a sound. Then they put their hands on you, and you vanished. You just disappeared.”
“And?” The fingers of Karen’s left hand were clenched around the steering wheel.
“And I woke up. But the dream haunted me. I felt I had to contact you. To warn you.”
Karen relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and forced fake nonchalance into her voice. “Warn me about strange, dark-eyed people and white rooms? I’ll try to avoid that situation.”
“To tell you to be careful,” Ariel said. “I thought maybe, if I told you, you’d understand what it means. I don’t. I just feel you might be in danger.”
“Well, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not sure what that dream means either. Although,” Karen debated before pressing on, “the dark-haired, dark-eyed people might be significant.”
“That’s what my father thought. He wants to meet when you have time. Could you come see us?”
“You told your father? Yes, I guess you might. I can’t come now, though. I’m taking a trip.”
“Maybe when you get back?”
“Maybe. Where do you live, anyway, when you aren’t on the lecture circuit?”
“New York,” Ariel said. “Well, Queens. I can give you our number, and you can call, maybe? When you have time?”
“Okay, give me the number.” Karen pulled a pen from her briefcase and wrote the phone number across one corner of her map. “I can’t promise when I’ll contact you, though.”
“It’s okay. Just be sure you do. My dad really wants to talk to you. He told me to let you know that.”
“Tell him I’ll try. And Ariel—please don’t call me again. It might not be safe.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m well protected,” said Ariel Tarrow, and hung up.
Karen sat in the car for several more minutes before turning the key in the ignition.
Her first stop was only an hour and a half away, near the center of the capital, but Karen was shaking and swearing by the time she’d navigated the city traffic. She sat for some time after parking her car in an expensive pay lot. “This better be good,” she said, as she climbed out of the car. Her hands were still quivering when she stuffed the claim ticket in her purse.
She was scheduled to meet Max McCormick backstage at the repertory theatre where he’d worked for the last five years. Obviously surprised by her call, he’d quickly agreed to meet. His voice, always pleasant, had deepened over the years to a rich baritone. Karen could easily imagine that voice commanding the stage.
She was stopped at the stage door by a guard, but once she gave her name, he was all smiles. “Max said you’d be stopping by.” The guard led her through a maze of hallways to a small dressing room. “He just finished a matinee. Let me knock and see if he’s ready to greet you.”
Max met them at the door and, after thanking the guard, waved Karen into the room. He was heavier, but the extra bulk suited him, lending him a gravitas that would play well on stage. “Good to see you again, Karen. Please take a seat. You can move that stuff off the chair.”
Max was wearing a t-shirt and loose lounge pants but was still in full makeup. The exaggerated coloring lent his face a macabre quality. He sat before a large mirror ringed by bright globe lights, keeping his back to Karen, although she could see his face in the mirror.
“What brings you here?” He slathered cold cream across his face and wiped away the makeup with a wad of tissues. “You mentioned something about the Morpheus Project. Now that,” he said, as his real features were revealed, “is something I haven’t spoken about in some time.”
“Yes, I’m talking to all of the students from that project. I mean, from our portion of it. You heard about what happened?”
“You mean to Dr. Wythe? Yes, I did.” Karen glimpsed the question in Max’s dark eyes. “You and Wythe—you were living together then, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Karen replied quietly.
“And you were injured as well? Pilar told me. I’m sorry I never visited you in the hospital, but I was preoccupied with my own demons at the time.”
“Pilar mentioned that once. She said you were suffering from exhaustion or something.”
“It wasn’t exhaustion.” Max turned in his chair to face Karen. “It was a full-blown mental breakdown. A mind-numbing bout with depression. I think you may know something of that.”
“I do. I’m sorry you had to go through it, Max.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I got past it. It seems you did as well.”
Karen met his gaze and held it. “For the most part. What I was wondering, to be honest, was if you thought your breakdown had anything to do with the Morpheus Project. Pilar seemed to think so.”
Max turned back to the counter. “Yes, it had something to do with it.” He picked up a bottle of astringent and some cotton balls. His eyes, in the mirror, were shadowed by his lowered eyelids. “At least I thought so at the time. I was always exhausted. Like I wasn’t sleeping, even though I’d be dead to the world for more than eight hours a night.” He wiped his face with the astringent. “And I felt people were watching me. Not the assistants or the research team. Other people. I’d see them out of the corner of my eye. Just a flash, you know, but when I turned nothing was there. It got so I was looking around all the time, trying to catch them. Of course they were all in my mind, but still …” His reflected eyes met Karen’s gaze. “I think they were in my dreams. Not the ones I recorded for the project. Other dreams I couldn’t quite remember.”
