by Davis Bunn
“At least he has a faith,” Elena replied.
“You threaten him,” Reed said. “You push him outside his comfort zone.”
“Then why did you bring him today?”
“I wanted him to see you at work.”
“You had no idea what I was going to say. You couldn’t. I didn’t know myself.”
“I didn’t need to,” Reed replied. “I know you.”
Elena felt her face redden. Then she noticed how the provost was looking back and forth between the two of them, his head canted slightly. He smiled at some secret joke. Elena’s face grew redder still.
Reed went on, “Tonight is my daughter’s birthday. Will you join us?”
“She probably doesn’t want to share you.”
“Stacy asked me to invite you.”
“Did she?” Elena saw the provost smile, and felt her face grow redder still. And she did not care. “I would be delighted.”
• • •
They dined at D’Jon’s, an upscale restaurant in the historic island village. The two dozen bayside houses dated from the nineteenth century. The restaurant had formerly been the residence of a pineapple plantation, back when Melbourne Beach was connected to the mainland by a little steam train. Five days a week the train pulled flatbed cars piled with fruit and avocados across the wooden bridge and then south to the Fort Lauderdale port. Weekends the produce cars were replaced by miniature passenger wagons. Working-class families strolled along the white sand or swam at the two beaches, one for men, the other for women and children. That evening Elena dined on fresh Atlantic grouper and joined in the conversation about everything under the sun, except dreams.
Stacy played the grown-up. This was her night, and she loved it. Her makeup was far too heavy for a girl her age. She wore a sheer black Valentino dress—a gift from her father and bought when he was not around, Reed assured Elena. In the candlelight and the soft laughter, Elena glimpsed the woman who should have been seated in her own chair.
The evening flowed beautifully, and was capped by father dancing with daughter to the music of a jazz pianist and an upright bass player. Elena watched and smiled and felt a subtle pang—not for the life she and her late husband had once known. Rather, for all these new future hopes.
As they left the restaurant, Reed turned on his phone and excused himself to check his messages. Elena resisted the urge to tell him to wait, to not permit the world entry. Stacy seemed to accept it as part of her father’s life and responsibilities.
She and Stacy crossed the street and walked out the long city pier. A plaque stated this was a remnant of the old railway bridge, destroyed in 1917 by a hurricane. By the time World War I had ended and the town could rebuild, the world had moved on. A lone fisherman sat at the end, dipping his cane pole into the night-clad water.
Stacy leaned over the rail and said, “That guy with you on television looks cute.”
“Jacob Rawlings is more than cute,” Elena replied. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Do you like him?”
“Before all this started, I would have laughed at such a question. He publicly humiliated me. He represents the part of my profession I most dislike.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daddy . . .” Stacy sighed.
Elena leaned on the railing next to her. They stared at the causeway bridge, rising from the black waters like a light-flecked ribbon. “Your father is a wonderful man. And you are one amazing young lady.”
“Do you think, well, you and Daddy could ever . . .”
It was a night for secrets and intimacy, the warm breeze drifting across her heart with feather strokes. “I’ve had years of experience deflecting that question, even from myself. Ever since my husband died. Then last year I met a man in Rome, and my heart woke up again. It didn’t work out with Antonio.”
“What happened?”
“Life took us and spun us in two different directions.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is and it isn’t. Looking back, I feel as though his world and mine would never have fit as well as we might have liked. I truly dislike the spotlight. Ever since Antonio accepted his current role, he has seldom left it.” Elena spoke across the dark waters, to the future she could only hope might someday come. “The nicest result of our time together is feeling like my heart has woken up. I would so very much like to love again.”
• • •
As Elena walked back to where Reed Thompson still talked on his phone, the streetlight caught Stacy’s face in a flash-forward of the woman she would soon become. Elena’s breath caught in her throat at the awakening woman, and the wonder of being included in such a lovely moment.
Her phone’s buzzing caught her by surprise. “I thought I cut that off.” She checked the readout, and said, “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
“It’s that guy, isn’t it? The hunk.”
Elena felt her face flame as she stepped away. “Jacob?”
Behind her, she heard Stacy repeat the man’s name, “Jay-cob.”
“Something’s happened. I need you to come up to Atlanta.”
“What’s the matter?”
The man sounded impossibly tense. “I can’t discuss it on the phone. I’ve gone ahead and booked you onto the first flight tomorrow.”
She turned in a slow circle. Across the street from where she stood, flickering gas lamps lined the walk leading to the restaurant. The calm and pleasant meal might as well have taken place on the other side of the world. “Can’t you at least say—”
“No, Elena. I can’t tell you anything. You need to trust me on this. Will you come?”
15
At a quarter to six in the morning, the Melbourne airport was an island of calm. The wind was still, the air cool enough to be refreshing. Birds chirped from the tall palms forming a border between the parking area and the terminal. The loudest sounds were a taxi’s radio and the rumbling of suitcase wheels across uneven pavement. Elena exchanged good-mornings with another woman headed for the entrance. Then she entered the terminal, and was assaulted by the sight of her own face. Television monitors fronting the café entrance blared the news channel, which played a repeat of the previous evening’s story. The woman who had smiled at her outside glanced at Elena, then back at the monitors. She asked, “Should I cash out my 401K?”
