If Souls Can Sleep (The Soul Sleep Cycle Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  She swallowed the unspoken farewell when her eyes met those of Bella Stark.

  Bella Cruz!

  “Oh!” was all Leah managed to say.

  The last time she had seen Bella, they were eighteen and graduating from a high school that had divided them into different cliques. In the dozen years since, Bella had put on some weight, but no more than Leah had. Bella’s auburn hair was shorter, the shoulder-length strands streaked with blond highlights. The lines in her face were deeper, particularly those framing her pronounced frown. Her balled fists trembled.

  Leah had seen Bella lose her temper on a couple of occasions, and she was immediately reminded of the time in eighth-grade gym class when Marsha Donovan had borrowed her tennis shoes without asking.

  Bella had gone off the deep end because someone had taken something that belonged to her. A lifetime later, she was firing that same accusatory stare at Leah.

  “I am such an idiot,” Bella spat.

  Vincent shot Leah an exasperated look before turning back to Bella. “Now wait just a minute. You’re overreacting.”

  “No, no, it’s my own damn fault,” Bella muttered, scooping up a small handbag tattooed with blue and white flowers. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

  Vincent rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Bella—”

  “And don’t worry,” Bella added, storming past Vincent. “I won’t waste any more time caring about you. If you don’t have the balls to end this marriage, I will.”

  Vincent flinched but didn’t try to stop her from leaving.

  The sole target of Bella’s fiery glare, Leah finally found her voice. “We’re not together, if that’s what you think!”

  Bella’s mouth quivered. Unspent tears glimmered in her eyes. She tried to push past, but Leah didn’t budge.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Bella?” Leah’s pulse quickened as Bella cocked her head to the side, regarding her suspiciously. “It’s me, Leah Chedid. Vincent came to me for help—”

  “Leah?” Bella’s eyes widened alarmingly. “Why would you do this to me?”

  Bella shouldered her way into the kitchen. Leah followed her.

  “I’m a doctor,” Leah said.

  But Bella wasn’t listening. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “First I catch you with my cousin, and now you’re secretly seeing an old friend of mine? You’re a Grade-A asshole, Vincent Cruz.”

  Bella slammed the apartment door so hard the kitchen cabinets rattled. Leah searched for Vincent. Apparently, he was still where they had left him in the living room. Cursing silently, Leah opened the door and pounded down the stairs after Bella.

  Ever the better athlete between them, Bella was already halfway to her car by the time Leah came running around the side of the building.

  “Wait!” Leah called breathlessly. “I’m his doctor!”

  Bella stopped midstride and turned around to confront Leah, who downshifted from a jog to a brisk walk. Leah stopped when she was still a few feet away. She didn’t think Bella would hit her, but why take chances?

  “His doctor?” Bella shot back. “And what kind of doctor makes house calls anymore? What, exactly, is wrong with my husband?”

  Leah kicked at an orange leaf that the rain had plastered to the street, while her feelings for Bella played tug-of-war with the ethics of her profession. However, there could be no comprise when it came to doctor-patient confidentiality. As much as she wanted to heal Bella’s wounded heart, she couldn’t give the explanation that would defend Vincent without betraying him.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients’ affairs…” Leah gasped, realizing her error in word choice. “What I mean is—”

  “Forget it.” Bella resumed the march to her car. “Good luck with Vincent. You’ll need it.”

  Hating herself for not knowing what to do next, Leah simply watched Bella disappear into her vehicle, start the engine, and pull away from the curb. When the car surged forward, Leah backpedaled out of the street.

  Leah often had wondered what a reunion with Bella Stark would be like, including what the two of them might talk about if they ran into each other at the grocery store. Nothing in her imagination had come close to reality.

  A soft drizzle began to fall, darkening the sidewalk in front of Vincent’s apartment. Leah hardly noticed.

  ***

  Vincent closed the apartment door, which Leah had left open. Then he locked it.

  He walked back toward the living room but stopped shy of leaving the kitchen. Numbly, he stared at the cupboard above the refrigerator. A minute later, he opened it. Some part of him heard the knocking and, afterward, Leah calling for him, but another voice was louder.

  No matter what you do, your life keeps getting worse. You might as well just give in to what you really want to do.

  He reached for the whiskey.

  Chapter 19

  Leah scribbled the name of an article and medical journal on a legal pad. College textbooks and other publications she had acquired while researching RBD were strewn about her home office. Some lay open to specific passages, but most of them had been discarded unceremoniously onto a lopsided pile. The half-empty mug of tea on the desk had stopped steaming long ago.

  She looked down at the yellow paper and sighed. A measly three sources was all she had to show for the morning’s investigating—three articles that may or may not have anything to do with Vincent’s condition.

  A powerful yawn forced its way out from somewhere deep inside of her. She dropped the legal pad onto the desk. A trip to the public library to search for the journals would have to wait. She needed to sleep, and as intrigued as she was by Vincent’s polysomnogram, she knew the real reason she hadn’t gone straight to bed when she got home was because she wanted to stay distracted.

