Book of Dreams Page 6

  Elena watched the pastor hurry down the side passage and enter the church. Brian Farringdon held to an air of perpetual youth, which was remarkable given everything he had endured. Elena stopped by the counter for a second cup of coffee and entered the church to find him standing by the reception desk, checking his messages. Brian smiled a welcome and said, “The only thing finer than a stranger bearing gifts is a friend.”

  Elena handed over the coffee and asked, “Can I have five minutes?”

  “I can even give you ten. Come on back.”

  Three years earlier, Brian Farringdon had lost his wife to cancer. He was left with their son to raise, a boy aged eleven. Elena normally did not do grief counseling. But she could hardly have refused the man who had buried Jason and helped her through her own dark hour. Brian had been her patient for six months. Soon after he stopped coming, his son had entered puberty with a savage fury directed against his father, the world, and God. Elena had counseled the two of them for another year.

  The interior of Saint Aldates was something of a shock to newcomers. Twenty years earlier the church had been gutted. The sanctuary was now a modernist semicircle, framed by glowing Cotswold stone and redwood pillars. A glass wall separated the sanctuary from the classrooms and the stairs leading to the church offices.

  The church worship had undergone a similar drastic change. Saint Aldates was a leader in what was known as the Vineyard movement. The movement had originated in Toronto, after a staid and stodgy church was struck by revival. Over the three years that the revival continued, pastors visited from all over the world, including a number from England. Impatient with the turgid Anglican system, desperate to stem the tide of secularism, they had returned from the revival hoping to light a new spiritual fire.

  Nowhere on earth had the Vineyard movement found such a reception as within the sedate Anglican churches of England, Scotland, and Wales. A growing number of these churches now split their services in two. The first service maintained the standard Sunday-morning rituals, and were attended by a mostly gray-haired community whose numbers grew ever smaller. Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons were an entirely different matter. These services were riotous, with loud music and louder singing. The Spirit was invoked on a constant basis. The services lasted as long as the people wanted to remain. Which was often until midnight and beyond.

  Elena followed Brian into the vicar’s office and waited until he settled into his chair and peeled the lid off his coffee to say, “I have a problem.”

  “In that case, you better shut the door.”

  Elena knew all about holding to overtight schedules. She covered her recent events in succinct bites. She said nothing about the book. Not because she intended to keep it from him. But the book was not crucial to the moment. It would need to wait for a time when she was not shouldering herself into the pastor’s overcrowded day.

  Even so, when she finished, Brian sat sipping from his cup for a time, then lifted the phone and said, “Tell the others to start the meeting without me.”

  When he hung up, Elena said, “I can come back.”

  He waved that aside and went back to sipping from his cup.

  “Really. It already feels better just to have told somebody,” she added.

  Brian continued to stare out the side window. His office overlooked the square’s lone tree. “To recap what you just told me. You were approached by a wealthy and powerful American lady. She was having dreams that defied normal analysis. You arranged for an inspection at the Radcliffe. The lady is in good health. You feared there was nothing you could do for her. You prayed for guidance. God answered in a very clear and vivid manner. You passed on the message to the lady. Everything that came to you in your prayer time has now been confirmed in reality.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  Brian looked at her for the first time. “God really rocked your boat, did he?”

  The smile came with difficulty. “It feels like I’ve been struck by a personal tsunami.”

  “Good. Very good indeed. I’m happy for you. It’s high time something drew you from your comfortable little shell.”

  “Excuse me, that’s not—”

  “When I first started coming to see you after losing Anne, do you remember the first thing you said to me?”

  “That I was not an expert in grief counseling.”

  “And do you recall my response?”

  “I …”

  “I said that was good, because I wasn’t interested in grief, I was interested in moving on. And that’s exactly what you need to do, Elena. You had a good life with Jason. He was one of the finest men it has ever been my honor to know. But he is gone now. He dwells with the Father. And I am certain, absolutely positive, that Jason would tell you the very same thing as I do now. Wake up. Life is calling. God is here. Waiting for you to open your heart to a new dawn.”

  And suddenly she was crying. The pressure clenched her chest and squeezed out the tears. She had no choice but to release the sobs and search for breath. Brian opened a lower drawer and set a box of tissues on the desk. And he waited.

  When she could draw a steady breath, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize.”

  “I never cry.”

  “I get that a lot.” He went back to studying the tree beyond his window. “Most of the time when people come for counseling I have to sit here and bite my tongue. But I am going to treat you as a friend and an equal. People can become comfortable with anything. Including loss and pain. They build it into their personality. It frames their life. It becomes hard to give up. Because beyond this lies the unknown.”

  It didn’t help that she had said the same words a hundred times and more. Elena reached for another tissue. “I miss him so much I don’t let myself acknowledge it very often.”