“I have no idea,” Elena replied.
“It’s all my husband and I have.”
“I don’t know more than you do,” Elena replied. “I can’t extrapolate from the dreams.”
The woman’s gaze tightened on Elena. “This isn’t about extrapolation. It’s about our future.”
“Sorry.” Elena turned and walked to the counter.
She checked in, went through security, and found a quiet corner of the waiting area. With the end of the space shuttle program, Melbourne’s airport had become quieter still. Only a handful of flights were arriving and departing. Most of the gates were silent. The empty departures lounge was lined by televisions tuned to the local news channel, which now showed an excited weatherman describing the tropical storm aimed at the Bahamas. The station’s computer tracking models showed the storm gathering force and striking Florida’s Atlantic coast as a category four hurricane.
Elena sat where she could look out over the runway and the sunrise. She opened her laptop, fitted on her headphones, and swiveled the microphone in front of her mouth. She was comfortable with the practice, since a growing number of professional conferences were scheduled online; though she wished she could participate in a more private environment. But Jacob’s concern and tension had offered no alternative.
As the computer booted up, she pulled the handwritten notes from her purse and went through Reginald’s instructions for linking into the company’s secure conference call. The SuenaMed logo filled the screen. A chime sounded, followed by one image after another replacing the logo, like a series of dominos being laid out. Many of the spaces rem
ained blank, filled instead by the same blue backgrounds and city names as during the news conference. Jacob’s appearance in the top right corner filled her with a sudden sense of relief, though the man looked as if he had not slept a wink.
Reginald’s voice asked, “Elena?”
“I’m here.”
“Everyone who is able to join us today has linked in.”
Elena asked, “Rachel?”
There was silence, then, “Yes.”
“You need to turn on your camera and visually participate.”
“I am not a dreamer.”
“You are a primary facilitator,” Elena replied, taking a term from her clinical work. “They need to know who you are.”
The SuenaMed CEO said, “I agree with Dr. Burroughs.”
There was a pause, then the bottom row tightened sufficiently to allow one more image to appear. Rachel’s face showed deep displeasure.
Elena introduced Rachel, then asked, “Has anyone had another dream?”
There was a chorus of negative responses. Elena said, “Despite the fact that none of us has received any further image, I understand someone has been talking to the press. Making predictions about what will happen next.”
Mario Suarez, senator from Miami, snapped, “That is beyond insane.”
A heavyset man with a distinctly Australian drawl replied, “So what, we’re supposed to just sit on our hands and wait?”
Trevor Tenning replied, “That is exactly what you are supposed to do.”
An argument broke out online. Elena let the disagreement bounce from one electronic image to the next, and was about to insert herself, when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. The woman who had approached her at check-in walked to the window several rows away. She frowned at Elena and started toward her.
Elena felt helplessly exposed. She could almost see the woman’s anger rise like heat waves off the runway. But she was held in place by the conference and the laptop and the headphones. She was about to drop everything and bolt, when a man she had not even noticed rose from the next row. He was a human fireplug, short and bulky and dressed in a nondescript blue blazer. He stepped over so that he blocked the woman’s approach. The woman broke into an irate protest. The man gripped her arm and pulled her away. Only when they moved out of Elena’s field of vision did she realize she had been holding her breath.
Mario Suarez chose that moment to bark, “All right, I’ve heard enough. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have responsibilities pressing in from a hundred different directions. We have reached as close to an agreement as we can. Anyone who makes any predictions that are not directly tied to further dreams is going to be stomped on by everyone else in the group. Agreed?”
The Australian protested, “I still say—”
“We know what you’ve said, and we’re not covering that ground again. Are we in agreement?”
There was a chorus of assents. Then a pudgy man with a heavy French accent spoke from the bottom left corner. “What if all this is, you know, a joke?”
For those who refused to show their faces, a light framed their blue squares when they spoke. A vacant square in the middle of Elena’s screen went bright, and a distinctly East Asian voice said, “Joke? My country’s economy is crumbling!”
“No, I mean, I’ve tried every drug known to man. I’ve seen the mandalas. I’ve watched the walls move. What makes this any different? So we’ve all had the same dream. So what?”
The Asian man’s rage crackled through her headphones. “I do not take drugs.”
“The bloke’s got a point,” the Australian drawled.
The Frenchman went on, “We’re all watching the same lousy news. Who’s to say we are not all victims of the same . . . what is the word I need?”
“Mass hysteria,” Jacob replied, shaking his head. “It does not fit.”
“Why is that, please?”
“Because the dreams are too precise. Plus, the images are not universal in nature. By this I mean there are certain symbols the human subconscious uses to interpret certain effects. In the dreams recorded thus far, none of these symbols is present.”
“Not one?”
“Sorry.”
The Asian voice demanded, “Then where do these dreams come from?”
When the silence had stretched on for a long moment, Jacob said, “Dr. Burroughs?”
