by V. E. Lemp
When Alex placed the card in her hand his fingers pressed against her palm.
“Okay.” Karen slid her hand away from his lingering touch. “I do need a job. And I don’t think I’m cut out to be a waitress.”
“No, I doubt that’s your calling.”
Alex seemed amused, although whether it was over the thought of her serving food or her obvious trembling at his touch, Karen couldn’t say. She shoved the card in her pocket. Tipping her head, she gazed into the night sky. “Look. Is that one of your meteors?”
He glanced heavenward. “It is indeed.” After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his tone lighter. “Ever think about stars actually being so different from our view of them?”
“You mean because they’re just like our sun?”
“Exactly.” Alex turned his head and smiled.
Damn that smile. This was no way to get back on even footing.
“All those other suns. Think what that means. Might be other worlds, too, just like this one. Or different. Better if they’re different, really.”
Karen knew that look. She’d seen it often enough, in photographs of her, or when she glanced in a mirror. He was somewhere far away—lost in his thoughts, walking in his own interior world. “You sound like a dreamer yourself.”
Alex rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Not your kind, Karen. But …” He clamped his lips over whatever words they were forming.
“But?” Karen kept her gaze locked on Alex’s until he actually blinked and looked away.
Before he could speak again, a blinding flash splintered the darkness. Alex flung his arms around Karen and dragged her to the balcony floor.
His body, pressed tightly against hers, muffled the roar shattering the night air, but Karen felt the vibrations rattling the building foundation beneath her, and clung tighter. His heartbeat pounded beneath her ear. She lifted her head and met his piercing gaze. “What the hell was that?”
“Crash,” he said, then shook his head. “I mean a meteor slamming into the ground. Didn’t burn up in the atmosphere, as they usually do.” He stroked the side of her face. “You okay?”
They were kneeling on the balcony. “I’m fine,” she said, resisting the urge to touch his face in return. “You?”
“Yes. Now, shall we stand? I think we’ve an audience.”
Screams and frantic voices rolled over them like a tide as guests poured out of the ballroom. Karen took Alex’s hand, and he helped her to her feet.
“It wasn’t,” she said, as someone shouted about a bomb. “It was a meteor. Scary, but natural. Right?” She glanced up into Alex’s face.
“Of course,” he replied, but didn’t return her smile. His gaze was focused on something over her shoulder. The woods. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me—before one of my colleagues traps me in some interminable discussion, I think I’ll make my exit.”
“Oh, sure. No problem.” Karen swept back the straight brown hair that had sprung from her ponytail when Alex pulled her to the ground. Of course he was leaving, what did she expect? Alex Wythe had clutched her to him as he would have anyone in that moment. There was nothing else to it. Nothing at all. “I must thank you for protecting me, though. You have good instincts.”
“Have I?” Alex glanced down at her, his golden eyebrows arched over those amazing eyes. “At any rate, I enjoyed meeting you, Karen Foster.”
As Karen turned away, Alex grabbed her arm. “Consider the Morpheus Project,” he said, leaning in close. “We could use someone with your talents.”
Karen stared at him for a moment, reading nothing but sincerity in his face. “I’ll certainly think about it.” She slipped from his grip and ran into the ballroom without looking back.
Yes, she’d think about it. And Alex Wythe, of course. Probably far too much. Karen stumbled into the kitchen, where Thea greeted her with the news that the party had been cut short. As they packed up the catering supplies and leftover food, Karen never spoke, allowing the chatter of Thea and the other workers to fill the silence.
Alex Wythe. A man who could charm any woman and was undoubtedly only being polite when he’d expressed interest in her art, or anything about her. Anyway, it didn’t really matter, since she was unlikely to ever see him again. Unless she applied for that Morpheus Project job. Which was probably a bad idea.
Karen fingered the business card in her pocket. No, definitely a bad idea. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t consider it.
Dream Journal, January 10th:
I sat on a marble bench in an art museum, examining the walls of the gallery as if studying the artwork. But the ornate frames were empty. There were no paintings. Just blank canvas.
As my gaze flitted from frame to frame I noticed a man standing in the hall just outside the gallery. He wore a black suit and a dark hat pulled down low on his forehead. I couldn’t distinguish his features.
“What do you want?” I asked, rising to my feet. “What do you want with me?”
The man remained silent. He held up a brown leather portfolio.
“Is that mine?” I moved toward the man as if gliding. It seemed as if my feet weren’t touching the floor.
The lights in the hall blazed, momentarily blinding me. When I was able to see again, the man had disappeared, but the portfolio lay in the doorway. I reached down and lifted it from the floor.
It was stuffed with sketches. I tipped the portfolio over, and the drawings spilled across the pale marble floor. As they fell they fanned out, like a hand of cards, then spun in the air and dropped into a perfect circle.
I studied the sketches. There were drawings of a multitude of objects, all rendered in perfect detail. Each item was shown from a variety of angles, and some were opened up to show the interiors.
I recognized none of these objects. They were like nothing I’d ever seen before. But I did recognize the hand that drew them. It was mine.
