Matt struggled to determine how Anderson felt about these dreams. Grace—perhaps by her natural appearance and demeanor—always looked haunted by the things she saw at night. Her visions manifested themselves in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the hollow, lackluster feel of her irises. But Anderson seemed unaffected. Granted, he’d had many years to grow calloused to what he dreamed.
“How many people did you dream about?” Grace asked.
“Five. Each dream went on for three or four days, maybe a week. It varied.”
“Did you know any of the people you saw?” Matt asked.
“No. I had never seen any of them before in my life. What about you, young lady? How many have you dreamed of so far?”
Grace produced the crinkled sketch from her purse again and showed it to Richard Anderson. “I’m on my second. He hasn’t died, yet.”
“You drew this?” he asked. She nodded. “Having your drawing skill would have been useful. Or maybe not. Honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t draw the faces you see at night. And don’t look at the drawings. And don’t look at obituaries, either. Just try to forget them as quickly as possible.”
“But I need to help them,” Grace said, her expression becoming sadder.
Anderson smiled sympathetically. “You’re sweet to think you can change their fates, but I’m afraid you can’t.”
“How do you know? Did you try?” she asked.
“Try what? What was I supposed to do? What are you supposed to do? It’s a nice drawing you’ve composed, but how is it going to save whoever this man is? You have no place, no date, not one single detail that would lead you to this man before it’s too late. And even if you could, how do you know any of them could be saved?”
“Then why do we have these dreams? If they’re not a message from God or a warning, then what are they?” Grace asked.
Anderson shook his head. “I have never been able to satisfactorily answer that question. The best I’ve ever been able to come up with is that somehow, you and I got our wires crossed and now we’re overhearing a conversation that wasn’t meant for us to hear. But as it says in every Psychic commercial, this is for ‘For entertainment purposes only.’”
“But there has to be a purpose,” Grace said, her voice strained. “There has to be a reason.”
He smiled again. “I’m afraid there doesn’t have to be one. And if there is one, we might never know it. The best you and I can do is forget.”
“Have you forgotten?” Matt asked. “I mean, you’re sitting here in a coffee shop with a woman you never met because you answered her post on some sort of online paranormal message board. Which means you were looking on the message board. And that means you’re still thinking about these dreams. So maybe you haven’t forgotten.”
Anderson sighed and stared into his mug. “Never completely. Sometimes the memories fade into the background and I can almost believe they were part of some movie, some other story that isn’t mine. But the dreams always come back in my memory. And then I look for answers again. But I keep trying to leave them in the past.”
By that point, Grace was staring at the table, completely removed from the conversation. But Matt still had questions.
“Can you remember any of the people you saw in your dreams?”
“Dr. Jerry Banks,” Anderson said, without any additional thought. “He died in a lab break-in.”
“Lab break-in? Where?”
“Woodside, NY. I used to live up there before my divorce.” He chuckled. “The suburban American dream never materialized for me, I’m afraid.”
Matt’s eyes went wide. “Did he work at Stevenson Industries?” There were only so many labs in Woodside.
“Yes, that’s the place. Big pharmaceutical company. It’s grown a lot since I was last there, I think.”
“How did you find out about Dr. Banks?” Matt asked.
“It was in the newspaper. Also on television. Something like that is a big deal, especially in a place like Woodside.” Anderson paused and ran his hand across the table. “Honestly, if not for the public nature of Dr. Banks’ death, I would never have stumbled upon the fact my dreams were coming true.”
“Do you remember anything else about Banks’ death?”
Anderson’s brow furrowed in thought. “He was doing research on some rare genetic disorder. Someone came into his lab and killed him. Supposedly trashed the place and destroyed his research. To my recollection, they never found out who did it.”
“What year was this?”
“I think it was 1989. You could probably look at old newspapers. It was a big deal when it happened.”
That was the year of Matt’s birth, which was a strange coincidence but probably nothing more.
“And what about the other person you saw in your dreams? The one you looked up? Anything remarkable about him?”
“His name was George Oliver. The obituary didn’t say much, other than the usual stuff. I never looked into it any further. I didn’t want to know.” Anderson looked Matt square in the eye. “You see a connection, don’t you?”
“Maybe. The first person Grace saw worked for Stevenson Industries, too.”
“Hmm. That’s odd,” Anderson admitted. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to look into George Oliver and see if he connects in some way, too.” Since Matt hadn’t mentioned anything to Grace about Jack Walton possibly being the man behind her second sketch, he chose not to disclose that information to Anderson, either.
“If you learn anything, will you let me know?” Anderson gripped his coffee cup.
“I thought you wanted to forget.”
“I do. But I also want to know why. If there is a why. Contradictions, I know.” Anderson leaned across the table and put his hand on Grace’s. She continued to stare at the table. The last few minutes of the conversation hadn’t even seemed to register on her face.
