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  “Tonight, I think you should try to have a lucid dream.”

  Blinking in wonder at her, I answered, “What are you talking about?”

  “Listen, I discussed this with Lucinda, you know my friend from DFW--the one I told you about who had done it before--and she’s got a routine she claims is foolproof.”

  “You talked to this person about what I told you in confidence?” I wanted to know.

  “I didn’t give her any details, Freakshow. I just told her I was interested in doing it because I was having reoccurring nightmares.”

  “Putting aside for the moment that this can’t possibly work…”

  “It’s been scientifically proven that it can and does work.”

  “How’s it supposed to help me with a dream I’ve been having for over a year?”

  “Let’s suppose for a moment that these dreams are somehow prophetic…”

  I groaned, grabbed the remote back and started grazing the digital pasture.

  “If you can control your dream you can manipulate it,” she answered. “And if you can manipulate it, you can get some answers that might help in the investigation.”

  “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound right now?”

  “Now I’d probably be saying the same thing if someone were to tell me that they were cut by something that only existed inside their subconscious, but I’d try to at least suspend my disbelief, if it came from a reliable source.”

  I gave her a look of warning. “I told you that I cut myself on something around my bed. I just haven’t found out what yet.”

  “Yeah, you get back to me on that,” she replied, giving me a patronizing pat on the arm. “Regardless of that, you’ve got to admit that the area your dreams are covering has increased. I mean, you went from a house on a hill to the high school. If you could manage to explore longer and remember details after you awake, it might be beneficial. You’ve got to admit that hearing a trumpet in your dream and the newspaper getting a letter from the killer who signed it Gabriel, can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

  “Claudia, we don’t even know if the letter is real. Maybe it’s just some sicko who thinks writing that kind of a letter is a riot.”

  She stopped searching the internet and looked up at me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t think that letter is for real.”

  I sighed. I couldn’t do that. I snapped the television off.

  “Listen, I’m tired and I’m going to bed, so if you want me to do this thing, it better be simple. I’m not strapping any electronic monitoring equipment to myself.”

  “The more tired the better. First, I need you to stretch out on the couch and relax.” She relocated to the recliner and continued to access her laptop. “You’ve got to reach REM sleep.”

  “Rapid Eye Movement, right?” I plopped onto the couch and threw a pillow back behind my head.

  “Yes, that’s the period of sleep when they’ve determined we dream. Now, we need one more thing.” She stood up, looked around the room, then finally looked directly above her. “Ah ha.” The ceiling fan above us was emitting a rhythmic tink-tink-tink sound as the metal pull chain swung back and forth against the glass light fixture. “Can you focus your hearing on that?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what you need to orient yourself while you’re sleeping--something to anchor you here in the waking world and remind you that you’re dreaming.”

  I rolled onto my side, trying to get comfortable on the unfamiliar couch cushions. “This sounds complicated.”

  She made a hissing sound that cut me off. “Open mind.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  She settled the laptop onto her lap. “Research.”

  I sighed and closed my eyes, thinking, “This is ridiculous. It’ll never work,” and as tired as I was, I wouldn’t be “experimenting” tonight. Just plain old fashioned sleep. If Claudia wanted to stay up all night playing games, that was her prerogative.

  Tink-Tink-Tink.

  I tried to ignore the sound the ceiling fan made (as well as the fact that there was someone else in the room wide awake and probably watching me) and eventually fell asleep.

  About twenty minutes later, I stirred, more exhausted than I had been before. For a moment, I was utterly confused as to where I was and rolled over to look around.

  Claudia still sat in the same position on the recliner, her head was tilted one way and the laptop had slid off of her lap in the other direction. She was sound asleep, her hands lying across her legs as if still typing on a phantom keyboard.

  I took the computer, set it aside on the coffee table, and covered her with a blanket. She murmured something incomprehensible and pressed her cheek deeper into the recliner cushion.

  Chapter 24 (Saturday, October 24th)

  A deputy named Sterling escorted us to Brent Jacob’s house, a two story house on a couple of acres of pasture land that included around ten head of cattle and a few horses. My father had known the Jacobs family for years and obviously trusted them enough to let us go, under the circumstances.

  For the last few hours, Claudia had been acting particularly jumpy, though I wasn’t sure if it was because she was still thinking about the letter or the fact that she was going into an uncomfortable social situation. When she asked the deputy where he was going to be while we were inside, he answered: “I’ll be right out here, but out of sight.”

  “How do we get hold of you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you.”

  Earlier that day at breakfast, she’d asked me about my first attempt at lucid dreaming. I told her that it hadn’t worked. She promptly replied that perhaps I wasn’t doing it right and we’d have to try it again that night.

  When we got there, Brent and Don-Tom (one of the few guests not in band) were plunking around with their six string guitars, waiting for the rest of us to arrive. Someone must have gotten frustrated, because the volume of the Jacobs’ stereo went up. They caught the hint and packed up.

  Of course, there were different age groups represented, since Brent was a senior. As it turned out, there were more seniors there than us lower classmen types but apparently a truce had been called, and the Jacobs’ had become a no-hazing zone, at least for the night.

