Falling Awake (5 page)

“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.”

“He was
not
demented.” The only thing that kept her in her seat was the knowledge that losing her temper completely would provide Randolph with all the ammunition he needed to fire her on the spot.

To her surprise, Randolph smiled. It was not a nice smile, however. It was a thin, mean-spirited little grin of anticipation.

“Let’s return to the subject of your position here at the center,” he said. “Specifically, your lack of professional credentials and degrees.”

“Dr. Belvedere felt that I had other qualities that made me useful.”

“Yes, I know, Ms. Wright. But in case it has escaped your notice, I am now the director of the center, and, frankly, I don’t have any use for you at all.”

She thought about the large outstanding balances on her credit card statements and went ice cold.

“Currently the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research is considered to be a small, backwater lab in the world of sleep studies,” Randolph continued. “Until now it has certainly not been a major player in the field. But I intend to change that. As of today, it will focus entirely on sleep research. There will be no more work done on my father’s absurd dream theories. Do you understand, Ms. Wright?”

She thought about her beautiful new furniture sitting in the rented storage locker.

“You’ve made yourself very clear,” she said quietly.

“We are going to ditch the woo-woo factor, Ms. Wright.” Randolph was looking increasingly cheerful. “The Department of Dream Analysis no longer exists. I am terminating your employment immediately.”

She had nothing left to lose, she decided. “You’re letting me go because closing the Department of Dream Analysis is the only way you can come up with to punish your father. Don’t you think that’s a little childish?”

“How dare you!” He straightened in his chair, righteous indignation blazing in his eyes. “I am p–p–protecting what is left of his reputation.”

“Wonderful.” She spread her hands. “Now you’re rationalizing your actions by telling yourself you’re doing this out of respect for your father. Give me a break. You’re the one with the doctorate in psychology. You know as well as I do that’s not going to work.”

Randolph reddened. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you, do you understand?”

She should stop talking right now, she thought, but she couldn’t help herself. “You really ought to look into getting some counseling to help you deal with your father issues. They’re not going to go away now that he’s dead and you’ve got control of his company, you know. If anything, your obsession with proving yourself may get worse. That can lead to—”

“Shut up, Ms. Wright.”
He punched the intercom on his desk. “Mrs. Johnson, send someone from security to escort Ms. Wright out of the building.”

There was a short, appalled silence from Mrs. Johnson’s end.

“Yes, sir,” she finally managed, sounding horrified.

Isabel got to her feet. “I’ll go back to my office to collect my things.”

“You will not move an inch,” Randolph said flatly. “Your office is being cleared out as we speak. Your personal effects will be brought downstairs to the parking lot and handed over to you.”

“What?”

Randolph gave her a triumphant smile. “By the way, I was informed that you intercepted the janitors who were ordered to destroy my father’s research this morning. I have remedied the situation.”

She stopped at the door and whirled around. “What are you talking about?”

“All of the papers and computer files in your office are being destroyed as we speak,”

“You can’t do that.” Another thought struck her as she yanked open the door.
“Sphinx.”

“Come back here, Ms. Wright.” Randolph leaped to his feet. “You are not to return to your office. You will be escorted from here directly to your car.”

She ignored him to rush past Mrs. Johnson’s desk. The secretary lowered the phone, her expression distraught.

Randolph thundered after Isabel. “I order you to return to this office and wait for security.”

“You just fired me. I don’t take orders from you anymore.”

She flew along the corridor. Office doors opened as she went past. People came to stand in doorways, faces alight with curiosity and astonishment.

By the time she reached the wing where her office was located, she was breathless. At the end of the hall she saw a small knot of people in the hall outside her door. Ken barred the entrance, both arms extended to grasp the door frame on either side.

“Nobody comes in here until Isabel gets back,” he roared.

Isabel recognized the three people confronting him. One of them, Gavin Hardy, was from the center’s IT department. Gavin was the guy you called when the computers went down or the lab equipment malfunctioned. He was in his mid-thirties, thin, twitchy and very hyper. The only time he was ever still was when he was engrossed in a software problem. He was dressed in a pair of voluminous cargo pants and a tee shirt emblazoned with the logo of one of the mega casino-resorts in Las Vegas. Gavin’s big goal in life was to devise the perfect system for beating the house at blackjack.

The second man at her door was Bruce Hopton, the head of the center’s small security team. He was accompanied by one of his staff. Bruce was nearing retirement. The white shirt he wore was stretched to the breaking point across his ever-expanding belly. Security was not a major problem at the center. Most of the
time Bruce and his people devoted themselves to making sure employees parked in their assigned slots, escorting the female nightshift workers out to their cars and performing the perfunctory employee background checks.

None of the three men looked happy to be where he was.

“Sorry about this, Isabel,” Bruce muttered. “Belvedere himself gave us our orders.”

Ken looked at Isabel.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. “These guys say they’ve been told to destroy all the files in your office and on your computer.”

“It’s true. Belvedere just fired me.”

“That sonofabitch.” Ken glared at Gavin and Bruce.

Gavin held up both hands in a defensive gesture. “Hey, don’t blame us.”

“Yeah,” Bruce mumbled. “We feel just as bad about this as you do, Ms. Wright.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I’m out of a job.”

“I’m real sorry about that,” Bruce said. “We’re sure gonna miss you around here.”

The regret in his face was sincere. She could not take her anger and frustration out on him. “Thanks, Bruce. If you don’t mind, I have to get Sphinx.”

Bruce nervously checked the hallway behind her. “I’m not supposed to let you back inside, Isabel.”

“I’m here for the cat,” she said evenly.

He hesitated briefly and then squared his shoulders. “Go ahead and get the carrier. I’ll take the heat if Belvedere objects.”

“Thanks, Bruce.”

“Forget it. Least I can do after what you did for my grandson a few months ago.”

Isabel moved into the office.

Ken stood aside. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Sphinx is a little upset.”

“I can tell.”

Sphinx was crouched in his cage, ears plastered against his skull, eyes narrowed, fangs bared.

“It’s okay, Sphinx. Calm down, sweetie.” She hoisted the carrier. “We’re going home.”

“Belvedere can’t fire you like this,” Ken growled.

“Yes, he can, actually.” She glanced at her cluttered desk and then determinedly turned away from the sight of all the work that was about to be destroyed. She had done her best to salvage Martin Belvedere’s research, but she had failed. There was nothing more she could do. She had her own problems and they were big ones.

“Where is she?” Randolph called heatedly outside in the hall. “My instructions were clear, Hopton. Ms. Wright was not supposed to be allowed back into her office.”

“She’s picking up the cat,” Bruce said quietly. “Figured you’d want him out of here.”

“Cat? What cat?” Randolph appeared in the doorway, his anchorman features as tight and drawn as if he’d just been told that the network had decided not to renew his contract. “Damnit, that’s my father’s cat, isn’t it? What’s it doing here? I told Mrs. Johnson this morning that the creature was to be sent to the pound.”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Belvedere.” Isabel walked toward the door, holding the carrier in both arms. “We’re leaving. The best thing you can do is get out of my way. You’re going to look awfully foolish if you decide to fight me over this cat. If I get really annoyed, I might open the door of this carrier.”

Sphinx hissed at Randolph.

Belvedere got out of the way.

h
ours later she sat at the table in the kitchen of her small apartment glumly regarding the array of bank and credit card statements. The windows were open, allowing the warm air of the early summer afternoon to circulate through the small space. She couldn’t see the smog when she looked out across the pool and gardens toward the other apartments, but she could taste it in the back of her throat.