I picked up one of the drawings. As I held it up to the light it flew from my fingers, sailing over to a wall and planting itself inside one of the empty frames. There, the black-and-white sketch burst into life, vibrating with color and texture, as if turned into an actual object.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A fair trade,” said a voice.
“But what must I offer in exchange?” I peered into the hall but could only see a fiery glow, as if from some ball of light.
“You need not offer anything,” the voice replied. “It is not your bargain.”
“Then whose? Who made this bargain?”
I received no answer.
When I woke and reached to turn off my alarm my hand brushed across my sketchpad. It lay on my nightstand, open at a page covered with detailed drawings of an object I couldn’t identify.
TWO
Thea thought the idea insane. Although Karen trusted Thea’s opinion, she knew she wasn’t really seeking advice. Describing the Morpheus Project, Karen realized she was looking for absolution rather than approval.
“Did that meteor fry your brains or something? Everyone knows those things are a cover for something else. Porn or something worse,” Thea called out from their tiny kitchen.
“No, I asked around, and it seems legit. The project is run through some university affiliate called Indigo, and that company checks out as a research institute. They even own the building where they house the project.” Karen flopped down on the battered futon that dominated their apartment. “And worse than porn? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” Thea walked into the living room. Her fingers delicately encircled a steaming aqua mug in a way that made Karen long to reach for her sketchbook and a pencil. “Serial killers or something.”
“Serial killers infiltrating a university project? Really, Thea.”
“You know what I mean.” Thea sat down next to Karen and blew into her tea. “Look, I know you’re low on cash …” Worry lines crinkled the corners of Thea’s dark-brown eyes.
“Totally broke i
s more like it.”
“Okay, but be reasonable. What kind of research is this? The Morpheus Project? Studying dreams? Sounds like camouflage. They do that in those psychology experiments—you think you’re being tested for one thing, and it’s something else entirely. Besides, living with a bunch of students you don’t know sounds crazy to me. Although”—Thea tapped her fingernail against her cup and eyed Karen speculatively—“maybe they can help you with that sleepwalking problem. If you’re determined to take this job you might as well get something extra out of it.”
“Doubt I’d mention that. Hasn’t happened in a while.”
“If a few months is a while.” Thea took a sip of her tea. “You should tell them. What if you decide to roam the building one night?”
“Surely they’ll have someone monitoring their research subjects. Anyway, I’m still waiting to see if they want to interview me. I put in an application, but who knows.” Karen had no intention of informing the project team about her tendency to sleepwalk. That would probably eliminate her from the program before an interview.
“Changing the subject, guess who I ran into today?” Thea set her cup on the chipped surface of a black-lacquer end table. She didn’t bother with a coaster. The table had come out of a dumpster and would get tossed back into one when they vacated the apartment.
“One of your many boyfriends?”
“No, one of your scarce ones—Karl.”
Karen pulled her sketchbook from the folds of the futon. “Did he say anything? He never talks to me, even when we run into each other at the studio.”
“He did. He asked how you were. I told him you were painting like a fiend, as usual.” Thea looked Karen over. “He’d take you back in a heartbeat, you know.”
Karen dropped her eyes to avoid Thea’s questioning gaze. “We weren’t a good fit, long-term. I did him a favor.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.” Thea rose to her feet. “He tried to find out if you were dating someone. Very awkward.”
“And you said?”
“And I said you were screwing a new guy every night. No, of course I didn’t, so don’t look so horrified. I didn’t tell him anything about your nonexistent love life. Just said you were busy working on senior exhibit stuff.”
Karen grabbed a charcoal pencil from the art supplies scattered across the coffee table. “Karl was the one to break it off, remember.” She flipped open the sketchpad. “Stand there for a minute.”
Thea made a face but froze in place, one foot held at an odd angle. “What the hell will you do for a model when you don’t have me to order around? Anyway, the way I remember it, Karl asked you to live with him and you refused. So he blathered about you not opening up your heart and kicked you to the curb. I can kinda see his point. After two years of dating, I guess he expected more.”
“He should’ve known better. I never promised him forever. I never really promised him anything.” Karen’s hand flew over the paper, capturing a quick sketch of Thea. “Anyway, what was I supposed to do? Move in with him and leave you to pay the rent on your own?”
“But you’re willing to do that now,” Thea pointed out, “with this dream study thing.”
“That was before your gig at the family biz this summer. I thought you were pretty flush now, money-wise.”
“I am, and I can handle it, but I could’ve managed then, too, if you’d really wanted …”
Karen tossed her pencil onto the coffee table. “Okay, you can move now.”
Thea shook out her foot. “Did you ever love the guy? I always wondered.”
“Of course I did.” Karen carefully laid the sketchbook next to the pencil. “I spent all that time with him, and slept with him. Think I’d do that if I didn’t love him?”
“I dunno. You tell me.”
Karen frowned. “Can we drop this subject? Karl and I are done. Old news.”
“Whatever.” Thea turned and headed for her bedroom. “I’m gonna grab a shower. Got a date later.”
“Of course you do,” Karen said, under her breath.
