Evil Dreams (4 page)

CHAPTER 2

Trina Ward hurried up the steps of the front porch stretching across the front and side of the turn-of-the-century mansion. After their marriage, she and Jon had moved into the front apartment on the first floor of this once elegant monument to some forgotten financier’s millions. The calm, passive appearance of the brownstone in some ways mirrored their own existence, one she liked more as each day passed. But today, she experienced a certain anxiety that seemed foreign to her. Had Jon kept his appointment with the psychiatrist? What would have happened by now? She looked at her watch again for what seemed the thousandth time. Just three-thirty. If only she could have found a substitute teacher to take over her class, she could have gone with Jon.

Entering the front hallway, she first checked their mail box, withdrawing several envelopes which she stuck between her purse and briefcase. She fingered her chain of keys, selecting the right one with her free hand, before unlocking the door to their apartment. Why did she imagine Jon would be sitting there, waiting for her? He had promised he would keep the three o’clock appointment.

“Jon?” she called timidly when she stepped into the front room and breathed easier, relieved there was no answer.

During the day, she had planned their evening. It would have to be a pleasant one to make him comfortable. She knew full well that he had been unhappy with his hospital stay and the tests. Then, when she had sided with the doctors about his seeing a psychiatrist, she had felt his sense of aloneness. She would make up for everything this weekend.

She quickly changed clothes and hurried to the kitchen, glancing at the antique school clock hanging above the refrigerator. Perhaps she had been too blatant and pushy about his visiting a doctor to have the physical examination. She had accepted the dream, or nightmare, or whatever it was, just as Jon had, but for some reason she could not explain, it suddenly had grown ominous, seeming to pose a threat to their happiness. The last thing in the world she wanted was any type of conflict with her husband, especially over something as silly as a dream. But that nightmare was anything but silly.

Opening the freezer compartment, she took out two small rib eye steaks. Baked potatoes and a salad would complete their dinner. A smile changed her face to radiant beauty from the pensive expression she had worn most of the day. She crossed to a small pantry and selecting a bottle of Beaujolais, broke the seal. Inhaling its bouquet, she placed the wine on the counter to breathe. It would complement their meal and, since it was his favorite, put Jon in a good mood.

Why did it irritate her that she felt it necessary to bother with his mood? She wished she could analyze her feeling of dread where he and his nightmare were concerned. Usually, she could be most logical about any problem or situation confronting her, but her emotions ruled her mind when her husband was involved. She recalled her apocalyptic feelings when she awoke the night of their second wedding anniversary. A film of sweat formed on her forehead when she replayed Jon’s screams in her mind.

Trina had bolted to a sitting position, wide awake at the first sound. Turning on the lamp next to the bed, she had blinked her sleep-filled eyes, automatically placing her arms around his naked shoulders to comfort him in soft, reassuring tones. That goddamn dream! Why did it have to happen? Almost six months had passed since he had last experienced it and for a while she thought it might be gone for good.

Jon had trembled, his lids undulating as his eyes rolled back and forth in the safety of their own private darkness. Perspiration glistened on his well muscled body, his side of the bed damp from the excessive sweating brought on by the nightmare.

“Are you awake darling?” she asked quietly.

His face drawn into a mass of worry lines, he opened his eyes, staring at her. Grabbing her arm, he squeezed until she squealed in pain. Startled by her cry, he released his grip and nodding in answer to her question, coughed to clear his throat.

Trina jumped from the bed, racing to the bathroom for a glass of water. From past experience, she knew he would be unable to utter a word until his parched mouth and throat had been wetted.

“I’m making an appointment for you with a doctor first thing in the morning,” she said, returning with the water and a large towel draped over one arm.

Jon frowned, taking the glass to gulp the water. He coughed once more. “Come on, Trina,” he said thickly. “I’m fine. So I have a nightmare once in a while. So what? Probably something I ate or drank at the restaurant.” He peered at her through pain-filled eyes.