  I shouldn’t have left Vincent’s apartment without making sure he was OK. Even if he is a jerk. But what was I supposed to do…break down the door? He was probably embarrassed because of what Bella said about catching him with her cousin.

  Not that that excuses his cowardice. If he had followed Bella and me out to her car, then he could have told her about the real reason I was at his apartment.

  Leah rubbed her eyes. She had been up all night, but the longer she kept working, the longer she could avoid the memory of Bella’s accusing glare.

  One more link, and then I’m going to bed.

  She navigated back to the search engine, returning to the convoluted query that contained a half-dozen search terms, including “lucid dreaming,” “NREM,” “phenomenon,” and “awake.” She clicked the last blue link on the page. Her sigh turned into a snort, however, when the website appeared on screen.

  Bold purple script heralded the homepage of the world’s first organization for lucid dreamers. Judging by the Clipart crescent moons and copious blocks of colorful text, the Lucid Dreaming Society hadn’t updated their site since the ’90s.

  She scanned down the page and laughed out loud.

  Emira looked up at her quizzically.

  “Listen to this girl.” Leah reached down and scratched the Persian’s furry forehead with her free hand. “‘The Lucid Dreaming Society connects like-minded people who want to nurture their special abilities and go beyond the traditional limits of the human mind. With proper guidance and practice, some lucid dreamers can evolve to explore the mysteries of shared dreaming and dream telepathy.’”

  Emira meowed.

  “You’re telling me. I guess it takes all kinds.”

  Like I’m one to judge. I’m either spending my time and money to help the man who cheated on my old friend, or I’m hoping to use him and his affliction to further my career.

  Emira purred, and Leah smiled in spite of herself.

  “I could be a serial killer, and you wouldn’t hold it against me, would you, girl?”

  Emira blinked contentedly.

  Leah was about to close the Web browser, banishing the poor, neglected webpage back to oblivion, when a qu
ote at the bottom of the page caught her eye:

  “If souls can sleep, then why not dream?”

  —Dr. Milton Baerwald

  Milton Baerwald…why does that sound familiar?

  She found his name on her legal pad, jotted next to a study titled “Lucid Dreaming as a Means for Understanding Uncharted Brain Functions and the Essence of Identity.” It sounded like pretty heavy stuff. She wondered if Dr. Baerwald had ties to the Lucid Dreaming Society, or had the crackpots taken his quote out of context to make their club sound legitimate?

  OK, just one more search, and I’m done.

  Leah raised an eyebrow when “Milton Baerwald,” a seemingly uncommon name, generated more than a hundred hits. The first link took her to a health-related message board. One of the posts referred to the Baerwald study already on her list. Two other links were for essays that cited the same work. All of the webpages were several years old.

  The second page of links connected to other papers by Baerwald—his lesser known works?—and she clicked the first choice, even though the title hinted that the topic had more to do with the philosophical than physiological. After several seconds of displaying the hourglass icon, the browser informed her that the page could not be found. She returned the search engine and tried the next link.

  Broken.

  She sipped the lukewarm tea and went on to the next link.

  Déjà vu.

  What the heck?

  At the bottom of the list of works was a link to the Lucid Dreaming Society homepage. She rolled her eyes, and then, on an impulse, returned the first page. If she could download “Lucid Dreaming as a Means for Understanding Uncharted Brain Functions and the Essence of Identity” from one of those sites, she wouldn’t have to wait until her visit to the library.

  She encountered the error screen again and again. Even the pages that mentioned Dr. Baerwald’s lucid dreaming article timed out.

  Could it be a coincidence? Leah chuckled when she considered the alternative.

  I must be overtired if I’m considering the possibility that someone deleted everything this guy ever wrote from the internet.

  Intrigued in spite of herself, she paged through the search results, skimming over references and even obituaries for individuals who shared the same name as her mystery man. Her spirits sank as the links became less and less relevant. By the time she got to the final page, she had all but given up hope of discovering something of substance about Milton Baerwald.

  The very last link, however, took her to the official website of Temple University, where, according to the short bio, Dr. Baerwald taught psychology and neuroscience. There was no picture of the professor emeritus.

  She scanned his curriculum vitae, which, while impressive, didn’t reveal anything beyond the man’s expertise: philosophy, psychology, neuroscience, and, strangely, Norse mythology. His summary of publications and presentations was downright intimidating.

  So why can’t I find any of his writings on the web?

  Leah glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. It was half past one in the afternoon.

  I really need to get some sleep.

  Leah clicked back through the browser’s history until she found the first essay that had referenced Dr. Baerwald’s work—the only one, she realized, that had actually loaded. She scanned until she found his quote.

  “Soul sleep is an ancient and viable theory concerning the state of self immediately following physiological existence. Therefore, when subjects report encountering deceased loved ones in dreams, it is hasty to assume the visitors are merely constructs of the unconscious mind by way of retrieved memories…

  “If souls can sleep, then why not dream?”

  Or I could call the university.

