it was there, and knew she had no choice but to say the words. Even so, she had to claw for the breath to speak.
“I’ll do it.”
8
T he phone call came as they stepped from the elevator into the hotel lobby. Elena reached into her purse. “I’m sorry. I thought I turned this thing off.”
“You probably did,” Bob Meadows said. “My daughter claims the newest ones have a mind of their own.”
“This is Elena.”
Rachel Lamprey’s voice was brusque to the point of rudeness. “Where are you now?”
“The Ritz-Carlton.”
“The one in Coral Gables, yes? I know it. Hold on.” The phone went silent.
Jacob asked, “Who is it?”
“The same woman who called as we were leaving Orlando. Her name is Rachel Lamprey.”
“She’s a patient?”
“No. Rachel is . . .” Elena wondered how to encapsulate Rachel and Miriam and the ancient tomes and all that had gone before.
Bob supplied, “Another dream recipient?”
“No. But she is definitely involved.” Elena held up one finger as the phone clicked back to life.
Rachel said, “The company jet will be landing in the Coral Gables private airfield in exactly eighty minutes.”
“I drove down in my car.”
“A corporate staffer will meet you planeside. Give them the keys. They will drive it back to Melbourne. I will have a car deliver you when we’re done here.”
“I can drive—”
“This can’t wait. Things are happening.”
“All right. But how are you able to—” Elena stopped talking because the line went dead.
• • •
The hotel shared a small hill with a pair of apartment buildings and a high-rise office complex. The circular brick drive sloped down to join the town’s main shopping street. Jacob and Bob Meadows listened carefully to her description of Rachel Lamprey and the mysterious summons, then both men agreed that if the corporation considered it so urgent as to send a private jet, they should probably make themselves available. Bob Meadows suggested they walk down to a shop he knew that did nice takeout meals. There was nothing at the regional airfield but a fuel depot, the offices, and some candy machines.
The two men slipped into the easy companionship of years. They talked as professionals and as friends, going over the meeting with the senator as they had probably discussed hundreds of other cases. They did not exclude Elena. She was given space in their small company, and made welcome. Her silence was simply part of the moment, a trait they accepted because they accepted her.
Elena wished she could share their camaraderie. It would have been so nice to spend an hour or so talking as a clinician inthe company of her peers. But the prospect of going public loomed before her. Its huge anxious bulk enveloped her. She felt isolated and alone.
Elena had no idea why she disliked the public spotlight. There had once been a time when she had thought fame would be nice. While she was writing the book, she had often imagined herself standing at the podium and expounding to the world. But once she arrived in that very spot, she had discovered that it was a poisonous light, at least for her.
In her experience, the problem was not the glare of publicity, but rather everything else. All the potential goodness was leeched away by stress and travel and repetitive questions and empty faces. Most of the radio and television interviewers had no idea who she was, or what she had written. They had assistants who read the book and prepared the questions and made all the arrangements. Elena arrived on set, was prepped by these same aides, had her face and hair fashioned into a brittle mask for the cameras, then was ushered into an uncomfortable chair that still smelled from the last guest. The interviewers did not speak to Elena at all. Instead, they played for the camera and the unseen public. Elena was made to feel like a rank amateur, granted a brief moment on this very odd stage, before being
“I’ll do it.”
8
T he phone call came as they stepped from the elevator into the hotel lobby. Elena reached into her purse. “I’m sorry. I thought I turned this thing off.”
“You probably did,” Bob Meadows said. “My daughter claims the newest ones have a mind of their own.”
“This is Elena.”
Rachel Lamprey’s voice was brusque to the point of rudeness. “Where are you now?”
“The Ritz-Carlton.”
“The one in Coral Gables, yes? I know it. Hold on.” The phone went silent.
Jacob asked, “Who is it?”
“The same woman who called as we were leaving Orlando. Her name is Rachel Lamprey.”
“She’s a patient?”
“No. Rachel is . . .” Elena wondered how to encapsulate Rachel and Miriam and the ancient tomes and all that had gone before.
Bob supplied, “Another dream recipient?”
“No. But she is definitely involved.” Elena held up one finger as the phone clicked back to life.
Rachel said, “The company jet will be landing in the Coral Gables private airfield in exactly eighty minutes.”
“I drove down in my car.”
“A corporate staffer will meet you planeside. Give them the keys. They will drive it back to Melbourne. I will have a car deliver you when we’re done here.”
“I can drive—”
“This can’t wait. Things are happening.”
“All right. But how are you able to—” Elena stopped talking because the line went dead.
• • •
The hotel shared a small hill with a pair of apartment buildings and a high-rise office complex. The circular brick drive sloped down to join the town’s main shopping street. Jacob and Bob Meadows listened carefully to her description of Rachel Lamprey and the mysterious summons, then both men agreed that if the corporation considered it so urgent as to send a private jet, they should probably make themselves available. Bob Meadows suggested they walk down to a shop he knew that did nice takeout meals. There was nothing at the regional airfield but a fuel depot, the offices, and some candy machines.
The two men slipped into the easy companionship of years. They talked as professionals and as friends, going over the meeting with the senator as they had probably discussed hundreds of other cases. They did not exclude Elena. She was given space in their small company, and made welcome. Her silence was simply part of the moment, a trait they accepted because they accepted her.
Elena wished she could share their camaraderie. It would have been so nice to spend an hour or so talking as a clinician inthe company of her peers. But the prospect of going public loomed before her. Its huge anxious bulk enveloped her. She felt isolated and alone.
Elena had no idea why she disliked the public spotlight. There had once been a time when she had thought fame would be nice. While she was writing the book, she had often imagined herself standing at the podium and expounding to the world. But once she arrived in that very spot, she had discovered that it was a poisonous light, at least for her.
In her experience, the problem was not the glare of publicity, but rather everything else. All the potential goodness was leeched away by stress and travel and repetitive questions and empty faces. Most of the radio and television interviewers had no idea who she was, or what she had written. They had assistants who read the book and prepared the questions and made all the arrangements. Elena arrived on set, was prepped by these same aides, had her face and hair fashioned into a brittle mask for the cameras, then was ushered into an uncomfortable chair that still smelled from the last guest. The interviewers did not speak to Elena at all. Instead, they played for the camera and the unseen public. Elena was made to feel like a rank amateur, granted a brief moment on this very odd stage, before being
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