Hidden in Dreams (12 page)

•    •    •

The news conference was a dread event.

Rachel and Reginald and a chirpy young PR specialist led her onto the stage. The podium was glass and set to one side of a gigantic screen. Two more screens filled the edges of the stage. Only when Elena was seated did she realize her face would soon be up there on display.

Rachel walked to the podium and introduced herself. Without preamble, she said, “Something has come to our attention that could well have repercussions far beyond the scope of SuenaMed’s current research and product lines. I wish you to know that everything you hear has the backing of our CEO, Trevor Tenning, and the board of directors.”

The room was not full. Perhaps fifty men and women were seated in the steeply banked seats rising up to where a trio of television cameras was focused on the stage. Some journalists sat at the ready, notebooks out and pens tapping the empty page. Others sprawled in the haphazard manner of people who would prefer to be somewhere else. A couple had iPads hooked up with one earphone in place, listening to Rachel with one ear while watching news feeds.

Rachel said into her mike, “Patch us into MSNBC.”

The trio of screens came to life with blaring intensity. The same images Elena had seen upstairs assaulted the audience. Journalists sat up straighter, exchanged glances, pulled out their earphones.

Elena lowered her head and offered up a brief prayer. She had a dozen different wishes, most of them desperate. But the only words that came to her with utter clarity were,
Be with me.

Rachel had to raise her voice to be heard. “Cut the sound.” When the room went silent, she went on, “What you are about to hear may sound out of place in this day and age. But I repeat what I said at the beginning. SuenaMed’s senior executives have given this careful study. We concur that what is happening is
real, and vital. I would now like to introduce Dr. Elena Burroughs, a respected psychologist and clinician. Some of you may know her as a specialist on dream analysis, and author of the international bestseller,
The Book of Dreams
. Dr. Burroughs?”

If God was in this moment, Elena could not detect him. She felt no guidance as she approached the podium, nor any sense of genuine peace. Instead, there was only the moment, only the looks of skepticism that confronted her. So she responded as she would to approaching colleagues with information they would prefer to dismiss. With clinical detachment.

“From the analytical perspective, dreams fall into three basic categories. The first are commonplace, and form a backdrop upon which the subconscious can work through the dreamer’s waking life. The second category includes all attempts by this same subconscious to deal with deeper issues, core fears, and severe traumas.”

The room was filled with the buzzing of barely muffled conversation. She saw a few smirks, a few head shakes, some unmistakable gestures. Elena grimly continued, “The third category is the most disputed. And has to do with dreams of foretelling.”

A pair of younger men toward the back of the room laughed out loud. The room took this as a signal to raise the volume. Elena let it continue for a moment, then rapped her knuckles on the Plexiglas podium. “I must ask that you please be quiet.” When this did not work, she motioned to Reginald, who rose from his seat. Elena said, “Anyone who finds it difficult to grant me the chance to conclude my remarks will be evicted.”

There was a shocked quality to the stillness. No matter how powerful the figure, most business executives feared the press and their ability to destroy. Elena could not have cared less. “At its most basic, foretelling is controversial because it defies the logic of our daily existence. It suggests that the dreamer has the ability to pierce time and distance and human limits.

“The reason I have been asked to speak with you today is because we have evidence that just such a dream of foretelling has been occurring. Now. Today. By a number of individuals who have no physical connection. They do not know each other. They have never met. And yet, they all share the same images.”

This time, the silence was genuine. A voice spoke directly in front of her. “Does this mean different people are having similar dreams?”

“I would ask that you raise your hand and be recognized before speaking. To answer your question, no, that is not what I mean at all. These subjects are not having similar dreams. They are
exactly
the same. They follow a
precise
pattern. One that defies any form of standard analysis.” A hand rose toward the back. “Yes.”

“What are the dreams about?”

“The current financial crisis.” Now it appeared that every hand in the room shot up. She pointed at another. “You by the aisle.”

“How many of these dreamers are there?”

“Eleven. They stretch right around the globe. They come from a variety of economic strata. They include senior politicians and international business leaders. They share only one thing. All of them have experienced the same two dreams.”

“
Two
dreams?”

“Yes. First one, then the other.”

“What are they?”

Elena found it increasingly easy to maintain her clinical tone as she described the two dreams. She concluded with the pressure that all the dreamers felt, the desperate need to warn the world. Then she stopped.

Someone asked, “What’s the tie-in to SuenaMed?”

Rachel stepped over to the podium. “That question will be answered at a later date.”

The question Elena dreaded finally came from a heavyset woman in a rumpled dark suit. “Am I missing something? What’s the story? I mean, the crisis has already happened. Even if they were experiencing what you called it, foretelling, the thing is already foretold.”

Elena felt the burning need rise up inside her, an intensity so powerful she gripped the podium with both hands, just to maintain a steady tone. “The dreams are not about what has happened up to this point. They are about what is coming next.” Her swallow was audible over the microphones. “If the dreamers are correct, this crisis has not even gotten started.”

11

E
lena left Orlando in her SUV, which had been brought back from Miami and left in the SuenaMed garage. Rachel had offered to have a company limo drive her back to Melbourne. Elena replied that she had no interest in being driven anywhere else. By anyone. She just wanted to be home.

