Evil Dreams (23 page)

“Hmph!” he snorted, grinning broadly. “Maybe I ought to offer to throw a fuck into her.”

“Howie!” She pouted at the thought of her lover having sex with someone else.

“I’m only kidding. What I meant was, this broad is unhappy with her husband because of a—the—
Frohlich’s
Syndrome.”
He held the folder up to the light so he could read the unfamiliar words.

“The what?”

“Frohlich’s Syndrome. I gather from the way she describes her husband and from the way the doctor explained it, it means he’s pretty fat and ain’t got much in the pecker department.”

“Oh.”

“I guess that’s why she went out looking for a little strange stuff and found a lover.”

“I see.” She looked expectantly at him, hoping he would say something that would resemble praise or a thank you.

“Get your pen and paper. I’m ready to dictate.”

“I’ve got them right here, honey,” she said eagerly, picking up the tablet she had brought home from the office.

“Dear, Mrs. Nelumbo, or may I call you Carole?” he began.

Tory recorded each word and syllable with a squiggly line that would be transformed into typed words the next day.

“I believe I know why you enjoy screwing good old Ed as much as you do. He’s nothing like your old man, is he? Poor Guido with his big fat belly and little itsy-bitsy, wee-wee maker just doesn’t do right for you. You must like big cock or you wouldn’t play around with Ed the way you do. I strongly suggest you play my little game or I will see to it that Guido gets a letter in complete detail telling all about your meetings with his lieutenant and how you’ve decorated a sleazy apartment into a regular sex den for the two of you on the near north side.”

“Do you want to sign it, Howie?”

“Naw. I’ll be right there and explain how a real letter will be going off to her husband within forty-eight hours unless she comes up with the amount of cash I ask for.”

“How much?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Five, maybe ten thousand. Depends on how she reacts to my offer to keep quiet about her love life.”

Rereading her shorthand, she closed the tablet, certain she had no questions concerning the letter’s content.

“I noticed you brought another file home tonight,” he said, motioning toward the folder on the bed. “What did you bring this time?”

“I—I brought the transcription I did of Jon Ward’s session from last week.”

“Is there something in it this time? Something that can make us some money?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Haven’t you got a fucking brain in your goddamn head? You know what the hell you’re supposed to look for,” he yelled.

Lowering her head at the unexpected diatribe, she said quietly, “I think you should read it. There’s—”

“Why? Why should I read the goddamn thing if there’s nothing in it?” He stormed about the room, slamming a fist into an open palm.

“That’s just it. I think there might be, but I don’t know what.”

“What the fuck are you talking about ?” Stopping, he turned to face her.

“This morning, Doctor Dayton said I should make absolutely certain the tape was not erased. That it should be labeled and put with the recording of his first session.”

Howie studied her face for a moment and said more quietly, “So? Is that unusual? Has he ever done it with any other patient?”

“A few. He has several bookshelves with recordings that are never to be erased. But most of his tapes are erased as soon as they’re transcribed to typewritten notes.”

Picking up the folder from the bed, he leafed rapidly through the thin stack of papers. “What makes you think there’s something worthwhile in these?”

“There was German on the tape today.”

“German?” he said and stopped flipping pages.

“Yes, and Doctor Dayton had the translation all written out. I had to insert the English words when Mr. Ward started speaking in German.”

“What’d he say? In German?”

“A bunch of goofy things. I thought they sounded sort of like directions for something or other.”

“Directions?”

“Well, you’ll have to read it to see if I’m right.”

“You still haven’t told me why you thought this was worth something.”

“I guess it was the way Doctor Dayton explained how Mr. Ward could speak German when he apparently doesn’t understand the language.”

“What’d Dayton say?”

“Something about—I forget the word—how Mr. Ward could have picked up the words when he was young. His mother came from Germany and he was born there, too.”

“Well, shit, that explains it. What got you so interested other than the fact you got hot pants for this Ward character?”

“That’s not true, Howie,” she said, feeling her face redden at the accusation.

