“I’ve had enough,” a man in the front row bellowed. He rose from his seat. “This is an act. Guilfoyle is trying to scare us into signing up for his program. My wife and I are leaving.”
“But, Henry,” the woman in the seat next to his said. “We can’t leave now. I haven’t had a chance to ask my question.”
“Come along, Martha.” Henry gripped his wife’s arm and propelled her up out of the seat. “I agreed to let you watch this idiotic performance because I thought it would make you realize Guilfoyle is a fraud.”
“Henry, please, you’re making a scene,” Martha hissed.
Her husband ignored her. He steered Martha up the aisle and opened the door. Light from the hallway slanted across the theater. People got to their feet, mumbling uneasily, and headed for the exit.
Stuck on the far side of the room, Maggie stood and waited for the theater to empty.
Onstage, Guilfoyle and Oxlade were both on their feet. Oxlade clutched his notebook in one hand.
“I understand you are an actor,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “I realize you are trying to put on a show. But I will not allow you to make a mockery of my theories. Is that clear? If there is one more incident like the one that just took place, I will terminate our arrangement.”
He stomped offstage, not waiting for an answer, and disappeared into the wings. Arthur smiled at Maggie, a slow, knowing smile that she knew was intended to be intimate and seductive. Ice touched the back of her neck and trickled down her spine.
“A moment, if you please, Miss Lodge,” Arthur said.
He descended the steps at the side of the stage and walked up the aisle toward the entrance of the theater. He closed the door and turned to confront her from the opposite end of the last row of seats.
“I have something of great importance to say to you. In spite of what Oxlade just said, I was not acting tonight. While I was in the trance I sensed an ominous presence on the grounds of the Institute. Whatever it is—whoever it is—it is hunting you.”
Chapter 32
Another flicker of glacially cold electricity sparked across Maggie’s senses. She was alone with Guilfoyle in the theater, and he had positioned himself between her and the door.
“I don’t believe for a minute that anyone is hunting me,” she said. She gripped the strap of her handbag very tightly. “I am going to leave now. Mr. Sage will be waiting for me at the lobby entrance.”
“Sage is your chauffeur as well as your research assistant?” Arthur asked.
“He is very useful.”
“Evidently.” Arthur chuckled. “How long have you known him?”
“Not long,” she said, aiming for a breezy, who-cares tone.
“How does one go about hiring a research assistant?” Arthur asked, seemingly intrigued.
“The same way one finds everything else—the phone book.”
“Does he claim to be a lucid dreamer, too?”
“No,” Maggie said. “His interest is purely professional.”
“In other words, he can never truly understand you,” Arthur said, “not the way I do.”
“I have no idea what you mean. You must excuse me.”
“I will only take a moment of your time. You are a special woman, Miss Lodge. The first time I saw you I realized I had been searching for you for a very long time. I just hadn’t realized it. There is a connection between us. I can sense it.”
Maggie considered her options. She did not feel genuinely threatened—not yet. Guilfoyle was making no attempt to close the distance between them. She could still hear voices out in the hall. If she screamed, people would hear her. And then there was Sam. If she did not show up outside the lobby soon, he would come looking for her.
There was no need to panic. This was, in fact, a golden opportunity to acquire information. She might be able to take advantage of the situation.
“You gave a very interesting performance, Mr. Guilfoyle,” she said.
He regarded her as if she were the most beautiful woman he had ever met.
“I apologize if I frightened you,” he said.
“Not at all.”
“I was afraid the reference to the Traveler might have upset you.”
“Why? I don’t believe in that legend, just as I don’t believe that it is possible to travel on the astral plane. Credit where it’s due, Mr. Guilfoyle; you are an excellent actor. You had the audience riveted until you overplayed your hand with that nonsense about the Traveler. But we both know your dream readings tonight were no better than those of a storefront fortune-teller.”
Arthur sighed. “I do my best. Very well, you didn’t buy my psychic readings, but you do believe there is such a thing as lucid dreaming.”
“Yes, of course. That’s why I’m writing a book on the subject and why I bought a ticket for this conference.”
“Oxlade told me you were a patient of his at one time.”
“You are misinformed. I was never a patient of Oxlade’s. I booked a couple of professional consultations with him, but I was not at all impressed with his theories and techniques. I realize he has a certain reputation in the field, so I understand why you want to use him to promote the Guilfoyle Method.”
Arthur’s eyelids lowered very slightly. She knew he was recalculating.
“Oxlade’s reputation is impressive and helpful when it comes to promotion,” he said. “But I will admit I have lost confidence in him.”
“Really? Why?”
Arthur snorted. “Because he was so easily taken in by my psychic dreaming act. He claims to be a brilliant dream analyst, but he is extraordinarily credulous. Like the vast majority of people in the world, he can easily be convinced to believe what he desperately wants to believe.”
“And as it happens, he really wants to believe that lucid dreaming can open the door to latent psychic talents.”
Arthur shrugged. “All serious dream research runs into the problem of independent verification. In the end, one is entirely dependent on the report of the dreamer. There is no way to confirm it.”
“You went too far tonight. Oxlade believes there is a link between lucid dreaming and latent psychic senses, but he does not believe in astral projection or legends like the Traveler.”
“I brought Oxlade in as a lecturer for one reason and one reason only—marketing. If he doesn’t work out, he can be replaced.”
“At least you’re honest about it,” Maggie said.
“I am also being honest when I tell you I have been a strong lucid dreamer since my teens. I’ve spent years learning how to gain control over my dreams and put them to good use.”
“Good use?”
“People like you and me have been given a rare talent, Miss Lodge. I think we were meant to discover a purpose for our lucid dreaming ability. I admit I’ve been willing to try any number of experiments, analysis, and therapies in the hope of finding out how I can employ my gift to help others. I realize now that I need you to fulfill my vision. We share a destiny, Miss Lodge. We can fulfill it together here at the Institute.”
“This has gone far enough,” Maggie said. “I have no interest in assisting you in the promotion of the Guilfoyle Method. It is obviously a con. You are in the dream business for the money. Admit it.”
“That’s not true—”
Footsteps sounded on the stage. Oxlade appeared from the wings, clipboard in one fist. His face was tight and twisted in rage.
“It is true,” he roared. “Every word of it. You have deceived me, you lying bastard. I was a fool to put my professional reputation at risk for the sake of a fraud. Our association is finished.”
Oxlade stomped down the side steps, marched up the aisle, and stormed out of the entrance of the theater. He slammed the door.
A tense silence fell.
Arthur groaned. “Shit. Dolores is not going to be happy about this.”
“You must excuse me,” Maggie said. She started toward him. “Please get out of my way. Mr. Sage will be waiting.”
“I will see you to your car.”
“That won’t be necessary. If you don’t get out of my way I will scream.”
“Calm down,” Arthur said soothingly. “You are allowing yourself to become hysterical. Oxlade mentioned your delicate nerves.”