When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(2)

His head began to change shape. It grew longer, snakelike. His pipe was now a thin, forked tongue.

She knew she was letting the hallucinations gain control. She could not allow that to happen. This was a nightmare. She knew how to handle bad dreams.

You need a plan.

She had to move if she wanted to escape, but the revolving room was disorienting. It affected her sense of balance. Nothing seemed solid or substantial, not even the couch she reclined on.

The couch.

Getting off the couch was clearly a crucial first step. Thinking logically wasn’t her strong suit at the moment, but she was suddenly very certain she could not get out of the office if she did not get off the damned couch.

The room was badly warped. Everything was wrong, but she knew how it was supposed to look. Oxlade tossed you into the deep end of a dream.

She pulled hard on her self-control, forcing the hallucinations to recede. The furniture settled back on the floor. The walls and ceiling grew solid. She took a deep breath and struggled to a sitting position.

Oxlade was annoyed. He leaned forward, his viper eyes glinting. “Lie down, Miss Smith. You will get dizzy if you try to stand.”

With another fierce effort of will she succeeded in swinging her legs over the side of the couch. She was profoundly grateful she had worn trousers to the appointment. Not that the choice of attire was simply a stroke of good luck. Countless hours spent in the offices of dream analysts, psychiatrists, and therapists had taught her there was usually a couch involved. She had also discovered that some practitioners were not above trying to seduce their clients on said couches. It was easier to deal with such situations when one was wearing trousers.

When the soles of her T-strap sandals hit the floor she planted her hands on the cushion on either side of her hips and pushed herself to her feet.

For a few seconds she wavered, terrified she would lose her balance.

Oxlade dropped his notebook, jerked the pipe out of his mouth, and shot to his feet. “Miss Smith, I insist you sit down immediately.”

She ignored him to focus on the door. Getting through it was step two in the plan.

She tried to walk toward the door and discovered she could not move because Oxlade had grabbed her arm.

“Take your hand off me,” she said. It was gratifying to discover she was no longer slurring her words. Her voice sounded stronger, too. She was gaining control over the waking nightmare.

Oxlade tightened his grip. His eyes glittered. “You can’t leave. Don’t you understand? Everything depends on you.”

She tried to pull free and lunge for the door.

Oxlade yanked her back. “You can’t walk out on me, you silly woman. I need you.”

She swept out her free hand and grabbed the nearest heavy object, a glass ashtray. She swung it awkwardly at Oxlade’s head. He yelped, released her arm, and scrambled backward, barely escaping the blow.

“You must calm down, Miss Smith,” Oxlade gasped. “You are suffering a fit of hysteria.”

She started toward the door again, but halfway across the room she remembered her handbag. She could not leave it behind. Not only was there a little money inside, but there was some identification in her real name.

She changed course and swiped the bag off the console. When she realized Oxlade had not made another grab for her arm, she glanced back over her shoulder. She was just in time to see him reach into a desk tray and seize a syringe. He rushed toward her.

“You leave me no choice,” he said. “I must sedate you. Don’t worry; I will make sure you get the help you need.”

The chilling words came straight from the heart of some of her worst nightmares, the ones that harkened back to her time at Sweet Creek Manor. Another wave of panic washed over her. It would take her a few precious seconds to get the door open. She did not have those few seconds.

Oxlade closed the space between them. He held the syringe as though it were a stiletto.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, Miss Smith, but it’s for your own good.”

More words from a nightmare.

She dropped the handbag and picked up the large ceramic vase sitting on the console. Filled with water and an impressive bouquet, it was almost too heavy to lift, but desperation gave her strength. She used both hands to heave it at Oxlade.

He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The vase struck him in the middle of the chest. He grunted, dropped the syringe, and staggered backward. Water and flowers cascaded over him, soaking his elegantly tailored suit, shirt, and tie.

The back of his knee came up against the edge of the couch. He collapsed onto the cushions.

“You are hysterical,” he gasped. “You don’t know what you are doing, what we could achieve together. I forbid you to leave this room.”

She seized the strap of her purse, got the door open, and stumbled into the small waiting area.

The flinty-eyed receptionist was on her feet, transfixed with shock. A middle-aged woman sat, frozen, in the waiting room, a copy of Reader’s Digest clutched in her gloved hands.

Maggie heard the door of the inner office slam shut behind her. Afraid Oxlade was pursuing her, she spun around—and nearly lost her balance.

Relief flooded through her when she saw that Oxlade had sealed himself inside his office. There was an audible click when he locked the door.

She took a deep breath, slung the strap of the handbag over one shoulder, and opened the door of the small waiting room. She was about to rush out into the hall, but she paused long enough to look back at the stunned woman holding the magazine.