The drive from SuenaMed’s headquarters on the eastern side of downtown Orlando to her home in Melbourne would take her just over an hour. The Beachline Expressway cut a straight swath through the wetlands surrounding the Saint John River. The Jeep Cherokee was bigger than any car she had ever owned. It suited Florida driving. She liked being up high, able to see over most traffic and survey the road ahead. And the easy switch to four-wheel drive meant extra traction was available when required. Like now.

A thunderstorm struck when she was about thirty miles from home. Rain lashed her windshield. Elena switched the wipers to high, but the rain defied their rapid drumbeat. Water draped a translucent curtain over the glass and the noise drowned out her radio. Elena focused on the taillights of the car
directly ahead. She told herself to relax. It was just another September storm.

In a brilliant flash of lightning, everything changed.

There was a low roar, a whooshing noise like a freight train bearing down on her. Where before the rain had descended straight down, now it came at her from all sides. She could see nothing.

Then a set of brake lights flashed past her. The car was to her
right
. Off the highway. And moving
backward.

Elena hit the flashers and pulled onto the verge. For a heart-stopping moment, the car just floated. The brakes instantly started the ABS stuttering. The tires gripped with a jarring that tumbled her against the door. Elena continued off the highway verge and into the grass. She felt the slick bumping and then the ABS kicked in a second time, finally bringing her to a halt.

Elena would not have thought it possible, but the rain intensified. The wind accelerated to a shriek. The downpour struck with such force it pounded her SUV like a metal drum. She covered her ears, trying to clear her head enough to decide what to do.

Then it was over.

The rain and the wind departed as swiftly as they had arrived. Elena’s wipers still whipped at a frantic pace, only now they shuddered over dry glass. She cut them off and rose unsteadily from her car.

To the west, the sky over Orlando was a mottled purplish black. The storm rumbled and growled like a hungry predator.

All around her, cars were scattered like children’s toys. They faced every direction. One truck had jackknifed across the central grassy strip. As she watched, the driver pushed open his door and slipped to the ground on unsteady legs. He surveyed the scene and crossed himself.

An elderly gentleman struggled from his motor home,
which was pointed back in the direction he had come from. His voice shook as he asked Elena, “What was that?”

“A tornado.”

“Glory be.” He patted himself. “I’ve entered the belly of the beast and come out alive.”

Elena heard weeping, and stumbled to the minivan behind her. The young woman had both hands locked on the wheel. Her vehicle had spun ninety degrees and faced away from the highway. The young woman stared out the windshield at the marsh beyond the highway fence. Elena called through the glass, “Are you all right?”

The woman stared at her. “Do I
look
all right?”

Elena motioned for her to roll down the window. The woman struggled with the controls. When the window opened, Elena said, “I meant, are you hurt?”

“I . . . No. Yes. I don’t . . .” She retook her two-fisted grip on the wheel, and rocked her upper body. “Why is this
happening
to me?”

Elena reached through the window and took hold of the woman’s rigid shoulder. She glanced about, saw that the minivan was empty.

“I’m coming back from a job interview. There were
ninety
applicants. The man told me I was lucky to be interviewed. I don’t need an
interview.
I need a
job
. We need the
money.
My husband lost his job at NASA. We have kids in school. And now . . .”

“You are just driving home,” Elena said, hurting for her. “And you get caught by a tornado.”

“I want my life back under
control
.” She released one hand so as to beat against the wheel in time to her words. “I want to feel
safe
. I want to take care of my
family
.”

Elena stood on the wet grass and watched as the cars began to filter back onto the highway. The truck straightened slowly,
rumbled across the grass, and gradually accelerated away. Elena asked, “Would you like to pray with me?”

When the woman nodded, Elena spoke words she scarcely heard. After the amen, Elena said, “I am a clinical psychologist. If you think it might help you to talk with someone, I would be happy to meet.”

She wiped her eyes. “We can’t afford . . . My husband’s medical insurance is running out next month.”

“There is no question of payment. Do you have a pen and paper?” Elena wrote down her details, handed it back, then asked, “Do you belong to a church?”

“Not for years.”

“Perhaps you should think about joining. Most of them will have support groups for families facing situations just like yours. I have found great comfort in worshipping among the family of believers.”

The woman put the minivan into gear and said through the open window, “You are an angel from God.”

Elena stood there a long moment after the woman drove away. Then she headed home.

•    •    •

Elena sat on her little screened-in porch and cradled the phone in her lap. Out beyond the still waters, lightning flickered from a massive dark wall. She took a long breath and dialed. When Reed Thompson answered, she said the words she had rehearsed a dozen times in her head. “This is Elena Burroughs. I apologize for calling on a Saturday evening, but I am taking you at your word. I am phoning in an hour of need.”

“Wait just a moment.” There was a muffled conversation, then the president of Atlantic Christian said, “My daughter is taking over the grill. I saw you on the news. Where are you?”

“I’ve just gotten home.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I don’t . . . No.”

“Come straight over. Please. I insist. We’re the pale-brick house just off the entrance to the college. Say, twenty minutes? Excellent. Until then.”

Elena dressed hurriedly and left her condo. She did not want to be out in the car again. Especially when it started raining, and lightning rumbled, and the streets grew slick once more. She felt a sudden fear rise up, but pushed it aside. Soon enough she passed through the tall brick gates marking the entrance to ACU. The president’s house was just on the right, set back behind a wide oval drive.

Reed had the door open before she cut the motor. He called to her as she rushed through the drizzle, “We just managed to get the grill under the awning before the deluge. Dinner was saved.”