Falling Awake(8)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

His jaw flexed. She finally sensed the anger that had been seething just beneath the surface of his distinguished facade and her spirits plummeted.

“Yes, Ms. Wright, there is a problem with both of them. I have no idea who these clients are. I can’t locate any billing information. I can’t even contact them to find out what the hell is going on because there are no phone numbers or e-mail addresses in the files for them.”

She seized on that last statement. “I’m sure there must be e-mail addresses. Dr. Belvedere mentioned on several occasions that he corresponded with both clients that way.”

“If that is the case, he managed to delete or destroy all of the correspondence on his office computer.” Randolph’s mouth twisted derisively. “Just another one of his little eccentricities, hmm?”

“I’m not sure what—”

“Come now, Ms. Wright. You worked with my father for several months. You must be aware that he was pathologically secretive and paranoid.”

She suddenly understood the anger she had sensed a moment ago. Randolph Belvedere had father issues. No surprise there, she thought. Dr. B. had probably not been what anyone would call a great dad. All the old man had ever cared about was his research.

“Dr. Belvedere was very concerned with confidentiality, but in part that was because those two anonymous clients demanded it,” she said warily.

“Tell me precisely what you did for these two clients,” Randolph snapped.

“I performed a special kind of analysis for them on those occasions when the dreamers had difficulty interpreting the symbols and images that appeared in their dreams.”

“I am aware that there are still some psychologists and psychiatrists who believe they can use the patient’s dreams to help uncover repressed issues. But the field of clinical psychology has moved well beyond Freud and Jung in that regard. Very few properly trained therapists put a lot of stock in old-fashioned dream analysis these days. In any event, you do not appear to have been practicing therapy. You never even met your clients, did you?”

Okay, that had been a major problem, she thought, one she had complained about frequently to Dr. B. I need context, she had told him time and again. I’m working in the dark.

“I wasn’t hired to do therapy,” she said carefully.

“Just as well, since according to your personnel file, you don’t even have a degree in psychology.” He flipped open the folder on the desk. “It says here that you majored in history in college. It also appears that your previous job was at something called the Psychic Dreamer Hotline.”

“You’d be amazed how much practical psychology you can pick up answering phones for the Psychic Dreamer Hotline. It was very educational.” She was starting to get mad. “As I was about to say, Dr. Belvedere employed me to interpret the meaning of events and symbols that appeared in dream reports taken from a, uh, certain class of dreamers. You’re probably aware that your father had a particular interest in what he termed Level Five lucid dreaming.”

“I knew it.” Randolph’s voice was very tight. A dark flush rose in his cheeks. “He was still fiddling around with that psychic nonsense, wasn’t he?”

She could feel the cold dampness of a trickle of perspiration under her arms. “I consider that an extremely narrow point of view, sir. In the last few years, your father devoted a great deal of his energy and expertise to the study of high-level lucid dreaming. He hired me to assist him in his research.”

Probably best not to explain exactly why Dr. Belvedere had selected her to help him, she decided. The situation was bad enough as it was.

“The old fool never gave up, did he,” Randolph said bitterly. “He was obsessed with his personal dream scale and that psychic dreaming crap.”

“He did not consider it, uh, crap.” She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag. “Dr. Belvedere was convinced that some people experience the phenomenon of lucid dreaming with a great deal more intensity and clarity than others. Most people have lucid dreams occasionally. On his scale they rank as Ones and Twos. A few have lucid dreams more frequently and with greater clarity—the Threes and Fours.”

“And then we have the Belvedere Level Five lucid dreamer.” Randolph’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “The so-called psychic dreamer.”

“Your father felt that it was a phenomenon that was worth serious study.”

“Dreaming is dreaming, Ms. Wright,” Randolph said flatly. “The consensus of most reputable modern research is that there is no scientific evidence to indicate that being aware of a dream or feeling in control of it is somehow a different or more special kind of dreaming. If anything, it merely indicates that the dreamer is probably not in a deep sleep at the time and is, therefore, more cognizant of what is going on in his own head.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that Dr. Belvedere believed there was more to the phenomenon, at least in some individuals,” she said earnestly.

Randolph sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I was afraid of this.”

“Afraid of what?”

“My father really did go completely wacko toward the end.” He shook his head. “I suppose I can only be grateful that he died before he could completely tarnish his professional reputation by publishing any more of his crazy investigations into psychic dreaming.”

A rush of anger momentarily blotted out her common sense and caution.

“That is an outrageous thing to say. It is obvious that the two of you did not have a good relationship. I’m sorry about that, but—”

“How d–dare you presume to analyze my relationship with my father?” Randolph was stuttering with rage now. “You have no credentials in the field of psychology, neuroscience or any other field that is even remotely connected to serious dream research. You have no business working at a respectable research facility of any kind.”

“Sir, if you knew anything at all about your father, you must realize that, although he could be difficult, he was a brilliant man whose investigations into extreme dreaming will someday be validated by others.”

She knew at once she had gone too far.

Randolph vibrated with so much tension that his hands shook. “My father was most certainly a capable researcher at one time. But he allowed his eccentricities to overwhelm his scientific training. I suspect that toward the end, he suffered from some sort of undiagnosed dementia.”