Self-Defense (4 page)

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I don’t want to make a
bigger deal out of it than it is—it was just a little weird, finding myself
that way.”

“Is the dream about Shwandt?”

“No, that’s the thing; it’s got nothing to
do with him. That’s why I didn’t want to get into it. And then, when it went
away, I figured...”

I looked over at Robin, alone at the
table, powdering her nose. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“Um, this is going to sound terribly rude,
but I’d really rather not get into it over the phone.”

“Is someone there with you?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering if it was an awkward
time.”

“No. No, I’m alone.”

“Peter doesn’t live with you?”

“Peter? Oh, the machine.” Soft laugh. “No,
he’s got his own place. He made the tape for me—for safety. So people wouldn’t
know I was a woman living by myself.”

“Because of the trial?”

“No, before. He tries to look out for
me—really, Dr. Delaware, I’m okay. I’m sorry they called you. We can talk about
it next session.”

“Next session isn’t for a week. Would you
like to come in sooner?”

“Sooner.... Okay, thanks.”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“Could I impose on you to meet early
again? If it’s a problem, just tell me, but work’s still piling up and the
drive from the Valley—”

“Same time. I’m an early riser.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Delaware. Good
night.”

I returned to Robin as she was putting
away her compact.

“Emergency?”

“No.”

“You’re free?”

“Nah, but I’m cheap.”

“Good,” she said, touching my cheek. “I
was thinking of a walk on the sand and who-knows-what later.”

“I don’t know, you’re a little clean for
my taste.”

“We’ll roll in mud, first.”

When we got back, MTV was broadcasting the
Headbangers Ball and Spike had lost interest. We changed into sweats and took
him with us down to the beach.

The sand was frosty, the breakers rising,
with just enough space for a stroll up to the tide pools and back. Lights from
some of the other houses cast gray stripes across the dunes; the rest was
black.

“Pretty cinematic,” said Robin. “I feel
like I’m in one of those dreadful Movies of the Week.”

“Me, too. Let’s talk earnestly about our
relationship.”

“I’d rather talk about what I’m going to
do to you when we get back.”

She leaned in and did.

I laughed.

“What, it’s funny?” she said.

“No, it’s great.”

The next morning, she was late leaving and
Lucy met her coming through the gate.

“Your wife’s really
gorgeous,
” she
told me, when we were alone. “And your dog is adorable—what is he, a pug?”

“French Bulldog.”

“Like a miniature bulldog?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“They’re pretty rare.”

“Adorable.” She turned toward the water
and smiled.

I waited for a few moments to pass, then
said, “Do you want to talk about the dream?”

“Guess I’d better.”

“It’s not an assignment, Lucy.”

She chuckled and shook her head.

“What is it?” I said.

“This is a pretty good deal, Dr. Delaware.
You cut your fee in half for me, and I still get to call the shots. Did you
know there are quack hotlines on TV—dial-a-psychic-pal—that cost more than
this?”

“Sure, but I don’t claim to tell the
future.”

“Only the past, right?”

“If I’m lucky.”

She turned serious. “Well, maybe the dream
is
coming
from my past, because it has nothing to do with what’s going
on with me now. And in it I’m a little kid.”

“How little?”

“Three or four, I guess.”

Her fingers moved nervously.

I waited.

“Okay,” she said. “Better start from the
beginning: I’m somewhere out in the woods—in a cabin. Your basic log cabin.”

More fidgeting.

“Is the cabin somewhere you’ve been
before?”

“Not that I know of.”

She shrugged and put her hands in her lap.

“A log cabin,” I said.

“Yes.... It must be at night, because it’s
dark inside. Then all of a sudden I’m outside... walking. And it’s even darker.
I can hear people. Shouting—or maybe they’re laughing. It’s hard to tell.”

Closing her eyes, she tucked her legs
under her. Her head began to sway; then she was still.

“People shouting or laughing,” I said.

She kept her eyes closed. “Yes... and
lights. Like fireflies—like stars on the ground—but in colors. And then...”

She bit her lip. Her eyelids were
clenched.

“Men,” she said.

Quickening her breath.

She dropped her head, as if discouraged.

“Men you know, Lucy?”

Nod.

“Who?”

No answer.

Several quick, shallow breaths.

Her shoulders bunched.

“Who are they, Lucy?” I said softly.

She winced.

More silence.

Then: “My father... and others, and...”

“And who?”

Almost inaudibly: “A girl.”

“A little girl like you?”

Headshake. “No, a woman. He’s carrying
her—over his shoulder.”

Eyes moving beneath the lids. Experiencing
the dream?

“Your father’s carrying the woman?”

“No... one of the others.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“No,” she said, tensing, as if challenged.
“All I can see is their backs.” She began talking rapidly. “She’s over one of
their shoulders and he’s carrying her—like a sack of potatoes—with her hair
hanging down.”

She opened her eyes suddenly, looking
disoriented.

“This is weird. It’s almost as if I’m...
back in it.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Just relax and
experience what you need to.”

