Dream Man

He was a nervous flier. It wasn’t the flying itself that got to him, but the strain of being trapped in a small space with so many strangers. He couldn’t leave old habits behind, couldn’t draw a boundary between on-duty and off-duty. He was the same man regardless. That meant he automatically watched everyone, subconsciously noting any erratic behavior, studying appearance, constantly evaluating the situation. The situation was boring, but that didn’t mean he could stop. Just as sure as he let his guard down, something bad would happen; it was an unwritten law.

He had taken the earliest flight out. Because of the two-hour time difference between Orlando and Colorado, he arrived in Denver well before lunch. He had no luggage, so all he had to do was go to the car-rental desk and lease a car for the day. Boulder was about twenty-five miles to the northwest, interstate all the way.

Once in Boulder, he stopped to look up the address of the Institute and ask for directions. With one thing and another, it was twelve-thirty when he drove up to the Institute. There were no fences, no gates; his policeman’s eye noted that the security measures were skimpy, at best. There was an alarm wired to the door, but nothing any third-rate burglar couldn’t disarm. INSTITUTE OF PARAPSYCHOLOGY was neatly painted in large block letters on the double glass doors. He pushed the doors open and noted that there was no tone to signal his entrance. It looked as if anyone could walk in off the street.

About twenty feet up the hallway was an office on the left, the door open. Dane approached it and stood for a moment in the doorway, silently observing a neat, middle-aged woman in front of a computer, typing a letter while she concentrated on what she was hearing through the headset plugged into her ears. Dane cleared his throat, and she glanced up, a smile breaking like sunshine. “Oh, hi. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, I just have walked up.” She had a very cheerful face, and he found himself smiling back at her. This place seemed to be as short on formality as it was on security. “I’m Dane Hollister, Orlando PD. I’m here to see Professor Sterling Ewell.”

“I’ll give him a call to let him know you’re here. He was expecting you, so he brought his lunch today instead of going out.”

The artlessness of that reply made him smile again. Her brown eyes twinkled at him. “He’s my husband,” she confided. “I can deflate his dignity if I want to, not that he gives a hoot.” She picked up a phone and punched two numbers. “Sterling, Detective Hollister is here. Okay.”

She hung up the phone. “Go on back to his office. I would take you myself, but I’m swamped today. Take the next corridor to the right, and his is the office on the right at the very end of the hall.”

“Thanks,” he said, winking at her as he left. To his amusement, she winked back.

Professor Ewell was a tall, barrel-chested man with thick white hair and a lined face that wore his years with grace. Like his wife, he seemed a very cheerful man, and he wasn’t very big on formality either. He was wearing an ancient pair of chinos and a faded chambray shirt, and his feet were clad in scuffed boots. Dane immediately felt a sense of kinship, for the professor evidently ranked clothing fairly low on his list of priorities. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and humor, but he regarded Dane very sharply for a long minute before some hitherto unnoticed suspicion faded away.

With a jolt, Dane understood. “All of that about tabloid reporters was bullshit,” he said. “You’re …” He paused, unwilling to accuse the professor of being something he didn’t really believe in.

“Psychic,” Professor Ewell supplied benignly. He waved a large hand at a comfortable-looking chair. “Sit down, sit down.” When Dane had complied, he resumed his own seat. “Not very much,” he said. “Nothing like some of the people I work with. But my one small talent is that I’m very good at reading people when I meet them in person. Because of that, I don’t give out any information over the telephone. My long-distance instincts are deplorable.” He smiled ruefully.

“No reading minds, or anything like that?”

The professor chuckled. “No, you can relax. Telepathy definitely isn’t one of my talents, as my wife will gladly tell you. Now, tell me about Marlie. How is she?”

“I’d hoped you would give me information about her,” Dane said dryly.

“You haven’t asked anything yet,” the professor pointed out. “I have.”

Dane was torn between impatience and humor. There was something in the good doctor that reminded him very much of an impudent six-year-old. He let humor get the upper edge, and gave in to the professor’s air of expectancy. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I’m not her favorite person,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw. “When I saw her yesterday morning, she told me not to set foot on her property again unless I had a warrant.”

The professor sighed blissfully. “That’s Marlie. I was afraid the trauma might have permanently damaged her. She can be very patient, when she wants, but sometimes she can be a bit testy, too.”

“Tell me about it,” Dane muttered, then latched on to what had just been said. “This trauma you mentioned; was it when Gleen kidnapped her?”

“Yes. It was horrible. Marlie was in a catatonic state for a week, and didn’t speak for almost two months. Everyone thought, including her, that she had lost all of her psychic abilities.” Bright blue eyes studied Dane. “I assume, from your interest in her, that those abilities have returned.”