Falling Awake(7)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

It had been Belvedere’s goal to promote the study of extreme dreaming so that individuals who possessed an aptitude for it could be trained to use it more efficiently and to greater effect.

Extreme dreaming was not without a few problems, however, one of which was that a Level Five dream, for all its power and potential, was, nevertheless, a type of dream. And the dreaming mind often used symbols and elements that were difficult to interpret in the waking state. Some were relatively easy to analyze but others were bizarre and often baffling.

That was where she came in, Isabel thought. She was a Level Five dreamer who could analyze the most obscure images that popped up in extreme dreams.

At the entrance to the director’s office, she paused to take a deep breath, straighten her lab coat and push her glasses higher on her nose. Look professional. Look like you know what you’re doing.

She entered the small outer office. Sandra Johnson was obviously relieved to see her.

Sandra had served as Martin Belvedere’s secretary since the founding of the center. She was a large, solidly built woman with a helmet of gray curls. Her uniform varied little from day to day. It consisted of an amply cut big shirt that she always wore outside a pair of black trousers, and several items of bright costume jewelry.

She and Sandra shared a bond of sorts. They had both been able to work with Martin Belvedere, and they were the only two people who had cried at his funeral. They also shared the dubious distinction of being the only two people from the center’s staff who had attended the funeral.

“Oh, there you are, Isabel.” Behind the lenses of her reading glasses, Sandra’s eyes glinted with anxiety. “I was just about to have you paged.” She glanced toward the closed door of the inner office and lowered her voice. “This is no time to keep the new Dr. Belvedere waiting. He is very tightly scheduled this morning.”

“Sorry. Got held up.” So much for starting off on the right foot. “Shall I just go on in?”

“No, no, I’ll announce you.” Sandra flattened both hands on the desktop and pushed her large, plump form out of the chair. “This Dr. Belvedere is a lot more formal than the other one.”

“Too bad.”

“Tell me about it. He doesn’t even like the way I make coffee. I have been told that I have to stop at the coffee house across the street on my way into the office every morning to pick up a special double grande latte for him.” She snorted gently. “The old man always said I made the best coffee he ever tasted.”

She bustled out from behind the desk and knocked once on the door of the inner office.

A muffled voice instructed her to enter.

Sandra turned the knob and opened the door. “Isabel Wright to see you, sir.”

“Send her in.” The masculine voice was brusque.

Isabel braced herself. The last time she walked through that doorway, she encountered a dead man. Some images could never be erased. For the rest of her career at the center she would no doubt get flashbacks to that moment of shock and dread whenever she was summoned into this office.

“Please sit down, Ms. Wright.” Randolph motioned toward one of the worn chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

“Thank you, sir.” She sank down onto the edge of the chair, knees pressed tightly together, hands clasped in her lap. An uneasy sensation stole over her. There was something very ominous about the atmosphere in the room.

She glanced around, seeing the many changes that Randolph Belvedere had already made in the space that had been his father’s domain for so many years. Sphinx’s scratching post and food dish were gone. So was the mini-refrigerator where old Dr. B. kept a large stockpile of his favorite late-night snack, lemon-flavored yogurt.

She repressed a small shiver. The room now possessed a stark, sterile neatness that disturbed her on some deep level. The surface of the desk was frighteningly clear of clutter.

She quickly turned her attention back to Randolph. She had glimpsed him from afar on several occasions during the past few days, including at the funeral, but this was the first time she had seen him at close range. He had his father’s imposing stature, gray eyes and fierce, hawk-like nose. That was where the resemblance ended.

Randolph was in his early forties, attractive in a stern, square-jawed, distinguished sort of way. He reminded Isabel of an anchor on one of the nightly news broadcasts. His hair was going gray and starting to recede at the temples.

He frowned as though not quite certain what to make of her. Then he sat forward with a solemn air and folded his hands together on top of his desk. “I have been going through my father’s files. I must admit, I am confused about just what it is that you do here at the center, Ms. Wright.”

“I understand,” she said quickly. “Dr. Belvedere deliberately kept my job description vague. The clients who contracted with him for my services are very keen on confidentiality, you see.”

“I noticed,” Randolph said dryly. He unclasped his hands and opened the file folder. “There appear to be exactly two clients who routinely request your services, Ms. Wright. They are identified only by numbers. Client Number One and Client Number Two.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Belvedere did his best to honor their requests for anonymity.” She cleared her throat.

Randolph’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Johnson informs me that there are no copies of the contracts my father signed with these two anonymous clients. She says that all of the business arrangements were handled verbally and that no written records exist.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information concerning the contracts,” Isabel said. “I can only tell you that Dr. B., I mean Dr. Belvedere, took care of all the business issues relating to them personally.”

“I see. Did you ever have any personal contact with either of these two clients?”

“No, sir.” Mentally she crossed her fingers. Did dreaming about Client Number Two count as some sort of personal connection? What about attaching little tidbits of advice to the dream interpretations she wrote up for him? And then there was that glorious bouquet of orchids he had sent to her after she completed one particularly difficult report. Was that a form of personal contact? Probably not as far as Randolph was concerned, she decided. The bottom line here was that she had never met or spoken with either of the anonymous clients.

“You must admit that this arrangement between my father and these two clients was highly unusual, Ms. Wright.”

“I don’t understand, sir. Is there a problem with the anonymous clients?”