“Pale and thin? Dark-haired and dark-eyed?”
“Yes, how did you know?” Max tossed the cotton balls in the trash and glanced at Karen over his shoulder.
“It seems to be a pattern. I saw them too, in my dreams and elsewhere.”
“Did you? How strange. Do you think,” he spoke as if choosing his words with great car
e, “they planted those thoughts in our heads? The research team?”
“You mean Vance and Rebani and James?”
“And Wythe. I assume he was involved as well.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Karen’s hand strayed to her neck. She closed her fingers around the star pendant.
“At any rate, I’ve always wondered. Is any of this helpful to you, Karen? Not sure what you’re looking for.”
“It is, actually. But, Max, do you remember seeing or hearing anything else that seemed odd? Any fights between the senior researchers? Some overheard conversation that sounded strange? Any behavior that didn’t feel right, that sort of thing.”
“Can’t say I do. Not at this moment, anyway. But if I think of something I’ll be more than happy to call you.”
“Thanks.” Karen reached into her purse for a business card. “I’ll give you my contact info.”
“So where to next?”
“North Carolina. Ingrid is teaching dance at a college there.”
“Yes, I know. She choreographed a show I was in a few years ago. We went out for drinks and had a good talk. She didn’t mention anything about problems stemming from the Morpheus Project, though. At least not to me.”
“Let’s hope she didn’t experience any.” Karen walked over and held out the card.
Max closed his fingers over her hand. “Did you?”
“Did I what?” Karen met his searching gaze.
“Experience problems after the project was over? I don’t mean the accident—of course that was horrific—I mean chronic issues, like poor sleep. That kind of thing.”
“I did not remember a single dream,” Karen said, “for ten years.”
“Oh.” Max released her hand and carefully placed the card on the dressing table. “That might be seen as a blessing. I wish …” His eyes, reflected in the mirror, were haunted. “I wish I didn’t.”
The drive to North Carolina took the better part of a day. Karen checked in to a motel and phoned Ingrid to set a time to meet with her later that evening, then called Mark and told him about her conversation with Max.
“I’ll fill in the details when I get back. I’m writing notes after I talk to each person. Oh, and I had the strangest call from Ariel Tarrow.”
“So Myron Tarrow wants to meet with you?” Mark asked, after she described the phone call. “That might be interesting.”
“Have you heard of him? I recently attended one of his lectures. He’s some sort of expert on UFOs and that kind of thing.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Really? Didn’t think you’d have much interest in that topic.”
“Oh, he’s a fairly big fish in that pond. He comes up on the radar every now and again.”
“What radar?”
“Good night, Karen. Call me after the next leg of the trip.” Mark hung up.
FOUR
Karen met Ingrid at her loft apartment. The door was opened by a short, plump woman with a head of frizzy copper curls. “Come in,” she said. “I’m Carol.”
“Is that Karen?” asked a distinctive voice. Ingrid walked out of the kitchen. “Hello, Karen, so nice to see you again after all these years. Carol, dearest, would you fetch us some wine?”
Dearest? Karen glanced from Carol’s retreating back to Ingrid. Well, that explained why she’d never heard anything about Lee Oshima and Ingrid getting together. She’d rather expected she might.
Ingrid met her stare and nodded. “White or red?”
“White.” Karen sat on a black leather sofa that faced two tubular metal chairs. The lights of the city, sparkling like stars in the darkness, shone through the large windows that filled the opposite wall.
Ingrid called out to Carol to bring the white wine before choosing to sit in one of the chairs. Her dark hair contrasted beautifully with the bright tangerine print of the upholstery. As it was probably designed to do. “Carol is such a blessing. She’s the most marvelous cook. Perhaps that is not such a good thing, though, for my figure.”
“You look great, Ingrid. You’ve hardly aged at all.”
“Oh, that is simply a good hairdresser and Pilates.” A little smile played across Ingrid’s face. “And a tuck or two here and there. Now, tell me, Karen, what’s this expedition you have embarked upon? Visiting all of us from the Morpheus Project—I was surprised. You never seemed interested in socializing with the rest of us, quite frankly.”
“I know. I was rather self-involved, wasn’t I?”
Ingrid shrugged. “Eh, who isn’t, at that age?” She smiled at Carol, who walked over with two glasses and an open bottle of wine. “Sit that on the coffee table, would you, dearest? I’d invite you to join us, but I’m sure you’d be quite bored with our discussion.”