“Young lady, the way you’re feeling now, it will pass. Not completely. No real grief ever does. But it will subside. Remember that on your sleepless nights. Perhaps it will bring you some comfort.” Anderson turned his gaze back to Matt. “I never had anyone who understood my dreams. Or even tried, to be honest. Please look after her. I don’t know the nature of your relationship, but it’s best for her not to be alone at night. She needs someone.”
Matt nodded. “I’ll do my best.” He fully intended to support Grace, wherever that led him.
28
John Harrison stepped into the darkened foyer of his small cape cod. He was used to being alone when he came home, but tonight a light emanated from one of the first-floor bedrooms. As he set his wallet, keys and service weapon down on the table by the door, Julia entered the room.
“Hi,” she said, her voice full of its usual warmth. She was dressed in a turquoise T-shirt and white shorts.
“Hi.” He took his jacket off and hung it on an empty wall hook. “It’s a little warm in here, isn’t it?”
Julia liked the house toasty and often cranked the heat up past seventy.
She smiled. “Really? You’re going to scold me for turning up the thermostat when you’ve been out all day working when you’re supposed to be home resting?”
“Sorry. Unforeseen circumstances.” He undid his tie and dropped it on top of his keys and wallet. Then he unbuttoned his dress shirt before he started sweating.
Julia sat down on the green microfiber couch and patted the cushion next to her. “Why don’t you sit down here and tell me all about it?”
John followed his fiancée’s instruction and sat down next to her. He had stretched her goodwill that day by spending the day interviewing people—with Felicia Monroe, no less. So he feared that some kind of reprisal was coming. But Julia was all sweetness and smiles, which began to alleviate his anxiety, though he still feared the other shoe would drop soon.
She placed her hand gently on his arm. “Here, lay back.” Again, John complied and let his weight drop fully to the couch. Once John was situated
, Julia lay down on the edge of the couch and shimmied toward him until her body rested against his. “Now, what unforeseen circumstances had you disobeying doctors’ orders?” she asked, raising her left hand to stroke his temple.
By now, Julia had learned this was the best position to coax information out of John. Though a bit on the introverted side, he revealed just about anything she asked him when the two were intertwined. Granted, some nights she was either too exhausted or too irritated with him to extend this kind of affection and it remained to be seen if she would employ the same technique years into their marriage; but for now, when she cozied up to him and spoke softly, he was at her mercy.
John narrated the day to Julia, who mainly just listened. He told her about Grace Murphy’s strange dreams, Thomas Wilson’s fatal accident, and their visits to Jessie Walters and Josh Williams’ mother. Julia’s expression remained neutral, though John knew that Josh Williams concerned her.
When he had finished dispensing the major details, she asked, “How is Felicia doing?”
“Okay, I guess. But she blames herself a lot for what happened.”
Julia nodded. “I know. It’s hard for her. She’s a strong, independent person and not blaming herself feels like giving up control. And as you know, there’s a fine line between taking responsibility for your actions and putting unnecessary guilt on yourself.”
John wrapped his arms around Julia’s back and squeezed her tight. The two shared a kiss. After they separated, she smiled. “You’ve been doing a lot better with not blaming yourself, lately.”
“I have to be with this case. There’s just so many things outside of my control. It’s so hard to make sense of it all.”
Julia nodded slowly and then moved in for another kiss.
“Did Grace Murphy schedule a visit with you, yet?” he asked after their embrace.
“Yeah, I saw her today,” she said, though her tone became guarded like it often did when the subject of her patients came up.
“Did she tell you about her dreams?”
Julia made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Doctor-patient privilege.”
“That’s okay, I already know about her dreams. What do you think about them?”
“You know I can’t say anything specific, but when patients come in with those kinds of concerns, as a psychiatrist it matters as much how the patient feels about the phenomenon as it does what the phenomenon actually is.”
“Felicia thought Grace’s second sketch—the man she’s dreaming about now—is her uncle, the one who works for Stevenson Industries.”
Julia made a face. “Really? What did you think?”
“It’s possible. There is a resemblance. But the drawing isn’t detailed enough to know for sure. If Felicia’s right though, then something more has to be going on because that would be two people connected to Stevenson Industries.”
“Well, you can cross that bridge when you come to it,” Julia said, a tad bit dismissively.
Perhaps to take their minds off of the strange convergence between Josh Williams and Grace Murphy’s dreams, Julia leaned in for another kiss. In a moment, her proximity and touch had eclipsed every other concern John possessed. Their passion intensified until she lifted her head away from him.
“Two more months,” she whispered, repeating the countdown that one of them gave whenever their physical displays of affection escalated.
“Two more months,” John repeated.
“Do you like coming home to me?” she asked.
“I do. Except for the heat. I have to pay for the extra heat we use here, unlike at your apartment.”
Julia grinned. “Once we’re married, the warmer the house, the fewer clothes I’ll wear. How’s that for a deal?”
He smiled back. “I think we can reach some kind of accord.”
She kissed him again and then settled back down, laying her head on his shoulder. “Sometimes I wish we could just lay like this forever and forget about everything else.”