“Okay. Okay, already! So you’re not hot. What made you interested in it?”

“I think Doctor Dayton wasn’t telling me the truth. I think he lied about how Mr. Ward could speak German when he claims he doesn’t.’”

“So he’s lying. What right have you to know everything?”

“He’s explained different things to me and he’s always been straightforward. But this time, it wasn’t the same. I think he was trying not to tell me the real reason behind the different language.”

Turning the folder over in his hands, he glared at her.

“Read it. Please?” she whispered. “Maybe you can figure out why Doctor lied and why Mr. Ward can speak German while he’s hypnotized. I just don’t believe what Doctor told me.”

As he sat down on the bed, he made no effort lo camouflage his disgust for the indecision and lack of imagination she had revealed. Why did he have to make all the decisions about their intended blackmail victims?

His eyes quickly flitted across the pages while he read the transcript of the second hypnotic trance. Nothing impressed him until he came to the notation concerning the subject’s mumblings being indistinguishable and the heading: “Translated from German.” He slowed his reading until he came to the coordinates. “They sure sound like directions for something,” he murmured more to himself than to Tory.

He continued reading before suddenly leaping from the bed. “
Zozobra
?” he cried. “What the fuck is
Zozobra
doing here in the middle of the German translation?”

“Is—is that important, Howie?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It sure as hell doesn’t make sense. Does the doctor or this Ward know what it means?”

“I—I don’t know. Why?”

Pacing the room like a caged animal, his face screwed up in thought while trying to fit the puzzle together. Periodically, he would stop to smile in a way that frightened her. “Naw,” he mumbled under his breath, “that doesn’t make sense. No sense at all.” He continued his route around the small table, to the side of the Murphy bed, over to the curtainless window and back without deviating from his course. After twenty minutes, he stopped, shrugging at the same time.

“What is it, honey?” she pleaded. Concerned he was going into some sort of reaction from drugs they had taken in the past, she stood, confronting him. “Tell me what’s wrong!” she demanded. “What’s the matter?” She grabbed his beefy arms, barely stopping him before he walked over her.

“Nothing! There’s nothing the matter with me. I just can’t figure out what
Zozobra
is doing in the translation.” Sidestepping her, he continued his pacing.

“What does it mean?” she asked, releasing her grip.

“Huh? Oh, Old Man Gloom.”

“What?”

“Every September there’s a fiesta at Santa Fe and they burn a big figure they call
Zozobra
in the middle of a huge bonfire. They have to get rid of Old Man Gloom before they can have a good time, or some goddamn thing.”

She picked up the folder, studying it for a moment. “What does this mean?
Zozobra
took the people away. No one was there because of
Zozobra?”
She wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

“You got me there,” he said. “When does this Ward guy come in again?”

“He was in today. Why?”

“Apparently you haven’t typed his session from today. Or is this it?”

“No, this one is last week’s. I’ll probably type today’s within the next day or two.”

“When you do, I want to see it.”

“Then there
is
something there?” she asked hopefully.

“I doubt it. I just want to know what the hell this dream of his means and why
Zozobra
was mentioned. It just doesn’t make sense.”

She suddenly felt dejected. For some reason, she had decided that Jon’s folder would interest him for the same reasons Sterling Tilden’s and Carole Nelumbo’s had. Now, he was just curious.

“Get your goddamn clothes off!” he ordered roughly. “I want to get to sleep early so I can go to the library tomorrow and check out the coordinates Ward mentioned. Maybe I can solve the puzzle before your doctor can.” He reached out, tearing her blouse open to expose her well formed breasts. Pulling her to him, he kissed her roughly, exploring her mouth. He ran his tongue down her chin and attacked her breasts, evoking a scream of pleasure when he roughly bit her taut nipples.

Thankful for what she took as his show of gratitude, she responded in kind. The couple fell to the Murphy bed, tearing at each other’s clothes.

