She caught a whiff of marijuana smoke clinging to his clothes and remembered what Valerie had said about the dream guides. They all smoked some of Larry’s reefers.
The dream generator had been removed from the elevated stage. In its place was a gilded crimson velvet couch and a single chair. There were only twelve people in the audience, as Dolores Guilfoyle had promised.
Maggie felt underdressed. She had chosen a crisp business suit for the demonstration, but everyone else looked as if they had been invited to a formal reception. The men were in evening jackets and the women wore cocktail gowns. Maybe they were planning to go out on the town after the event.
The other eleven observers—four couples, a single man, and two women—varied in age, but they all had one thing in common: They were clearly affluent. These were the people who were expected to buy their way up to the highest, most expensive levels of the Guilfoyle program. Aside from a few polite murmurs, the attendees ignored each other. They were here for one reason only—to witness an exhibition of psychic lucid dreaming.
There was no sign of either the Guilfoyles or Emerson Oxlade. Maggie assumed they were all backstage.
When the lights were lowered, Maggie took one last look at her watch before the room darkened. It was a little after eight. Sam would be making his way through the gardens to the guest villa Oxlade was using. The thought sent another unsettling frisson down her spine.
There was no more time to think about the risks that Sam was planning to take because Dolores Guilfoyle, dressed in a long, heavily beaded beige gown, walked out onto the stage. Her dramatic makeup and the deep waves of her hair enhanced her aura of glamour. Elbow-length gloves and sparkling earrings finished the look.
“Welcome to this exclusive demonstration of the power of the Guilfoyle Method,” she said. “Each of you was selected for this opportunity because Mr. Guilfoyle sensed you possess the special spark of latent psychic talent that enables certain individuals to advance to the highest level of the Method. Very few individuals have the ability, let alone the determination, to make it to the top.”
In other words, not everyone has the cash required to climb the Guilfoyle Method ladder, Maggie thought.
“Dr. Oxlade will be assisting in tonight’s demonstration,” Dolores continued. “He will act as Mr. Guilfoyle’s guide and interpreter. Please understand that a dream reading requires an enormous amount of focus and mental power. When tonight’s exhibition is over, Mr. Guilfoyle will be exhausted. He will not be able to take questions. Each of you will have an opportunity to meet privately with him tomorrow to discuss how you can personally benefit from the Guilfoyle Method.”
Dolores walked gracefully off the stage and vanished behind the heavy curtain. There was a hushed silence. Emerson Oxlade appeared from the wings. He fiddled with his spectacles, cleared his throat, and addressed the audience.
“Please understand that what you are about to witness is an example of a form of lucid dreaming that very few individuals possess. Everyone dreams, but the vast majority of people do not have the ability to use their dreams to access their latent psychic senses. When Mr. Guilfoyle is in a trance he will attempt to communicate, but his remarks may sound cryptic at times. Keep in mind he will be speaking to you from a dream.”
Oxlade paused, trying to see the faces of the people in the audience. Maggie knew he was looking for her. She wished she could sink deeper into the shadows. Being fancied by an obsessive scientist was not thrilling.
Sure enough, when he spotted her, a dark glitter of unwholesome excitement lit his eyes. For a horrible moment she thought he might have the nerve to summon her to the stage.
But he turned away, walked to the chair, sat down, and opened his notebook. He adjusted his glasses one more time and cleared his throat again.
“We are ready for you, Mr. Guilfoyle,” he said.
Arthur Guilfoyle, dressed in his dramatic high-collared black coat, strode out from behind the curtain. His oiled hair gleamed in the light. He wore eye makeup, just as he had for the opening lecture.
Showtime, Maggie thought.
Arthur inclined his head in a dramatic gesture, acknowledging his audience with aloof dignity. He did not speak. He sat down on the gilded couch and braced a hand on each knee. He gazed at the audience for a long moment, as though fortifying himself for what lay ahead.
Abruptly he closed his eyes. The theater lights went lower still. Maggie wondered who was handling the switches in the wings. Dolores or one of the dream guides, perhaps.
Oxlade, seated at the outer edge of the glare of the spotlight, spoke to the audience.
“Silence, please,” he said. “Mr. Guilfoyle will now prepare to enter the lucid dreamstate. This requires intense concentration and mental discipline.”
Guilfoyle continued to stare at the audience, unblinking, for a long moment. The crowd waited expectantly.
Without warning he shut his eyes.
“Are you in the lucid dreamstate, Mr. Guilfoyle?” Oxlade asked.
“Yes,” Guilfoyle intoned.
“Describe what you see, sir.”
“I am in the center of a clear crystal sphere. When I look up I see the majesty of the cosmos. When I look out to the horizon I see no limits or barriers. I am gazing into infinity.”
“What do you see when you look down?” Oxlade asked.
“This theater. I see myself and you, Dr. Oxlade. I see the aspiring dreamers in the audience. There is latent power in each of them. They all have the potential to discover the secrets of extreme lucid dreaming, the potential to open the pathway to their psychic senses.”
The audience responded with a murmur of excitement.
“You have accessed all of your senses,” Oxlade continued. “You are now able to perceive what the rest of us cannot. Are you prepared to respond to questions from the audience?”
“Yes.”
Oxlade turned to the crowd. “Who wishes to ask Mr. Guilfoyle a question?”
A man in the second row raised his hand. Oxlade nodded to him.
“I am considering a large investment in a certain mining company,” the man said. “Do you advise me to go forward with the purchase of the stock?”
Arthur was silent for a moment, radiating intense concentration.
“The company will do well,” he said finally. “You will profit from the investment.”
“Next question,” Oxlade said to the audience.
Hands shot up around the room.
Maggie stifled a sigh. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 30
Sam stood in the darkened kitchen of the guest villa, giving himself some time to absorb the atmosphere. It was the house Oxlade was staying in and it was supposed to be empty because the doctor was in the main building of the Institute assisting in Guilfoyle’s reading.
The villa did feel empty. The curtains and shades were closed but moonlight filtered in through the transom windows above the doors.
After a moment he switched on the flashlight and looked around. The kitchen was neat and tidy—probably the work of a daily housekeeper provided by the Institute. On the other hand, Oxlade appeared to be a fussy man by nature, and he was in the drug business, so maybe he did his own housekeeping.
Sam crossed the linoleum floor, went into a hallway, and set about exploring the villa. He did not know what he was looking for—he just hoped he would recognize it when he saw it.
He had left the Packard in the parking lot of the hotel and made his way onto the grounds of the Institute on foot via a service gate. Night and the elaborate gardens and the various garages, toolsheds, and boarded-up buildings provided ample cover. He was reasonably satisfied no one had seen him, but there was no way to be certain.
The hall led to two bedrooms, one of which had been transformed into a temporary office. A large well-worn briefcase was positioned next to a table.