“I let you talk me out of it the last time you had the dream,” she said sternly. “I’m not giving in this time. How do you feel?”

Rubbing his temples, he said, “It hurts like hell.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll take a few aspirins and be fine in the morning.” Standing, he toweled his body dry.

“Aspirins won’t do the job, darling.”

“I said I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“That may be, but I still think we’d better let a doctor take a look at you.”

“Come on, Trina. I’m not going to tell some stranger about my dream. Christ, he’d think
I
‘m wacko or something. Maybe he’d call the boys in white jackets.”

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” she persisted, ignoring his lame protestations. “It’s about time you have a physical anyway.”

“I’m not going,” he said, stubbornly.

“Look Jon, once someone’s past thirty, it doesn’t do any harm to know everything is working all right. You’re thirty-three and I don’t even know the last time you had an examination.”

“When I bought life insurance, just before we got married.”

“That’s not what I mean. That exam wasn’t extensive and you know it.”

“Well, I still saw a doctor.”

“Did you tell him about your dream?”

“Why the hell should I have told him? You know how I feel about doctors,” he said vehemently. “Ever since that quack messed up with Mom and—”

He had launched into his tirade against the medical profession and Trina had carefully worked the conversation away from the subject.

Tearing lettuce and spinach for their salad, Trina shook her head in dismay. Jon could be so obstinate at times. A shudder ran through her when she thought of how she had learned of the dream. Shortly before their marriage, they had spent a weekend at Lake Geneva and Jon started screaming at the top of his voice after they had been asleep for several hours. She had been petrified. After he recovered, he explained, fascinating her with the narrative manner in which he related the details. Despite her initial fright, she believed him when he said that it never bothered him and shouldn’t be a source of worry.

“Lots of people have dumb dreams that occur on a regular basis,” he had said, chuckling.

Because she loved him so much and felt his love in return, she had dismissed the incident. But each time it happened, she became more concerned, until now it had given her an instinctive feeling of impending dire consequences if the nightmare were allowed to continue unchecked.

At least he had consented to the first appointment and now, one week later, they knew it was not caused by something physical or organic. At least the tests gave her hope that the dream could not harm her husband bodily. Perhaps it was nothing to be concerned about and the psychiatrist would give him a clean bill of mental health to go along with the other results.

The mantel clock in the living room struck the half hour past four and she finished tossing the salad. If the baked potatoes were to be done on time, she’d have to put them in the oven now.

A sudden chill swept over her.
Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him,
she awkwardly prayed to herself.

At five-fifteen, the front door swung open and Jon strode in.

Looking up from the table where she had just lighted two candles, Trina said, “Hi, darling.”

Closing the door, he answered simply, “Hi.”

“How was it?” she asked, crossing the room to greet him more intimately. She kissed him deeply, wrapping her arms about him. Her tongue demandingly darted in and out of his mouth, eloquently hinting of the evening and weekend she had planned.

He returned the kiss with equal ardor, smiling when they parted. “If that’s the kind of welcome I get when I come home from the shrink, I think I’ll ask if he wants to see me every day.”

“So, how was it?” she repeated, leaving the room for the small kitchen.

“I suppose it could have been a lot worse than it actually was,” he began, and told her about the meeting while she finished preparing their meal.

When he finished, she slid the two steaks from the broiler. “When do you see him again?”

“A week from Monday, the seventh of May.”

She left the room with the plates, her husband following closely. “That’s it? No other comment or questions?”

“What’s there to say?” She returned to the kitchen for the wine and poured the crimson liquid into tulip shaped glasses already on the table. Looking up, she found him scowling. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“Get rid of that wine! You should know better!” His guttural voice sliced the air separating them.

She stared at him. “What should I know better?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t drink wine!” He growled the words in a voice Trina barely recognized.

“You don’t drink—! Since when?” she demanded, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead.

