Seduced by the Operative. Merline Lovelace
3
When an aide escorted Claire into the Executive Residence, an assortment of staff members and Secret Service agents hovered in the hall outside Stacy’s bedroom.
Sandy-haired Tom Fogarty was among them looking tense, hastily dressed in jeans and a knit shirt with one edge of the collar turned under. He greeted Claire with undisguised relief, then opened the door to the same suite she’d visited the day before and stuck his head in.
“Dr. Cantwell’s here, sir.”
“Ask her to come in.”
Fogarty closed the door behind Claire, leaving her alone with the president and his daughter. They sat huddled side by side on the sofa in the sitting room. Every lamp was lit in that room and the room beyond. Claire caught a glimpse of the bed with its covers thrown off and onto the floor, as if the occupant had struggled violently with them.
The president sat beside his daughter with an arm around her shoulders. One glance told Claire that Stacy had yet to recover from her terrifying dream. Above her pink cotton sleep shirt, her face was splotchy and her eyes red from crying.
The president didn’t look much better. Claire saw no trace of his trademark boyish charm. Belted into a navy robe with the presidential seal embroidered on the pocket, he greeted her calmly, but the deep crease in his brow showed he was a very worried father.
“Thanks for coming, Dr. Cantwell. Sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not a problem, Mr. President. Hi, Stacy.” Sympathy for the girl softened her voice. “This must have been a bad one.”
The teen shuddered. “It was awful.”
“Do you feel up to telling me about it? It’s difficult, I know, but I’d like to hear whatever details you can remember before your subconscious suppresses them.”
“Will it?” she asked with a desperate need for reassurance. “Make me forget all this, I mean?”
“That’s normally what happens.”
At the president’s invitation, Claire took the chair angled toward the sofa.
“Would you like coffee?” he asked. “That’s a fresh carafe. They just brought it up a few minutes ago.”
“I’m fine for now, thanks.”
“Okay.” He glanced from Claire to his hunch-shouldered daughter. “Do you want me to leave while you talk to Dr. Cantwell, Stace? I’ll wait outside in the hall. You can call me when you’re done.”
“No.” She clutched at the lapel of his robe. “Stay, Daddy. Please.”
“Sure. If that’s okay with Dr. Cantwell?”
“Certainly. I’d like to record this session so I won’t be distracted by taking notes or have to try to remember everything later. Is that all right with you, Stacy?”
“I guess so.”
Claire extracted a microrecorder from her purse and clicked it on. After noting the time, date, location and name of the client, she slipped the recorder into the pocket of her pantsuit.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” she told the other two with a smile. “Okay, Stacy. Tell me whatever you can remember from your dream.”
In a choked whisper, the teen described a dream sequence very similar to the one she’d related to Claire earlier that day. Crowds of people surrounding around her, reaching for her. Women in aprons and kerchiefs. One man, she thought, was holding some kind of wooden pitchfork. Bit by bit, their flesh began to melt away. Their eyes became empty sockets. Until they were just rank upon rank of skulls, skeletons, disjointed bones.
“There was something else.” Forehead furrowed, she tried to remember. “Some kind of vault or crypt or something.”
Her hand crept across the sofa cushion to clutch her father. White-knuckled, she continued in a ragged whisper.
“I remember stepping down some stairs. I know I felt cold. Icy cold. I think I heard music or chanting. There were more bones. So many bones. Then I could sense…”
She gulped, breathing hard. Claire ached at the fear reflected in the girl’s eyes.
“I could sense…I could feel my own skin sagging and starting to fall off. I screamed for help. But they just looked at me, Dr. Cantwell! All those skulls, all those skeletons. They just looked at me with their dead, empty eyes. Does it mean I’m going to die?” she asked on a note of sheer panic.
“Absolutely not. We talked about this yesterday, remember? Dreams aren’t harbingers of the future. They’re an amalgam of your subconscious, fractured thoughts. Our task now is to determine what’s implanting those thoughts.”
She shifted her attention to the president.
“I told Stacy yesterday that threatening dreams like this one could stem from a number of causes. Stress might be a major factor, as could illness, sleeping disorders, drug reactions or the loss of a loved one.”
The crease between president’s brow deepened. Out of that list, the loss of a loved one had to have hit him as hard as it had his daughter. With a tug of sympathetic understanding, Claire continued calmly.
“I think we should rule out possible physical factors first. I’d like to talk to your doctor and set up a complete physical for Stacy. I’d also like you to consider allowing me to schedule her for a sleep study.”
“What does that involve?”
“The studies generally include a polysomnogram, which records a number of body functions while the subject is sleeping. Like brain activity, eye movement, heart rate and carbon dioxide blood levels. Also, we’ll conduct a Multiple Sleep Latency Test. That measures how long it takes the subject to fall asleep.”
“Where would these tests be conducted?” Stacy wanted to know.
“In a hospital sleep lab. Georgetown University Hospital has an excellent one. So does the University of Maryland Medical Center. I’m sure Bethesda does, too, although I’m not as familiar with it as the other two.”
The president and his daughter exchanged glances. “What do you think, Stace?”
“I trust Dr. Cantwell. I’m okay with whatever she suggests.”
“Good.” Slipping a hand into her pocket, Claire clicked off the recorder. “I’ll get with your physician and set the tests up. Don’t worry, Stacy. Between us, we’ll figure what’s causing these dreams.”
“I hope so! I’m supposed to leave for camp next month.”
To redirect the teen’s thoughts from the nightmares, Claire asked her about the camp’s activities. Stacy perked up when describing the summer camp for disabled children, where she’d served as a counselor last year and hoped to again this year.
They chatted until she ran out of steam and her lids began to droop. When she put up a hand to cover a wide yawn, Claire knew it was time to end the session.
“Sleepy, Stacy?”
“Yes.”
“You hit the sack,” her father instructed. “I’ll step outside for a moment to talk to Dr. Cantwell, then I’ll bunk down here on the sofa for the rest of the night.”
“You don’t have to do that, Dad!”
“I don’t have to, but I want to.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dr. Cantwell.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll talk again when I have the tests set up.”
“I want them done right away,” the president told Claire when they went into the hall and he’d waved back the handful of staff so they could speak privately. “Today, if possible.”
“I’ll