“In dreams, we all enter mystery worlds,” Elena replied. “It is a powerful and universal experience. One that defines the human psyche. The question as you have rightly stated is, where do these specific dreams originate? Either there is a higher power at work, or we are somehow . . .”
When she went silent, the Frenchman pressed, “Yes?”
An idea flitted around the recesses of her mind. She had started to say, either God was at work, or they were being manipulated. But how? Theoretically it was possible, but there was no concrete method to make it happen.
“Dr. Burroughs?”
She drew her racing mind back to the discussion. “Regardless of possible alternatives, we should do nothing unless we all experience another dream.”
A blue square lit up and a woman’s voice said, “I agree.”
One of the blue squares cried, “But I want these nightmares to stop!”
The Asian snapped, “Forget your dreams. What about the economy?”
A blue square lit up and a woman’s voice said, “What about my country?”
Suarez demanded, “Isn’t there anything more you can offer us, Dr. Burroughs?”
“The only way I can speak of what lies beyond our experiences is if I receive divine guidance,” Elena replied. “I continue to pray. But so far I have received no answer. Does anyone else on our panel believe in a living God?”
Her question was answered by a stony silence. Elena continued, “To do anything or say anything more would be just my own puny mind and ego at work. Just another human struggling with the unknown. That would be extremely dangerous for everyone.”
The meeting broke up then. The final three images on Elena’s screen were Rachel, Jacob, and Senator Suarez. Rachel snapped, “There was no need to bring God into this.”
“With respect, I disagree.”
“We need to maintain a professional atmosphere!”
“Again, with respect, I disagree,” Elena said.
Rachel’s fury seemed barely contained. “Reginald has made arrangements for you to be interviewed on CNN while you’re in Atlanta.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I wasn’t asking your opinion. Reginald will be in touch.”
When Rachel cut the connection, Jacob grimaced in sympathy and said, “Have a good flight.”
The last person to sign off was the senator. To Elena’s surprise, the man’s anger was gone for once. Instead, he nodded and silently mouthed a single word.
Soon.
• • •
Jacob waved at her from beyond the security checkpoint at the Atlanta airport. The psychologist did not look at all well. His features were slack, his gaze as metallic as his voice. “How was your flight?”
“Fine. Jacob, what’s the matter?”
“Not enough sleep, a life out of control.” He did his best to effect a smile. “Same old, same old.”
“Maybe you should get away for a couple of days.”
“That’s not happening, not with everything . . .” He waved it aside. “Any luggage?”
“Just my briefcase.”
“Then let’s go. I have a car waiting for us in the tow-away zone.”
He led her through the airport at a trot. When they slipped into his Infiniti, he said, “Elena, meet Bryan. Bryan is one of my grad students.”
“Yesterday I was a grad student,” the young man corrected. “Today I’m a chauffeur.”
Elena asked, “What’s the rush, Jacob?”
His gaze flicked toward Bryan, then back. “Give it just a few more minutes. Bryan, anything?”
The stude
nt handed Jacob a cell phone. “A lady named Rachel called. Twice. Dr. Burroughs is confirmed for eleven at the CNN headquarters.”
Jacob coughed, which turned into a rasping wheeze. “Elena, did you get that?”
“Yes. Jacob, what’s the matter?”
“Things are heating up. Colleagues from around the world are calling to question my sanity. Last night as I left my house I was attacked by a dozen fringe types who accused me of plotting the end of the world. I would have been mauled if Rachel’s bodyguards hadn’t pulled them off.” He glanced around at her. “So you didn’t dream anything last night?”
“No. Not for two days now.”
“That’s one bit of good news, I suppose.”
Elena nodded, and wished she could agree.
• • •
They pulled into the parking lot of an upscale strip mall. A spa anchored one end, a cosmetic surgery facility the other. Pillars supported a curved glass roof over the main walkway. When they were parked, Elena said, “Bryan, could you give us a moment, please?”
“No problem.” He opened his door. “Nice meeting you, Dr. Burroughs. I loved your book.”
When they were alone, she said, “I don’t like going into this cold, Jacob.”
“They insisted on the secrecy. One of the people waiting for us is my patient, Agatha Hune.”
“The Federal Reserve bank board member.”
“Right. Agatha has someone she wants us to meet. Who, I have no idea. Only that he is a close personal friend. And it had to be this morning.” He saw her objection forming, and responded before she could speak. “These people do not waste time, Elena. Agatha said it was utterly vital that we meet. I trust her. You’re here. Let’s go.”
They entered the regional office of a US congressman whose name Elena did not recognize. A young staffer was there to open the door and usher them into a conference room. The unnamed guest turned out to be Mario Suarez. The senator was on the phone as they entered. He waved a greeting and pointed them into chairs. An aide working in the corner behind the conference table reached forward and handed Suarez a document. He said, “Hang on a second, Herb, I’ve got the figures here in front of me. No, no, that won’t work. You need to cut another fifty mil or we can’t move forward. Okay. Good.” Suarez punched off the connection, tossed the phone to his aide, and said, “Go tell Agatha we’re ready to roll.”