“I never have. Oh, maybe an occasional glass, years ago when I was a youth. I know better now. It’s not good for a person—especially me. I must be careful of what I take in the form of food and drink. I may even stop eating meat altogether.” His face contorted, a satisfied grimace twisting his features. “It could,” he continued, “affect my decisions … my ability as a leader … I mean, my powers of concentration … my creative abilities.”

“Jon Ward!” Trina said sharply. “This is your own choice! Your favorite Beaujolais. You’ve always liked it.”

His eyes glowing like coals, he said nothing, as if waiting for her to wilt under the pressure of his stare.

She returned his baleful look with one of bewilderment and curiosity. What could be wrong? Hadn’t he always preferred this wine? Lowering her eyes to the table, she reached for the glasses. It would be senseless to argue over something so foolish. What he had said was totally out of character for him, but not worth an argument.

“Hey,” he said quickly as Trina turned to take the glasses to the kitchen, “where are you going with the wine?”

Trina almost dropped the goblets but recovered and bit her lower lip. What the hell was going on? What kind of game was this? She turned to find her husband smiling broadly.

He held her chair before taking his own place across the small table. With too much competition from the light of dusk filtering through the drawn blinds, the candles’ flames danced feebly on their wicks, biding time until they would be the only illumination.

“Did I tell you,” he said, “that he wants to hypnotize me?”

She shook her head, still perplexed over the momentary change in her husband’s personality. Should she tell Doctor Dayton about this? Or was she merely being foolish? Had she placed herself under a degree of intensity today by worrying about Jon and the appointment? An intensity that suddenly twisted things out of perspective? Maybe she should be the one seeing the psychiatrist.

“I think it might be quite an experience,” Jon continued between bites of meat. Glancing at his wife, he found her studying him, her face frozen in a baffled expression. “Are you all right, honey?” He reached for his glass, downing a third of the wine. “Mmmm! Delightful taste!”

Trina stared. “I have—have, some rather interesting plans for this evening,” she offered tenuously. “Some that I hope will prove to be as intriguing as being hypnotized.” She wondered if he caught the hesitancy in her voice.

Smiling, he leered at her.

The rest of the meal was consumed in silence. Their sense of anticipation rose, heightened by the wine and the occasional leg contact beneath the table.

When they finished, he stood and said, “I’ll clear the table. You were the chef, I’ll be the scullery maid—er, man—er, person. Right, scullery person. You got to the bedroom and prepare yourself, my fine wench.” Precariously balancing the dishes in a shaky stack, he limped to the kitchen.

“You’re—” Trina stopped. Had he hurt his leg? Should she call his attention to it? But why set him off again? She didn’t want him thinking she was looking for things out of the ordinary. If she did that, he might completely shut her out. She resolved not to mention anything he did that might be interpreted by her as being abnormal. More than likely, his leg had fallen asleep during dinner.

“I’m what?” he asked, hobbling back to the living room. He rubbed his elbow as though it bothered him.

“You’re not going to be too long, are you?” Trina asked, feigning seductiveness. She did her best to pretend she hadn’t noticed his lameness and unconscious attention to his arm. The question and her attitude apparently escaped detection. She sighed inaudibly.

He scooped her into his arms. “I’m ready when you are,” he chuckled.

Carrying her, he limped toward the bedroom.

* * *

Tory Worthington paused before the old door which opened to her private world, to the stairs leading to the fourth floor apartment she shared with Howie Liemen. Fumbling in her purse, she pushed aside a ball of tissue and assorted cosmetics before finding her key ring. Their mailbox surrendered a catalog of exclusive women’s apparel, desirable things she could no longer afford, plus several windowed envelopes. She winced at the return addresses. She knew what they contained. Late notices for overdue payments she should have made months before. The weathered door, thirsty for a touch of paint, opened grudgingly, the squeal of dry hinges lost in the noise of traffic. She started up the four flights of steps.

Since she had met Howie six months ago, she had been having trouble making her money go as far as it had in the past. She didn’t blame Howie. How could she, when she loved him so much? As soon as he found work, everything would be fine. It was difficult for someone who had served five years in prison to find a job.