“Yeah, me too,” John said, after kissing her forehead.
They lay together for a long time without speaking. And for awhile John did forget about Josh Williams hiding in the shadows and Grace Murphy’s unsettling dreams. But those details crept back eventually. The beautiful weight of Julia’s body against him couldn’t prevent his mind from grappling with those mysteries forever.
29
After a quiet and slightly faster walk to Grand Central, Grace settled into the window seat before Matt could ask for her preference. The entire trip back, she propped her right arm up straight against the window sill, covering her mouth with her index and middle finger. She hadn’t said anything and Matt hadn’t pressed her. Their encounter with Richard Anderson clearly had her thinking.
Matt was thinking, too. One more link between the dreams of death and Stevenson Industries seemed too much to chalk up to coincidence, even if Felicia’s appraisal of Grace’s second sketch might be skewed. Though the tie that bound all of the different players in this scenario together remained unknown, such a connection was the best case scenario for being able to prevent another death. But as Richard Anderson had said, that was no sure-fire bet.
“You okay?” Matt finally asked, after their train had settled into a fluid motion forward and they had cleared 125th Street.
Grace met his gaze, two fingers still laying across her mouth. She leaned back against the seat and dropped her hand to her lap.
“What if he’s right? What if there is no way to change what I’m seeing? What if they just die, no matter what? I don’t think I can live the rest of my life with that knowledge.”
Matt inhaled than let a soft sigh. “Look, I’m no philosopher, and I have no idea what the hell is happening here. But maybe you just need to look at these dreams differently. You watch the news, right?”
“Sometimes, I guess.”
“The news is always full of bad stuff, right? Murder, tragic accidents, war, starvation, disease. We feel bad when we see this stuff, but then we go and live our lives because usually there’s not much we can do about it. So maybe you need to look at these dreams like they’re news reports. They’re tragic and sad, but you can’t stop them from happening.”
Grace shook her head. “That seems too fatalistic.”
“Maybe. But I think as humans if we didn’t think that way, we’d never move forward—we’d be too overwhelmed by sadness and tragedy.”
“I can’t do that. I’ve seen these faces. Even though I don’t know any of these people, when I see them at night, it’s like they’re calling out to me for help. Most news stories don’t do that.”
Matt considered his next words very carefully and the unintended consequences they might bring, as well as the way his growing affection for Grace might be clouding his judgment.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you before,” he said tenuously. As soon as he uttered the words, her focus became sharper. “When I showed my brother your sketch of the second man from your dreams, there was a reporter with him—Felicia Monroe. She writes for the Poughkeepsie Journal. Anyway, she thought she recognized the person in your drawing. She thought he was her uncle, who works for Stevenson Industries—the same place Thomas Wilson and Jerry Banks worked.”
Grace blinked, though her expression remained locked in place. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” The words didn’t seem charged enough to be an accusation, though Matt didn’t know if in her current state Grace could achieve the requisite energy for such a remark.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up. In the first place, Felicia Monroe could be wrong. And even if she is right, I don’t know if that will give us enough information to save him. Maybe Richard Anderson is right; I don’t want to get your hopes up just to dash them to pieces.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
Matt smiled. “Because I want to get your hopes up. Maybe that’s stupid of me, but sometimes hope isn’t such a bad thing, even if it doesn’t come true. You seem like you coul
d use a bit of hope. Besides, if Felicia Monroe was right about who your sketch is, then that would make three people from the dreams who were associated with Stevenson Industries. So it’s at least something we could investigate.”
Grace stared straight ahead at her seat, processing this new information. Once again, nothing seemed to change about her emotional state. “What’s his name?” she finally asked.
“Felicia Monroe’s uncle? It’s Jack Walton, I think.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We need to find out if this is really him or not.”
“We might not have time. You heard Richard Anderson. There was no set time between the first night he had the dream and the day the person died. For all we know, Jack Walton could die tomorrow. I want to speak to him.” Her expression was adamant.
“What would you tell him?”
“I’m going to warn him.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Please. Give me the chance.”
“I’ll see what I can do. But since this is Felicia’s uncle, I’d like her approval first.”
Grace accepted that response or at least didn’t challenge Matt further. They settled into silence for the remainder of their commute home. Grace didn’t sleep this time, though she intermittently closed her eyes for several moments. Each time, however, she jolted alert and returned her gaze to the shimmering darkness of the Hudson at night.
When they finally arrived at the Poughkeepsie station, Matt walked Grace to her car. The station was quiet at that late hour. The north and southbound trains had slowed to one per hour. A few business people dressed in suits coming home after long days passed them; Matt suspected these same people would be on the early train the next day. By the time they reached Grace’s car, they were alone in a nearly empty parking lot. Grace opened the door of her car.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
Matt smiled. “Because you’re pretty.”
This compliment made no visible impact on her; it didn’t make her cheeks flush or make her discernibly awkward. Though a little disappointing, Grace’s lack of reaction didn’t surprise Matt.
Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3) Page 13
