Читать книгу Jillian Spectre and the Dream Weaver - Nic Tatano - Страница 8

I guess I should catch you up on how my powers work these days, since I spent most of the summer working on my newfound projection and healing abilities.

As far as my duties as a seer go, not much has changed. I can still only see five years into the future, still only read romance, still get occasional views of the afterlife. Luckily I'm still in contact with the angel Carrielle, though he hasn't needed me for any special projects since we put my father into a deep freeze. I simply meet him when I need inspiration or advice.

But when it comes to projecting myself to a different location (Ryan refers to my alter ego as Jillian 2.0) I've made significant progress with the help of Fuzzball. My alter ego trips fall into two categories. If I simply project and don't have to heal anyone, I return to my body and wake up immediately feeling perfectly normal. If I have to heal someone during an out of body experience, I need recovery time but I don't black out unless it's a life or death situation, which I have just learned. It's taken less time as I've gotten more experienced, but the rule of thumb is this: the more drastic the healing process, the longer the recovery time. However, I had never saved anyone as close to death as the detective's partner.

Sadly, for Ryan anyway, I cannot be awake in both my real body and the projection at the same time, denying him his fantasy of being with two Jillians at the same time. What is it about men and twins?

Now that school has started, my mystic seer duties are down to two nights a week. Fortunately Fuzzball has helped me replace that lost income by helping him on a few of his moonlighting jobs that all cops seem to have. We're quite the buddy cop duo, projecting ourselves to solve mysteries, which pays pretty well. I'm working for him Friday night, on an assignment that should be a hoot. Politician's wife thinks he's cheating (yeah, there's a real stretch) and she wants to find out if the guy's hot female "consultant" is taking care of more than focus groups.

But right now I've got a new client to take care of, and hopefully I'll be done quick since the Giants are on Monday Night Football and I never miss a game. He's a young guy, probably my age, which is surprising. As you can imagine, most of our clients are older, and most are women. Most college age men aren't exactly worried about romance as they are about sex. (There should be a freshman class to teach them the difference.)

Anyway, this guy has that lost puppy dog look which tells me he's got it bad for some girl. He tells me his name is Stan as he shakes my hand, then sits down opposite me. He's very average looking, five on a scale of one to ten, maybe five-foot-six with a scruffy blonde beard and curly hair to match. He might qualify as a six if he bought a razor.

"So, you have some concerns about romance," I say.

He nods. "There's someone I'm very interested in. And to be perfectly honest, I think she's probably way out of my league."

"Why do you say that?"

"She's really pretty, and I know a lot of guys are interested in her."

"Well, that's true of most attractive women. Doesn't mean you don't have a shot. You might be her type."

"I doubt it. But I'd like to save myself the pain of getting shot down if possible."

"I hear ya. Did you bring a photo?"

"Sorry, don't have one." He describes her, and I can tell he's right about the out-of-his-league thing since she sounds like a supermodel.

"Okay, Stan, here's how this works. I want you to ask a question about romance, and only about romance. Then focus on the question and nothing else. Got it?"

"Sounds simple enough."

"So what's your question?"

"Is it possible for me to have a relationship with her?"

"Now close your eyes and focus."

I do the same and try my best to create a mental picture from the description he's given me, adding his image in the process. I open my eyes and the crystal ball is already fogged up. "Okay, Stan, you can open your eyes."

He looks at the ball and sees the fog. "Wow, that was fast. You see anything?"

"Not yet, but the picture is clearing. It won't take long." The fog dissipates and I see Stan walking along a hallway with a lot of doors. It looks like a bunch of offices. He heads for the door at the end of the hallway and is about to reach for the doorknob when he appears to hear something. He leans his head against the door and listens. The image dissolves to the inside of the office. I can see shadows on the floor, two people kissing. And then I see the two people creating the shadows.

Ms. Cruise.

And Jake.

"She could be a dream weaver."

Mom's words make me furrow my brow. "A what?"

"Dream weaver. It's legend really, as there's no evidence on record that one has ever existed. But it's an old tale about a woman who can manipulate others into thinking they're dreaming when they're actually awake." Mom puts down her coffee, gets up from the kitchen table and heads upstairs. She quickly returns with a very old leather bound book and slides it onto the table. The cover is plain, with no title visible on it or the spine.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Call it the big book of paranormal legends." She flips it open. I see her name, Zelda Spectre, written on the inside cover.

"How old is this thing?"

"I think it was put together around 1900. You're in it, by the way."

My eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"Remember you were told there was a legend of a seer who could see beyond the physical world?" She flips through the book, stops at a page, turns it around and shoves it in my direction. "There you are."