“I’ve work to do anyway.” Carol poured out two glasses and handed them to Ingrid and Karen. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
“Carol is a graphic designer,” Ingrid said, as her partner left the room. “She works from home most of the time. Very convenient, especially as I’m hardly ever here.”
“You teach, right? And Max mentioned you choreograph as well?”
“Yes, lots of travel. Lots of hours in the studio. But you know all about that, I’m sure. I’ve seen a few of your pieces, here and there.”
“Really?” Karen examined Ingrid’s carefully composed face. “The thing is, I want to find out if there’s anything you remember about the time when we were involved in the Morpheus Project. Anything you’ve always thought strange or odd or inexplicable. Anything at all.”
“Are you investigating Dr. Wythe’s death? After all this time? Yes, I heard of it, even in Germany. Lee told me.” Ingrid gracefully sipped her wine.
“How is Lee?” Karen was eager to sidestep the question about Alex. “I haven’t been able to talk to him yet. He wasn’t answering his phone.”
“He’s in Europe. Some type of architectural conference. Also vacationing with his family. I doubt you’ll be able to reach him, not until next month. We do stay in touch,” Ingrid said with a little smile. “We still go to the cinema when he visits me.”
“But he’s well?”
“Oh yes, I think so. He’s has had some trouble, you know, with anxiety. But there’s medication that seems to help.”
“So what about you? Any problems you’d blame on the project?”
Ingrid stared at Karen intently for a moment. “I’ve never wanted to talk about that. I prefer to forget.”
Karen sat forward on the edge of the sofa. “Pilar was surprised you left the country after the project was over. She said you abandoned your dance troupe.”
“Ja.” A shadow crossed Ingrid’s face. “I suppose you could say I was running away. Escaping.” She shook her head. “I was having bad dreams. I saw things in those dreams I did not want to see. Things I can’t describe. There are no words for such things, or, if there are, my English is not good enough.”
“Your English is perfect,” Karen said. “Still have those dreams?”
“No.” Ingrid swirled the wine in her glass. “Not often, at any rate. But then,” she said, after taking a long swallow, “I too take medication. It’s the only way I can sleep. Not so healthy, but I must get my rest, one way or another.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Max has had some difficulties as well. Perhaps Pilar was right—the project seems to have been more detrimental than I thought.”
“It is what it is,” Ingrid said. “Now, could we speak of other things? I’d like to hear about your paintings and, perhaps, how you like teaching?”
They spoke no more about the Morpheus Project that evening, but before she left, Karen pressed her business card into Ingrid’s hand.
“If you ever want to talk,” she said, as they stood at Ingrid’s front door, “about anything.”
Ingrid smiled and laid a hand on Karen’s arm. “You have changed. Time has changed you.”
“Not just time,” Karen replied, before saying goodbye.
“Hello, Karen,” Pilar said quietly. “Sorry, don’t want to interrupt your call.”
“I was just leaving a message.” Karen laid the phone aside and examined Pilar. She was slightly heavier but still petite. Her dark hair, now cut short, was streaked throughout with silver but shone as bright as ever, glossy as a piece of marcasite jewelry.
“Husband?” Pilar pointed toward the phone. “Mine never answers either.”
“Oh no, a friend,” Karen replied quickly. “I’ve never been married.”
Pilar smiled. “I’ve been married twice, so I’ve made up for that. You look good, Karen. Still painting?”
“Yes, and I teach at Woodgrove College.”
“Just as you planned.” Pilar motioned for the waitress, who came to the table immediately. “They know me here,” she said, ordering coffee and apple pie.
“Actually, things are not exactly as I planned,” Karen said, after asking for a cup of coffee and piece of baklava. “I know you heard what happened. It was all over the news, and I think you were still in town.”
“Yes, I was there.” Pilar’s dark eyes held a hint of sorrow. “I tried to visit you when you were in the hospital. The second time, I mean. But you wouldn’t see me.”
“Did you? I’m sorry, Pilar. I wouldn’t see anyone, not just you. Well, except for my parents.”
“And your friend. I met her there.”
“Thea? Yes, she’s still my closest friend. I’m godmother to her children.”
“You don’t have any? Children, I mean. I know you said you never married, but that’s no impediment these days, is it? I have three. One from the first marriage, and two young ones.”
“No. I don’t have children.” Karen sipped her coffee, refusing to meet Pilar’s eyes. The sympathy she was sure to see there would be too painful to endure.
“So you’re asking about the Morpheus Project?” Pilar asked. “What do you want to know? I remember we talked about this once before, long ago.”