Her eyes closed again. Her chest heaved.

“What do you see now?”

“Dark,” she said. “Hard to see. But... the
moon.... There’s a big moon... and...”

“What, Lucy?”

“They’re still carrying her.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know....” She grimaced. Her
forehead was moist.

“I’m following them.”

“Do they know that?”

“No. I’m behind them.... The trees are so
big... they keep going and going... lots of trees, everywhere—a forest. Huge
trees... branches hanging down... more trees... lacy... pretty...” Deep
inhalation. “They’re stopping... putting her on the ground.”

Her lips were white.

“Then what, Lucy?”

“They start talking, looking around. I’m
scared they’ve seen me. But then they turn their backs on me and start moving—I
can’t see them anymore, too dark... lost... then the sound—rubbing or grinding.
More like grinding. Over and over.”

She opened her eyes. Sweat had trickled to
her nose. I gave her a tissue.

She managed a weak smile. “That’s
basically it, the same scene over and over.”

“How many times have you had the dream?”

“Quite a few—maybe thirty or forty times.
I never counted.”

“Every night?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just two or
three times a week.”

“Over how long a period?”

“Since the middle of the trial—so what’s
that, four, five months? But like I said, after I started seeing you, it
stopped till last night, so I figured it was just tension.”

“Does the girl in the dream look like any
of Shwandt’s victims?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t—maybe this is
wrong, but I get the feeling it has nothing to do directly with him. I can’t
tell you why, it’s just something I feel.”

“Any idea what it does have to do with?”

“No. I’m probably not making much sense.”

“You never had the dream before the
trial?”

“Never.”

“Did anything happen in the middle of the
trial to make you especially tense?”

“Well,” she said, “actually, it started
right after Milo Sturgis testified. About Carrie. What she went through.”

She stared at me.

“So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe hearing about
Carrie evoked something in me—I identified with her and became a little girl
myself. Do you think that’s possible?”

I nodded.

Her eyes drifted out toward the ocean.
“The thing is, the dream feels
familiar.
Like déjà vu. But also new and
strange. And now, the sleepwalking—I guess I’m worried about losing control.”

“Have you ever sleepwalked before?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Did you wet the bed as a child?”

She blushed. “What does that have to do
with it?”

“Sometimes sleepwalking and bedwetting are
related biologically. Some people have a genetic tendency for both.”

“Oh.... Well, yes, I did do that. A
little, when I was very young.”

She shifted in her chair.

“Do the dreams wake you up?” I said.

“I wake up thinking about them.”

“Any particular time of night?”

“Early in the morning, but it’s still
dark.”

“How do you feel physically when you wake
up?”

“A little sick—sweating and clammy, my
heart’s pounding. Sometimes my stomach starts to hurt. Like an ulcer.” Poking
her finger just below her sternum.

“Have you had an ulcer?”

“Just a small one, for a few weeks—the
summer before I started college. The dreams make me feel the same sort of way,
but not as bad. Usually the pain goes away if I just lie there and try to
relax. If it doesn’t, I take an antacid.”

“Do you tend to get stomachaches?”

“Once in a while, but nothing serious. I’m
healthy as a horse.”

Another glance at the water.

“The grinding sound,” she said. “Do you
have any theories about that?”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

Long pause. “Something... sexual. I guess.
The rhythm?”

“You think the men may be having sex with
her?”

“Maybe—but what’s the difference? It’s
just a dream. Maybe we should forget the whole thing.”

“Recurrent unpleasant dreams usually mean
something’s on your mind, Lucy. I think you’re wise to deal with it.”

“What could be on my mind?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Guess so.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell
me about the dream?”

She thought. “Sometimes it changes
focus—right in the middle.”

“The picture gets clearer? Or fuzzier?”

“Both. The focus goes back and forth. As
if someone inside my brain is adjusting a lens—some kind of homunculus—an
incubus.
Do you know what that is?”

“An evil spirit that visits sleeping
women.” And rapes them.

“An evil spirit,” she repeated. “Now I’m
lapsing into mythology. This is starting to feel a little silly.”

“Does the girl in the dream resemble
anyone you know?”

“Her back’s to me. I can’t see her face.”

“Can you describe her at all?”

She closed her eyes and, once again, her
head swayed. “Let’s see... she’s wearing a short white dress
—very
short.
It rides up her legs... long legs. Trim thighs, like from aerobics... and long
dark hair. Hanging down in a sheet.”

“How old would you say she is?”

“Um... she has a young body.” Opening her
eyes. “What’s weird is that she never moves, even when the man carrying her
jostles her. Like someone... with no control. That’s all I remember.”

“Nothing about the men?”

“Nothing.” Eyeing her purse.

“But one of them is definitely your
father.”

Her hands flew together and laced tightly.
“Yes.”

“You see his face.”

“For a second he turns and I see him.”

She’d gone pale and her face was sweaty
again.

I said, “What’s bothering you right now,
Lucy?”

“Talking about it... when I talk, I start
to feel—to feel it. As if I’m dropping back into it.”