Page 54 of In Her Dreams
As they climbed the stairs back to the shop, Jenna’s mind was already racing ahead to their upcoming meeting with Dr.Summers.The professor had claimed to know little about ka’lutma.And, yesterday, she had denied any familiarity with the dreamcatchers they’d found with the victims.
When they returned to the car, Jake voiced what they were both thinking.“So an ethnology professor who specializes in ancient cultures claims to know almost nothing about ka’lutma, yet she’s buying it from Thompson?”
“And she denied knowing anything about the dreamcatchers found at each scene,” Jenna added, starting the engine.She couldn’t shake the feeling that shadows were gathering around them, drawing them deeper into a place where ancient rituals and modern murders converged.
“You think Summers is conducting these rites?”Jake asked.“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.But I intend to find out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dr.Anthony Walsh stared at the dreamcatcher hanging on his bedroom wall, its web of threads seeming to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart.Three hours had passed since Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins had delivered the news about Samuel Rodriguez.Three hours of hiding in his sixth-floor apartment, blinds drawn against the afternoon sun, trying and failing to break free from the invisible chains locked around his mind.
His receptionist’s startled face flashed in his memory—the confusion in her eyes when he’d burst from his office after the Sheriff’s visit, ordering her to cancel all remaining appointments before rushing out the door.
“Dr.Walsh, are you ill?”she’d asked, concern evident in her voice.
He couldn’t even answer her properly.What could he say?That he’d sent three people to their deaths and couldn’t even explain why?That he knew he might well be next on a murderer’s list?
The dreamcatcher hung motionless in the still air.No breeze disturbed its feathers or beads, yet Anthony couldn’t shake the sensation that the thing was watching him.Judging him.Waiting for him to succumb to the same fate as the others.
“Breathe,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning.“You’re a psychiatrist, for God’s sake.Pull yourself together.”
He closed his eyes and attempted once more to employ the self-hypnosis techniques he’d practiced for years with his patients.The same techniques that had utterly failed him these past few months.
“You are calm,” he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his temples.“You are in control.”
The words rang hollow in the quiet room.He wasn’t in control.Hadn’t been for months.Not since that damned conference in St.Louis.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.His throat tightened at the memory of Sheriff Graves’s solemn face as she’d told him about Sam Rodriguez.Old Sam, who’d struggled with agoraphobia for years.Sam, who’d trusted Anthony to help him, and whom Anthony had instead delivered into deadlier hands.
Just like Richard Winters.Just like Anita Palmer.All gone now.
Anthony pushed himself up from the edge of the bed and paced the confines of his bedroom, five steps one way, five steps back, like a caged animal.
He stopped in front of the full-length mirror mounted on his closet door, barely recognizing the haggard face that stared back at him.Dark circles rimmed bloodshot eyes.His typically neat hair stood in disarray.His tie hung loosely around his neck, top button undone, a far cry from his usual meticulous appearance.
Four months.It had been four months since everything changed.
He closed his eyes, and the memories washed over him unbidden.
The grand ballroom of the Westlake Hotel in St.Louis had been packed with his peers—brilliant minds in the field of psychiatry gathered for the annual conference.Anthony had secured a coveted speaking slot, scheduled to present his research on innovative sleep therapy techniques.
He remembered adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror minutes before his presentation, practicing his breathing exercises, desperately trying to keep his glossophobia at bay.It was the same debilitating fear that had plagued him throughout his career—the fear of public speaking a cruel irony for a psychiatrist who could help others overcome their fears but remained imprisoned by his own.
“You’ve prepared for this,” he’d told his reflection.“You can do this.”
But when the moment came, when the moderator called his name and three hundred faces turned expectantly toward the podium, Anthony’s throat had closed.His mouth went dry as parchment.The room tilted sickeningly as he stood frozen at the microphone, index cards clutched in trembling hands, unable to force a single word past his lips.
Finally the sympathetic moderator had stepped in, making some excuse about technical difficulties to spare Anthony further humiliation.He’d stumbled from the stage, shame burning through him like acid, finding refuge in a quiet corner of the hotel bar.
That was where she found him.“Glossophobia,” she’d said without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him.“I recognized the symptoms immediately.”
Her name badge identified her as Dr.Olivia Summers, an ethnologist from Ozark State University.He’d noticed her earlier during other presentations, her sharp insights during Q&A sessions belying her somewhat disheveled appearance.And he knew of her by her sterling reputation.
“I’ve tried everything,” he’d admitted, the words easier now with just one person listening.“Cognitive behavioral therapy, medication, hypnotherapy, exposure therapy.Nothing works.”
Olivia had leaned forward, her intelligent eyes holding his.“I understand completely.I have spectrophobia myself—fear of mirrors.”She gestured vaguely toward her slightly askew blouse, the tendrils of hair escaping her bun.“Hence the eternal bedhead.I can barely glance in a mirror long enough to make myself presentable.”