To say my jaw dropped would be putting it mildly. There I was, a crude pencil drawing like the kind you see in dictionaries. But it was definitely me, complete with freckles. I quickly scan the description of the legendary seer, which describes me perfectly. "When were you gonna show me this?"

She shrugs. "I actually forgot it was in there."

"Your daughter is in a hundred year old book about paranormal legends and you forgot?"

"Hey, I'm middle aged. I'm getting C-R-S."

"What's C-R-S?"

"Can't remember shit." She grabs the book and turns it around, then starts flipping through the pages. "Car keys, grocery lists, where my glasses are even though they're on top of my head, lately I can't remember a damn thing. Anyway, I remember reading about the dream weaver when I was a little girl." She stops and points to the middle of a page. "Here it is."

She starts to read aloud but I grab the book.

DREAM WEAVER

A person of high intelligence who is able to manipulate the reality of those around her. Subjects will assume they are having lucid dreams when in reality they are awake. The Dream Weaver is then able to manipulate them into doing anything since the subjects believe they are dreaming and there are no consequences. There is also a mind control factor, as the dream weaver is able to implant thoughts and ideas into the subject.

The legend of the Dream Weaver originated in Roman times, when it was said that a general had the ability to make opposing troops march off cliffs while making his own troops lose their fear of death.

There is no evidence to support the existence of a Dream Weaver.

I slide the book back to my mother. "Well, she's a college professor, so that takes care of the high intelligence part."

"A degree doesn't make someone smart, sweetie."

"Good point. Look who's in Congress."

"Tell me more about what you saw in the reading. Jake and this teacher, Miss Whatshername."

"Cruise. Rebecca Cruise. Well, they were in her office at the college. She basically had him pinned against the wall and was kissing him and about to do God knows what else. And she was totally in charge of the situation."

"Was he resisting at all?"

I shake my head. "No, he looked like he was really enjoying it. She started to unbutton his shirt and that's when I ended the reading. I didn't want to see anything else."

"And this teacher, Cruise, she's a supporter of your father?"

"Yeah, big time. You shoulda heard her, building him up like he was some sort of messiah and everyone in the class just eating it up. So the fact that Jake likes her makes no sense."

"Hmmm. If she is a dream weaver she could be manipulating Jake."

"Is there any other paranormal power that would account for something like this?"

She shakes her head. "Don't think so. I'll ask Sebastien but I've read this book cover to cover and there's nothing else that could explain it."

"You think the legend is real, Mom?"

"Hey, the legend about you turned out to be true." She looks at the page. "Too bad there's no illustration of the dream weaver in the book."

"Mom, there's one other thing. I met another student who said this teacher is well known for having affairs with a different freshman every year. You think what I saw means that she's going after Jake?"

"It would make sense. And if she has that kind of power, she could also be the one who made contact with your father."

Roxanne slowly picks at her Monterrey Jack chicken, head down, not remotely herself as we have a casual dinner on this Friday night. No, I haven't told her what I saw in the reading or about the possibility of a dream weaver doing a Manchurian Candidate thing on Jake and turning him into her own personal boy-toy. It would push her over the edge. I'm hoping our double date of dinner, a movie and dancing will cheer her up. The restaurant is one of those casual fun chains, where all the waiters and waitresses bounce around like they've had a six pack of Red Bull and you can win a fried cheese appetizer if you answer the trivia question of the night.

Ryan's been briefed and sworn to secrecy. His mission tonight: to take a quiet trip into Jake's mind during the movie and find out what the hell the Cruise Missile has done to him. Sebastien is coming by tomorrow to get a full report. Meanwhile, he has no information at all on Ms. Cruise. If she has powers, she's totally off the grid. And Mom was right, there's no other paranormal power that could account for what's happening.

Jake is his usual talkative self, totally oblivious to the fact Roxanne looks very depressed. He hasn't said anything about the teacher in question, but something is different about him. Can't put my finger on it, but I'll figure it out.

"Rox, your food okay?" I ask.

She shrugs and gives me a sad look. "Yeah, it's fine."

"Is it just me," I say, going on our pre-planned fishing expedition, "or are freshman college courses beyond boring?"

"Tell me about it," says Ryan. "I've got a couple of professors who I think died in 2010 and no one's told them. But I guess we've gotta get the required courses out of the way. I sure hope it gets better, because four years of this would be torture."

"I dunno, I've got a couple of good courses," says Jake. Roxanne glares at me, as if to say why the hell did you bring this up? "I like a couple of my classes."

Ryan pops a French fry and talks through it. "You got that whack job radical political science professor, right?"

"Who, Ms. Cruise? She seems pretty conservative to me."

And now I know the woman has some power.