  “You think losing Anne hasn’t torn at my nights? But what is even worse, and I hope you’re paying attention, because this is very important. What is worse is accepting that God can heal even my shredded soul. Because this opens me to the prospect of a full life beyond my loss. Why? Because it is a life without my true love, the woman I never thought I could survive without.”

  Elena needed another long moment to recover from that one. “I must look a total wreck.”

  “I seriously doubt your patients will notice. My visitors rarely did.”

  His brusque tone offered her the only grip she could find on control. She glanced at her watch. “I have to be going.”

  “Let me ask you one final question. How often have you sat there in a service and prayed for the Spirit to move in your life?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How often have you lifted your hands to heaven and said, ‘Come, Holy Spirit, come’?”

  She blinked away the last tears. Brian was watching her now with a gaze she could only describe as fierce.

  “I will take your silence to mean you’ve said the words at least a few times. And look what’s happened. God answered your prayers.”

  “Don’t you have any doubts about what’s happened to me?”

  “No, Elena. I don’t. Not one whit. You are not hysterical. You are not seeking to use your experience for your own aggrandizement. Your experience follows a pattern laid down by Scriptures. If God were looking for someone to give earthly interpretation to a divine vision, I could not think of anyone better.”

  She forced herself to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”

  Brian reached for a pen and paper. “There’s a friend of mine I think you should speak with. He did his doctorate here on the Old Testament and still holds a post as professor at New College. These days he spends most of his time in Rome. He’s recently been made a cardinal and holds some senior post at the Vatican. He and I were roommates and have remained friends ever since. He’s here now. I trust him. I suggest you do the same.”

  Brian handed over the page. He then walked around the desk and hugged her. Hard. “God has drawn you out of your
comfort zone. Get used to it. I doubt it will be the last time.”

  10

  Elena arrived at her office a few minutes before nine. The Mercedes limo was not idling on the curb outside her office. Instead, a trio of police vans were parked catty-cornered in front of her building and the one to her left. As she rose from her car, a policeman walked over and demanded, “Do you have business here, madam?”

  “This is my office.”

  “May I see some ID, please?”

  As she reached into her purse, they were joined by a man in a rumpled tan suit. The policeman said, “This lady claims to work here.”

  “I’m Detective Mehan.” He inspected her license. “You are a counselor, Ms. Burroughs?”

  “Clinical psychologist. And it’s Doctor Burroughs. Can I ask what’s the matter?”

  “The building next to yours was broken into last night. Are you aware what goes on in there?”

  “Of course.” Neighboring Balliol College had purchased the building and turned it into a library for their rare manuscripts. “What did they take?”

  “Thankfully, the college has installed a very adequate security system. The burglars did not get close to the most valuable items.” The detective had a voice that reminded Elena of pounded tin. “Might I inquire as to your own security?”

  “We don’t have any. But other than one painting and a few computers, there’s nothing in our office worth stealing.”

  “Break-ins are a growing problem in the city center. You can’t assume that the burglars will be well informed.” He handed back her ID. “I would urge you to rectify the situation. Immediately.”

  Fiona greeted her by waving a pamphlet from Strand Securities and said, “This was slipped through our box. Remarkable timing. I don’t suppose they had a hand in the break-in.”

  Elena fashioned a smile and said, “At least they’ve shown some initiative. The detective said we needed to get something in place immediately. Why don’t you give them a call.”

  The ambassador’s wife chose that moment to enter. One of her bodyguards held open the outer door, while the other remained in conversation with the police. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. The break-in was next door.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear it.”

  Her bodyguard said, “Even so, ma’am, perhaps we should get out of the public areas.”

  “Of course.” Elena felt Fiona’s eyes upon her as she led the ambassador’s wife up the stairs. The bodyguard held open the door, followed them across the outer office, and slid the double doors shut.

  Before she settled into the chair, Sandra Harwood announced, “My husband refused to join me.”

  Elena walked around her desk. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He accepts that there are … needs. But he …” Sandra Harwood spoke with the woodenness of an actress reading from an unfamiliar script. “I’m sorry. This is not easy.”

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “No thank you.” Her gaze was a silent warning. “I love my husband very much.”

  Elena remained silent as Sandra made a stilted list of her husband’s good qualities. She knew the ambassador’s wife was speaking for the unseen listeners. Elena loathed how her counseling session had become party to a lie. Her office was intended as a haven for secrets and healing. What was happening went against everything she and her profession stood for.

  Abruptly she broke in: “I’m sorry. This is an extremely difficult day for me, and I’m not certain I can give you the attention you deserve.”

  Sandra Harwood was taken aback. She tasted several responses and settled upon “Is there something wrong?”

