When She Dreams (Burning Cove #6)(56)

The hall led to two bedrooms, one of which had been transformed into a temporary office. A large well-worn briefcase was positioned next to a table.

The simple lock on the briefcase was easily overcome with a paper clip. Sam reached inside and removed a leather-bound journal.

He opened the journal, took a pencil and a notepad out of the pocket of his trench coat, and started making notes. The pages were filled with excited speculations about the potential of the dream-enhancing drug but nothing that looked like a formula or a list of ingredients.

The first entry was dated some seven months earlier, which meant the journal covered the time during which Maggie had booked appointments with Oxlade. Sure enough, there was a great deal of elated detail about a female patient named Smith.

    A uniquely powerful lucid dreamer . . . Requires firm guidance . . . Refuses to accept the reality of her talent . . . Suffered a fit of hysteria . . . Attempt at sedation failed . . . Unable to locate . . . Great loss to science . . .



From an entry dated the night before:

    . . . Smith is here. Note: Name changed to Lodge. I have found her at last. The Guilfoyles assure me she will cooperate. The first step is to remove her from the influence of her research assistant as soon as possible . . .



The last entry:

    The dream guides are spreading rumors about the death of the Nevins woman. The legend of the Traveler has been referenced. This nonsense must be halted immediately . . .



Sam checked his watch with the flashlight. There wasn’t time to read the journal cover to cover. The dream reading was scheduled to run for an hour and a half, and he had used up the first twenty minutes working his way through the garden and breaking into the villa. He had to get back to the hotel, get the car, and drive to the Institute to pick up Maggie when the demonstration concluded.

Reluctantly he dropped the journal into the briefcase and swept the flashlight around the room. Nothing seemed out of place—just the opposite. There was an air of precision and order in the space. He opened the closet door. The few clothes hanging inside were positioned precisely the same distance apart.

There was no sign of a lockbox or a safe. Where would a man hide a drug in a house that did not belong to him? There were more options than in a hotel room, but a man like Oxlade—a man who was not in a familiar environment—would probably keep his valuables close.

After a moment Sam went into the bathroom. A handsome travel Dopp kit sat on the counter. There was nothing unusual about the items inside—shaving brush, soap, hairbrush, tweezers, shoehorn, and a bottle of cologne.

Sam opened the bottle of cologne. There was no scent.



* * *





He left the grounds of the Institute and made his way back to the hotel. Emerging from a narrow break in the long row of leafy oleanders that bordered the Sea Dream parking lot, he walked across the dimly lit pavement, heading for the Packard. The demonstration would be over soon. It was almost time to drive to the Institute to pick up Maggie. It was one thing for a woman to walk the short distance during the day when she was wearing the right shoes. Night, high heels, and a tight skirt complicated things.

The roar of an accelerating car engine and the shriek of tires sounded in the night. The vehicle was behind him and closing in fast.

There was no time to turn around to see what was happening, no need to confirm the obvious. He dove for the narrow space between two parked cars and went down hard on the pavement.

The sedan flashed past and kept going, its headlights off.

Sam got to his feet, wincing. He found his fedora on the ground near the rear tire of one of the cars that had protected him. In the dim glare of the lights at the entrance of the hotel he could make out a smudge mark. He tried to brush it off, but he only succeeded in smearing the stain. There were a couple of oily streaks on his trench coat, too.

It occurred to him that he ought to go to his room and clean up before he drove to the Institute. He glanced at his watch. No time.





Chapter 31




Maggie tried again to make out the time, but the theater lights were still turned down. Earlier she had been bored with the dream reading, but a few minutes ago an unnerving frisson of anxiety had iced the back of her neck. The sensation had come and gone quickly, but it had left her on edge. She could not explain it, but intuitively she knew the small shock was somehow connected to Sam.

She wished she could slip out the door unnoticed, but given the intimate setting, there was no way to do so. She was stuck until the show ended. And it was just that—a show.

A woman spoke up from the front row. “My sister died and left me a large house on the East Coast. Should I move back there or sell it?”

“Sell it,” Arthur said, evidently speaking from the depths of his trance. “Your future is here on the West Coast.”

Maggie suppressed a sigh. Guilfoyle’s answers to the questions from the audience were no better than one might expect from a carnival fortune-teller. The only thing that made his responses stand out was his acting talent. He really was an extraordinary performer. But a con was a con no matter how polished the performance.

The most interesting information she had acquired this evening pertained to Emerson Oxlade, and it had come as a surprise until she gave it some serious thought. She had known from the outset that although Oxlade was obsessive, he was not a con artist. He truly believed in lucid dreaming and in his own theories. What had come as a revelation was that he was clearly convinced Guilfoyle was using his dream talent to access his paranormal senses.