  ***

  Leah hits the lockers hard. The crash echoes throughout the locker room, as does her cry of pain and surprise. She tries to get away, but Bella grabs her by her shoulders, bringing her face close to Leah’s.

  “Why did you steal my shoes?”

  Leah attempts to push Bella back, but Bella is bigger and, somehow, older. While she can’t look down to see her feet, Leah knows she’s wearing her own gym shoes, along with the standard-issue gray T-shirt and matching shorts.

  “You’re a thief!” Bella shouts.

  Leah looks around for help, but the two of them are alone. “I didn’t take them!” she insists. “Marsha Donovan did!”

  “No,” Bella says, “Marsha is my best friend. You, on the other hand, have always been a cold-hearted bitch.”

  Leah struggles to break away, but Bella’s fingers dig harder into her shoulders and collarbones. She pleads for Bella to let her go. She is crying, and Bella is screaming at her. The bell rings.

  “Bella, we’re going to be late for class…”

  ***

  The locker room melted away. Leah stared in confusion at the muted rays of sunset streaming through the partially closed Venetian blinds.

  Why was I sleeping on the couch in the middle of the day?

  The sound came again—a ring tone, not a school bell.

  She rolled off the couch and stumbled over to her purse, which hung from the back of a dinette chair. She pulled out her cell. The caller ID didn’t display a number. A wrong number maybe? She almost dropped the phone back in her purse but then remembered the incident at Vincent’s apartment that morning.

  Maybe it’s Vincent…or Bella.

  She pressed the button and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Chedid?” A man’s voice. Not Vincent’s.

  “This is she.”

  Pause. “You tried to call Milton Baerwald earlier today.”

  Memories of fruitless phone calls surfaced suddenly. She had called the number for Dr. Baerwald listed on Temple University’s website, but there was no voicemail. Next, she had tried the general office number for the psychology department. Halfway through her rambling message, she had realized it was Saturday. No one would even hear it until Monday.

  Apparently, she had been wrong about that.

  “Is this Dr. Baerwald?” Leah asked.

  Another pause. “No.”

  “But you got the message I left for him?”

  Pause. “How may I help you, Dr. Chedid?”

  “With all due respect, Mr….”

  “Boden.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Boden, I was hoping to speak with Dr. Baerwald. Is there a better number where I can reach him? I promise not to take up too much of his time.”

  Pause. “I would prefer to collect as much information as possible up front. Milton seldom has as a minute to spare, you see.”

  Something in the calm—no, cold—voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t like Boden, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him anything about Vincent. Before she could come up with a suitable response, he spoke again:

  “Does this have something to do with his research on lucid dreaming?”

  She took a breath and invoked her most professional tone. “I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Boden, but I would be grateful if you could pass along—”

  “Are you an acquaintance of Milton’s?” Boden asked.

  She bit her lip. Who did this guy think he was?

  “No, I am not,” she replied. “However, I am familiar with his credentials…whereas, I know nothing of yours.”

  Pause. “I am Dr. Baerwald’s colleague and most trusted associate.”

  “Nonetheless.” She cleared her throat. “Please have him give me a call when he can.”

  Pause. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Then Boden was gone, and Leah could only stare at the phone. Her life had grown much stranger since Vincent Cruz waltzed into her clinic, but nothing—not watching him collapse at the restaurant, nearly stabbing him with a scissors, or being mistaken for the proverbial “other woman”—had unsettled her as much as the phone call from Boden had.

  She jumped when her phone went off in her hand. The fa
miliar Lilith Fair anthem immediately alleviated her fear of another conversation with Boden.

  “Zaina—”

  “Where the hell are you, Leah?” her sister demanded. “Mom and Dad keep asking about you.”

  The anniversary party…shit!

  Grabbing her coat and purse, Leah said, “I’m on my way!”

  She was five steps down the hall before she realized she was wearing sweat pants and a tank top.

  Chapter 20

  Valenthor’s breaths were quick and shallow, every gulp of air like an icy blade slashing at his throat. His swift pace, combined with the steady incline, pushed his pulse to a thundering cadence. The fire burning in his muscles vanished periodically, as the mountain gales pierced his sweat-soaked clothes and made him shiver.

  All the while, he remained vigilant, surveying the gaps between the evergreens and the dark crannies littering the rocky terrain. Any space that could conceal a giant.

  Several steps ahead, Destiny stopped and leaned on a walking staff Locke had fashioned from the bough of a balsam fir. Valenthor tensed, tightening his grip on the hammer. A second passed, then another.

  No enemies. She just needs to rest.

  Valenthor resisted the urge to approach her. He had had no dearth of questions for the elf ever since she had announced she would take him to his daughter. Yet she repeatedly sidestepped his questions, asking for faith.

  Faith in her and in the gods-forsaken Ancestors.

  Frustration, anger, a sliver of hope—all of these feelings and more waged war in his mind. He let out a long, slow breath, watching the steam flow snake-like from his mouth. Patience had never been a virtue he claimed as his own. Let the chieftains meet in tents to debate tactics far from the frontlines. Valenthor had ever been more comfortable in the midst of the fray, looking Death full in the face.