Although their lives as husband and wife had been an emotional puzzle, Millicent Tilden found, soon after her marriage to Sterling, diverse outside duties to perform. Countless charities held her attention, taking the place of his apparent lack of interest in her as a woman. She loved him despite his indifference to having sex with her. The few times they had made love during their twenty years together, she had found rewarding, and Sterling had been a kind and considerate man in every other aspect. Now, for some inexplicable reason, he had died by his own hand.

The shock of his death had anethesized her feelings since Friday when the bank president called. Following his cremation early Monday afternoon, the weight of tears she had held back broke through her thin veneer of control, washing away her composure. He was dead. He was gone—forever. She would survive without him in her societal functions as she had done in the past. But the gnawing question she could not answer was, why? Why had Sterling killed himself?

Following the memorial service, Millicent left the chapel with Charles and Jennifer LeMay, the only people Sterling had ever allowed to enter their married lives as close friends. Charles drove in silence, concentrating on traffic as he made his way toward the Tilden home.

“Are you certain you’ll be all right tonight, Millie?” Jennifer asked, squeezing the widow’s hand.

“Yes. I feel much better since I was able to let my sorrow out at the funeral home,” she said, her voice soft but controlled.

“Jennifer could stay with you tonight, if you want,” he offered, breaking into their conversation.

“I appreciate everything you two have done but I’ll be all right. I can’t ever expect Sterling’s death to be explained to me in a way that I will understand. But I do realize I can’t mourn him forever. The sooner I adjust my way of thinking to being alone, the better off I’ll be.” She stared through the windshield, not focusing her eyes on the dancing lights which flitted past.

“Well, I’m glad we took you out to dinner and had a chance to talk,” Charles said. He and Jennifer had practically spirited her away from the funeral home following the service. The bank officials and acquaintances, people who had come in contact with the Tildens because of charitable undertakings, had descended on Millicent, about to smother the grieving woman with their expressions of sympathy.

“I think you two are the most precious commodity in the world,” Millie said when Charles eased the car to a stop in front of her home. “You’re friends and totally irreplaceable. Will you come in and have a nightcap? It’s really quite early. Only nine-thirty.”

“Of course we will,” Jennifer said, opening her door.

The threesome walked to the front entrance and as Millie unlocked it, Charles shot a furtive look at his wife, slowly nodding his head. He knew their friend would not allow the loss to change her in any way.

Entering the wide hallway, Millie said, “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the living room and I’ll get three brandies. Will you pick up the mail, Charles, and put it on the table?”

He bent down, gathering the half dozen envelopes that had scattered when the postman dropped them through the mail slot earlier in the day. Absently, he thumbed though the mail stack, finding two utility bills and a thick envelope from the bank containing their monthly checking account statement. Two small missives, containing sympathy cards, he surmised, and one with Millicent’s name typed across it without a return address, held his interest momentarily. With the exception of the bills and the bank envelope, he retained the rest, offering them to Millie when she brought the drinks.

“Just put them on the coffee table if you will, Charles,” she said, sitting down after giving her guests their drinks. “I don’t feel much like reading mail right now. Were there any bills?”

“I left them on the hall table,” he said.

“I’m to meet with our attorney in the morning. He advised me today to bring any outstanding bills along so he could pay them for me.” She raised her glass and said, “To Sterling, who was not the happiest man in the world and who will hopefully find peace in the death he has chosen.”

The LeMays slowly lifted their glasses, drinking the macabre toast. Having chatted amiably for almost an hour, and after a second brandy, they departed.

Millicent turned out the lamps in the living room by means of a master switch in the hall. Just as the room plunged into darkness, something caught her attention. The envelopes resting on the coffee table were framed in the light spilling through the hallway arch. Retrieving them, she found names on the backs of the two smaller envelopes. Expressions of sympathy from the Hackgens and the Helbarths. She studied the larger one for a brief moment and laid it along with the unopened cards on the table. Her exhaustion prevented her from confronting the condolences, to read the saccharin messages contained within. The next day would be plenty of time. Tomorrow, after she returned from the attorney’s office, she would sit down and open every one of the letters, circulars and advertisements. Slowly, she walked up the staircase to her bedroom.