When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(17)

He glanced at her, annoyed. “That’s different.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Every cop I know believes in intuition. Forget it. What else can you tell me about Guilfoyle?”

“Guilfoyle claims he can teach almost anyone how to become a lucid dreamer,” Maggie said. “For those of us who do it naturally, he claims his Method will help us achieve greater control over our dreams.”

“You do this lucid dreaming frequently?”

“Ever since my teens,” she said. “I’ve got fairly good control, but it’s far from perfect. Things sometimes go off script.”

“Meaning you lose control of the dream?”

Her mouth tightened a little. “Yes.”

“When that happens, I assume the dream becomes a regular dream?”

“Not exactly. Well, who knows what a regular dream looks like for someone like me?”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind, it’s not important,” she said.

“Is there a practical application for the Guilfoyle Method, assuming it works?” he asked.

“Certainly.” Enthusiasm sparked again in Maggie’s voice. “A person who is plagued by nightmares, for example, might be able to use the technique to rewrite the scripts of the bad dreams.”

He heard the ghostly whisper of his intuition and knew that for Maggie, the possibility of rewriting a nightmare was more than a matter of curiosity or academic interest. It was personal.

“I can see the appeal,” he said, trying not to sound like a skeptic. “Who wouldn’t want to be able to rewrite a bad dream?”

“Exactly.” She braked for a curve. “I do find that my lucid dreams are often quite helpful when it comes to generating plot ideas.”

He went cold. “Plot ideas? You’re a writer?”

“I’m working on a novel of suspense, but so far I’ve only been able to sell short stories to the confession magazines. Not much money in that kind of publishing, and to be honest, I’m not very good at it. That’s why I’m assisting Lillian Dewhurst. I need the extra cash.”

He closed his eyes for the next curve. “Why aren’t you any good at writing confessions?”

“The stories all have the same theme—sin, suffer, repent.” Maggie downshifted. “It’s the female protagonist who gets to do the sinning, of course, and it almost always involves sex. Illicit affairs, that sort of thing. I’m good with that part. It’s fun to write. But it’s incredibly boring to do the suffer-and-repent bits.”

He gripped the edge of the window frame in preparation for another curve. “Let me guess—you’re not writing from personal experience.”

“Of course not. No one could rack up that many interesting experiences no matter how hard she tried. What success I’ve had in the magazine market is a tribute to my creativity, if you ask me. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to come up with a lot of fake confessions.”

“I am, of course, shocked to hear that those magazines are printing fiction.”

She laughed. “The same way the detective and police magazines print fake crime stories.”

Sam gazed straight ahead at the two-lane highway and considered the fact that he had a writer for a client, one who wrote fake true confessions. Could this case get any screwier?

It was time to change the subject.

“Where are we staying in Burning Cove?” he asked.

“Sadly, not the Burning Cove Hotel.” She stomped on the gas as they came out of a curve. “Two reasons. First, I doubt if I could have gotten reservations on such short notice. Second, the Institute recommends that conference attendees stay at a nearby hotel, the Sea Dream, which is affiliated with the Institute and is within walking distance of the grounds. I was able to get us connecting rooms. That way we’ll be able to discuss our findings in private.”

Our findings. The words chilled his gut. Or maybe he was getting carsick.

“There are two formal receptions,” Maggie continued. “I believe I mentioned the champagne event scheduled for tonight. The other event is a farewell cocktail party on the third night of the conference. Did you bring an evening jacket, or should we go shopping in Burning Cove?”

He held his breath as Maggie braked for another curve. Distraction was no longer working.

“You’d better pull over,” he said.

“Why?”

“Two reasons. The first is that it’s my turn to drive.”

“I don’t mind driving. I enjoy it.”

“The second reason is that if you don’t pull over and change places with me, I am going to be ill all over these nice leather seats.”

“A delicate stomach?”

“Oh, yeah. Very delicate.”

She slowed the Packard and pulled into a turnout. He opened his door with a sense of relief and extricated himself from the depths of the seat. Maggie got out on her side of the car. Without a word they changed positions.

He put the convertible in gear, pulled out onto the highway, and drove toward Burning Cove at a sedate pace.

“I guess you aren’t accustomed to fast cars,” Maggie ventured after a moment.

“Guess not.”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to this one soon,” Maggie said encouragingly. “It’s exciting to drive.”