  “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my husband’s death.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “How could you. I started to call and suggest we meet at another time. But I know how busy you are. Now I wish I had done so.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Really.” The ambassador’s wife tasted a smile. “Actually, it’s rather nice to know you have a human edge.”

  “Such confessions from the clinician are not part of the equation. We are trained to hold a professional distance. It is vital to most successful therapies.”

  “But not in my case.”

  Elena nodded slowly. That was exactly what she had been thinking.

  “Would you like to tell me about him?”

  “Jason was born to an American scientist working for Roche in Switzerland. He studied biochemistry first in Geneva, and then at Duke.” Elena remained aware of the other ears, and yet didn’t care nearly so much. “He spoke English with an accent that I always found delicious. He was very American in his tastes, but in his deepest recesses there lurked an extremely European soul. That was one of the things I loved about him.”

  “What do you mean by having a European soul?”

  “So many things.” Because of her conversation with the vicar, her mind settled on a particular point: “Jason used to talk about how the country of his birth had been riven by wars between various Christian factions. He refused to take sides, or argue, or even remain in the same room whenever discussions turned to religious issues. In private, he used to tell me that he could not find it in himself to condemn anyone. He questioned the purity of all their motives. He said this was one of the things that drew him to Jesus. How he needed the one who had risen above all the human imperfections. How he needed the Messiah to remind him of where he should maintain his focus. And how vital it was to forgive …”

  Elena found herself unable to continue. Her throat had suddenly constricted to the point where her breathing rasped in her own ears.

  Sandra Harwood rose from her chair. She walked to the corner cupboard where Elena always kept a bottle of Evian and plastic glasses. Sandra poured a cup and brought it back to Elena. She nodded her thanks and drank. She set down the cup and tried to recall if a patient had ever done that for her before.

  When she could trust her voice again, Elena said, “We should be speaking about your issues.”

  “Do you know, I believe we are.” Sandra Harwood glanced at her watch. “I have to close things off a bit early today.”

  “I understand.”

  She rose from her chair and crossed the room. When she reached for the doors, she stopped and turned back to say, “I would like to think that you and I are destined to become the very best of friends.”

  The slender gentleman with the military bearing appeared just as the staff were leaving for lunch. The director of Elena’s office had a previous engagement, so when she offered to take care of the security issue, he accepted gratefully. Nigel Harries introduced himself as though they had not met at the ambassador’s reception. He then gave a brief but polished presentation on his firm, Strand Securities. Elena agreed for them to install a new system. Nigel Harries pocketed her signed contract with grave British politeness and said, “If you like, Dr. Burroughs, my man can do a sweep of your offices.”

  “A sweep for what?”

  “Improper monitoring systems of one kind or another. Listening devices, usually.”

  “We’re a university clinic, Mr. Harries. Hardly the sort of place that someone would want to bug.”

  “You would be surprised, ma’am.”

  “I don’t want to be any bother.”

  “Not at all. My man has been working in the area on another assignment. He is waiting downstairs.”

  “How much will—”

  “No charge, Dr. Burroughs. Our way of thanking you for your business.”

  The technician was a younger version of his boss—well dressed, discreet, thorough. And fast. Elena had scarcely enough time to unwrap her sandwich before he announced, “Your offices are bugged, ma’am.”

  “What?”

  He walked to the door. “Nigel?”

  The pair found another three microphones in her office, two more downstairs in the waiting room, and five others stationed throughout the building. Elena did not need to pretend at shock a
nd outrage. Especially not when Nigel Harries slipped next door and returned with the detective. By then the technician had located the central monitoring device.

  Nigel explained for both Elena’s and the detective’s sake, “This is actually a rather sophisticated system. The microphones are quite low-powered, they only transmit a distance of about thirty feet.” He held up a palm-size box of black plastic. “This is a high-frequency burst transmitter. It collects the incoming data, and then once every twelve hours it will fire off a condensed broadcast.”

  The detective accepted the box and the plastic bag holding the microphones. “Pity you and your man had to handle everything.”

  “Oh, I very much doubt whoever put this in place neglected to wear gloves, Detective.” He pointed at the transmitter. “This is not something generally available on the open market.”

  “But you happen to know all about it, do you.”

  “That is correct, Detective. I do.”

  He grunted and turned to Elena. “Any idea who might be behind such an attack?”

  She shivered at the casual manner in which he used that word. Attack. “No. But I have an idea who was their target.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “This puts me in a very serious quandary. The patient is most concerned about her privacy.”

  The detective held up the devices. “We have evidence of a serious crime, Dr. Burroughs. It would take me less than half an hour to obtain a writ from the Crown Court.”

  “Would you gentlemen give me a minute? I need to make a call.” Elena slipped into the empty office next door and phoned Sandra Harwood’s personal cell phone.