Secrets Rising (39 page)

"How did you feel in the dreams? Were you upset about the murder? Happy?"

He hadn't wanted to get into that part, the really bad part. "Excited," he said quietly. "In the dreams one part of me felt ecstatic, powerful...like I could fly. At the same time, the part of me watching it happen felt sick." He studied her closely to see how she would react, but she gave no outward sign of her feelings.

"So you're two people in the dream? One of you performing the actions and one of you watching?"

He considered that. "I only see one of me in the dreams. That's the person who enjoys the killing. I, as the dreamer, am disgusted at my own actions."

"You've never seen this woman outside of your dreams?"

"Not that I recall." He sucked in a deep breath and prepared to make the total commitment. "The day after the movie-vivid dream, I saw her picture on the news—murdered—strangled, just like I dreamed. Her name is Kay Palmer. Maybe you saw the story."

He had to give her credit. She didn't flinch. Her expression didn't change. "You're sure you never met her?"

"Believe me, I've searched my memory, and I don't know anyone by that name."

"But you're concerned that you know her in another personality, that you killed her as another personality?" she asked, putting into words the fear he hadn't dared verbalize, even to himself.

"Is that possible?" He waited for her answer as if she were judge and jury, deciding his fate.

"Of course it's possible, but there are other explanations that are more probable."

He shot up out of the chair, unable to sit still any longer. "Like what?" he demanded, leaning over her desk "How can you explain my seeing a murder? Seeing myself commit it?"

She tented her fingers and returned his stare calmly. "Perhaps you went to sleep with the television on, woke up just enough to see a late night newscast of the murder, then incorporated it into a dream."

"Maybe it was. By your own admission, the other dreams were unclear. Perhaps your dream woman had features similar to the murdered woman, and your subconscious did the rest. That would explain why she seemed familiar."

He felt himself begin to relax for the first time since he'd entered her office—for the first time since he'd seen that news report a week ago. Encroaching senility was preferable to murder.

"As for your thoughts that seem to come from somewhere else, that's a fairly common phenomenon in times of stress." She tapped her pencil against the desk, watching him speculatively. "Let's go back to your dislike of enclosed spaces. Where do you think that originates?"

"I don't know or care," he said, irritation rising again. "When I'm under a lot of pressure, I get feelings of claustrophobia. The only way that issue relates to the problem I'm having now is that the stress makes it worse."

She nodded, and he knew she would probably waste valuable time in the future pursuing that avenue. He'd never be able to convince her it wasn't related to his present trouble.

A timer on her desk gave a soft
ding
.

"I see our time is up for today. When would you like to come back?"

The hour was over, and he didn't feel they'd accomplished a thing. Damn! He had to get this matter taken care of. "Would tomorrow be possible?"

"Certainly. Tomorrow at five again," she agreed.

"Thanks," he said. "I know this is past your regular schedule, and I do appreciate it."

She smiled then, a soft, caring smile, and he felt himself draw back mentally. He liked her better as a detached doctor than as a real person. He couldn't deal with a real person right now.

***

As she drove home, Leanne rolled down her car window and let the warm September air flow around her and reclaim her after her unusually long day spent inside the confines of her office. One benefit of working late was that the major part of the rush traffic was gone.

However, that wasn't the only benefit. She was glad she'd given Eliot Kane the after-hours appointment. He was obviously a very tightly controlled man whose problems likely sprang from that control. In spite of his concerns, she didn't see that he had any major worries right now. His mind was just screaming for help before things got bad.

Being the one to offer that help was always a gratifying feeling. Though there was never a guarantee with mental problems, Eliot Kane was a strong candidate for the category of those who could be helped.

As she approached her neighborhood in east Dallas, she felt soothed and welcomed by the quaint old homes and large trees, a major contrast to the stark newness of the area where her office was located. She turned onto her street, her gaze automatically going to the house across from hers, to the small, white-haired man sitting in the porch swing beside the large black Doberman.

She waved out the open car window. "Hi, Thurman, Dixie."

Thurman Powers smiled and waved back, and Dixie's ears perked, though she would never move without Thurman's permission.