Thea had roomed with Karen since their first year of college and knew Karen as well as anyone. But one thing she could never seem to comprehend was Karen’s love life. Or lack thereof. In their first semester, Thea had quickly accumulated a legion of admirers, while Karen didn’t score a single date until she was a sophomore. So when Karen finally hooked up with Karl, Thea was thrilled.
But what Thea didn’t know, despite their close friendship, was Karen’s rationale for dating Karl Klein. It was no great romance. No, hardly romantic at all. When Karen met Karl she’d decided, with almost clinical detachment, that she needed a lover. She was still a virgin, and her internal obsessing over this fact was wasting valuable time and emotional energy that should’ve been devoted to art.
Karl, with his shoulder-length hair pulled into a thin ponytail and his strange little sculptures created from paper clips—he claimed they were metaphors for the world of the cubicle intruding into art—seemed more suitable than most. At least he was intelligent, although, it was true, prone to discussing metaphysical aspects of art and life late into the night. But his refusal to question her devotion to art was a major point in his favor. Also, he’d pursued her, however tentatively—moving in close as she painted and laying his fingers on her arm as they debated brush techniques. One day he went so far as to press up against her back as she worked on a self-portrait. They’d slept together three days later.
It was all very convenient and practical and more than a little depressing.
The jangle of the telephone yanked Karen out of her reverie. She bounced off the futon and dashed into the kitchen to grab the phone.
When Thea sauntered back into the living room, wearing a gold lamé top with a black velvet skirt and heels that could double as weapons, Karen was standing at the kitchen counter.
“I have an interview,” she said.
Thea sniffed. “Well, that’s that. Good luck, I guess. Not thrilled about it.”
Karen stared out the small window over the sink. She couldn’t spy any stars through the haze of the streetlights outside their apartment building. She wondered if Alex Wythe could see them, wherever he was. “Don’t worry about me. Go enjoy your evening. Have fun.”
“Always do.” Thea headed for the front door. “You should try it sometime,” she added before the door slammed shut.
THREE
The receptionist at the front desk of the Indigo Building was a tiny blonde wearing a ruffled white blouse and slim black skirt, her nails painted crimson to match her garnet jewelry. She eyed Karen up and down, her lips tightening into what Karen assumed was a practiced smile. After Karen mentioned her interview, the blonde handed her a clipboard with a pen attached and pointed in the direction of the lobby’s two armchairs.
Karen sank into one of the chairs. What was it with all these forms? You’d think she was applying for the CIA, not some minor research project. Glancing over the papers, Karen frowned. There were several questions that made no sense, given what she surmised about the project—what the hell did her understanding of physics or geometry have to do with anything—but she dutifully filled in all the blanks. Pondering one answer, she glanced up and gazed across the room.
A man was standing near the lobby doors. Slender and dark-haired, he was very pale. Something about the razor-sharp line of his jaw made Karen examine him more carefully. He was wearing dark glasses, but she could feel his eyes fixed upon her face.
She stared back down at the form. It was unreadable, the letters sliding and swimming about the page. She blinked until the words came into focus, then looked up again. The man was gone.
Karen rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Stupid quirky imagination. She couldn’t allow it to run away with her. Truth was, she hadn’t been sleeping well lately. Since the night of the meteor she’d been experiencing too many vivid dreams and too much drawing in her sleep. She quickly finished off the paperwork and carried it to the desk. May
be Thea was right, perhaps the project could help manage her peculiar habits.
The receptionist reached for the clipboard. Her eyes widened as she looked over the top page.
“Dr. Wythe recommended you?” A touch of Southern drawl tinged her cultivated tone.
“He did. Is that a problem?”
The receptionist’s gaze swept over Karen as if assessing her possible connection to Alex Wythe. Karen imagined the blonde calculating, and dismissing, the likelihood she was someone Alex would pursue, for any reason.
“No, of course not.” The receptionist’s hands fluttered, the red nail polish like drops of blood tipping her pale fingers. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. That was quite out of line.”
It occurred to Karen the woman might be one of Alex Wythe’s discarded girlfriends. There must be plenty of them in town. Maybe she was jealous of anyone with a connection to Alex. Well, it was no concern of hers. Karen decided to take the high road and flashed a bright smile. “Not a problem. Guess you have to check out everything. Weed out the crazies and stuff.”
“Yes, that’s it. I was just making sure …” The receptionist shook her head slightly before meeting Karen’s gaze. When she spoke again her voice was as unemotional as a newscaster reading stock prices. “One moment, I’ll ring the conference room and let them know you’re here.”
After a brief call, the receptionist pointed Karen toward double doors off the lobby. “Head through there. Straight down the hall and make a left. Third door on your right.”
The receptionist turned away before Karen could thank her. There was a story there, for sure, but not one Karen wanted to know. She shouldered her backpack and headed for the conference room.
There were five people in the room. Karen took a deep breath and sat down, hoping to hide the trembling in her legs.
“Hello,” said a man who, despite his sleek gray suit, looked like he had stepped off a tennis court. He was tall, with an athlete’s build. His dark hair was graying just at the temples—perfect white brushstrokes against burnt umber. “I’m Ian Vance, the project designer. Nice to meet you, Karen.”