Leanne pulled into her driveway, hit the garage door opener and settled her car inside for the night. Thurman worried about her. If the weather was too bad for Dixie and him to sit on the front porch and watch for her return, they'd sit inside, looking out the window.

He was the closest thing she had to a father, and she was his only family. His wife had died ten years before, and they'd never had children. Leanne and Thurman had bonded the first day she walked into his office as a very green intern. Through the years of practicing together, their friendship had grown, and she'd bought the house across the street from him when it came up for sale. Now that he was retired and she'd taken over the practice, they still maintained daily contact.

While he might be a strictly cerebral retired psychiatrist, Dixie was his personal one hundred forty pound loaded weapon...and they were both determined to take care of her, a woman alone. That made it a lot easier for her to take care of him. The rare occasions he wasn't sitting on the porch or watching through the window, she went over immediately. Usually she'd find that he'd been upstairs working on a paper for a psychiatric journal, the time completely forgotten. Then she could go home with her mind at ease.

When she crossed her yard from the garage to the front door of her hundred-year old home, she noted that Thurman and Dixie had gone inside.

She opened her own door, and a small black dog less than one-tenth Dixie's size gave an excited "yip" then scurried onto the porch on legs too short for her long body, one ear drooping and one erect, brown eyes wide and sparkling.

Leanne stooped to pet the manic animal. "Hi, Greta! Are you starved, sweetheart? If it's any consolation, I'm late for a worthy reason. I stayed to help a nice man."

She straightened and went into the house with Greta at her heels, through the house to the back door where she let Greta into the fenced yard.

As her small dog scurried about the yard, sniffing diligently under every tree, every bush, every plant, for evidence of intruders into her territory, Leanne leaned against the door frame, thinking about the appointment that had made her late.

Beneath Eliot Kane's conservatively tailored charcoal suit lived a very real, very complicated human being. He was an attractive man. The well-tailored suit disguised but didn't hide his large arms, wide chest and muscular thighs. His dark blond hair, at first immaculately styled, then tousled from his nervous gestures, was the perfect frame for his golden brown eyes. His jaw was square, stubborn and challenging, his lips thin and determined but somehow sensual.

And that, she thought, reaching down to pet Greta as the little dog trotted over, pretty well summarized Eliot Kane. He had a determination that was almost super human, and a quality of vulnerability that was totally human. He was dynamic and appealing and very much in charge, and he had mental problems that led him to ask for her help. It was an intriguing combination.

She scratched behind Greta's ear then rose. "Come on, girl, let's get you some dinner."

Later that night she climbed the stairs to her second floor bedroom. Greta moved up the polished wooden steps beside her like a slinky toy.

When they reached the landing, Greta scurried ahead to the bedroom and dove into her doggie bed in the corner. Leanne followed, then bent down to scratch behind one ear. "Good night, little one."

She went into the bathroom to change to her gown. The silk flowed over her naked skin like a lover's fingers, evoking an image of Eliot Kane's fingers when he'd taken her hand

She flinched. That was not acceptable. She stood with her hand poised on the bathroom light switch, forcing herself to adhere to the same honesty she expected from her patients.

She'd already admitted that she found Eliot attractive, but he certainly wasn't the first patient she'd found attractive, and she'd never before had inappropriate feelings, never felt the slightest inclination to breach the doctor/patient relationship.

She had no problem adhering to the prohibition against becoming involved with patients. The possibility of losing her license wasn't nearly as potent a deterrent as the other possible consequences of such an action. Involvement did not help and could hinder the process of healing.

She could admire Eliot's courage, his strength, his obstinacy, and she could allow herself to feel sympathy for the confusion and helplessness he was apparently feeling at his sudden loss of control. She could even admire his wide chest and tumbled hair the way she might admire the good looks of an actor in a movie. And that was all.

Lifting her chin, she switched off the light and crossed the plush, smoky blue carpet of her bedroom to the window to draw the drapes.

Across the street Eliot Kane, still wearing his conservative suit, leaned against a tree, watching her house.

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