  Initially, the plan was for them to light the outdoor grille on the Jacobs huge uncovered back patio, but with the onset of unexpected rain, he had moved us inside. The condition was that all of us had to take our shoes off before we set foot on the carpet, thus we were all in our socks. It was an interesting sight. Don-Tom wore argyles, which didn’t surprise me in the least. Sonny seemed a little leery to take his off when he first arrived and we soon realized why. Once he finally did; we saw that he wore two different color socks. “Hey, I choose my socks by density,” he declared to anyone who would listen.

  Since the BBQ had been called off, the word was that Lionel Carmichael, our lone tuba player, had a connection at the Pizza Hut in Lockhart and was “trying to score us some pies on the cheap,” but we would still need about twenty bucks. There was about fifteen of us already with more expected, so Brent set a plastic pumpkin on the coffee table and everyone dropped whatever cash they could spare into it. Brent brought out some chips and honey-roasted almonds to keep everyone busy until the real food arrived.

  In the meantime, Jason Connors had popped in a DVD of an amateur horror movie that he had shot last summer. It was cheesy and he knew it, as both the hero and heroine tripped and fell every few minutes as they were being chased.

  When someone suggested we could make a drinking game of it, someone grumbled, “Where’s the booze?” This started a chant that caught on and went around the room: “Where’s the booze? Where’s the booze?” This was only stopped because Lionel arrived with the pizza and a cheer went up around the room.

  As Claudia and I grabbed a couple of slices, she caught my eye and gave me a little smirk. “I’m starting to like these band geek
friends of yours,” she said through a mouthful of pizza.

  When the boxes were empty, someone finally brought out a bottle of Jose Cuervo from their car and set it up on the coffee table with a deck of cards. “Cops and robbers,” Brent announced and the noise level dipped. “Let me explain the rules. I’m dealing everyone a card and everyone gets a cup with a single shot of tequila but do not drink it yet.” He held up one of the plastic Dixie cups and demonstrated by pouring half a finger’s worth into the bottom. “There’ll be only one King and one Ace. The Ace is the Robber and the King is the Cop,” he continued as Lionel and Sonny passed out the Dixie cups. “The Cop has to guess who the Robber is. Every time he guesses wrong, that person is out of the game and has to pass his cup to the person to his immediate right, who then has to do the shot. The game is over when the Cop catches the Robber or when the bottle’s empty, which means the Robber has gotten away. Everybody got it?”

  “My cup has a hole in the bottom of it,” Greg yelled and held up his empty cup with a belch. Greta gave him a punch on the arm and boos went up all around him.

  “Now whoever gets the Ace has to wink at someone else,” Brent continued. “Whoever gets the wink is the victim and he has to announce that the game is afoot. Just don’t let the Cop catch you doing it. Oh yeah, and the cop doesn’t get his or her drink until the robber has been caught.”

  The cards were dealt. I got the five of diamonds.

  Everyone was looking around at each other, hoping to catch the Robber in the act of winking.

  Nathan Graham was telling Laura Jennings something funny and glanced over at me fleetingly, giving me a wink. I glanced at Claudia who had tucked her own card into the breast pocket of her coat. She gave me a look of innocence. “Don’t you dare wink at me.”

  Finally the cards had all been dealt and Brent called for silence. “Okay, okay, look at your cards already. Who’s our Cop?”

  Claudia raised her hand smugly and made a face at me.

  “Aha, Wicke is our cop,” Brent announced, holding his hand. “I’ll take that from you. Law enforcement must be sober at all times.”

  Claudia made a show of trying to keep the cup, but finally handed it over to Brent.

  “Who’s our first victim?”

  I sighed and raised my hand.

  “You’re dead, dude,” Sonny told me.

  As I looked around the room, my eye fell on Nathan, the robber. He was still talking to Laura. Not wanting to give him away, I didn’t let my eyes linger.

  Claudia gave the host the courtesy of the first drink by guessing Lionel who was sitting directly to his left. Lionel handed his cup to Brent, and raising his cup to Claudia, Brent downed it.

  Next, Claudia scanned the room (about twenty of us now) and seemed to be actually trying to guess who the Robber was based on facial expressions and eye contact. She knocked out only another four before she guessed that it was Nathan.

  Brent handed Claudia her cup back, and immediately, several others poured their shots into it until she had what looked like half a cup of the stuff. She tried to sip it, because everyone started to chant, “Chug it, chug it, chug it,” until that fair mistress called Peer Pressure did her work, and Claudia ultimately emptied the cup.

  Brent asked if anyone wanted to play again and though the consensus was “yes,” I’m sure it had more to do with the availability of alcohol than in the inherent entertainment value of the game.

  The cards went out again, cups were refilled, and this time I got the two of spades. Everyone was quietly scanning the room again suspicious of their neighbor, when I caught Nathan Graham tipping another wink at me.

  I was a little confused and when Brent asked who the first victim was, somehow I wasn’t surprised when I heard Treena, one of the Freshman clarinets, announced that she was. I studied Nathan. I didn’t know enough about the first chair trumpet player to know if he was some kind of practical joker or not, but I thought it was odd that he might be singling me out instead of one of his friends.

  Claudia leaned against me and I glanced over at her. She straightened up with a heavy-lidded expression on her face.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She murmured something.

  “What?”

  “S’funny feeling, y’know.” I felt her arm wrap around mine and grip tightly. “Hate tequila. Nasty stuff.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I little sleepy s’all,” she slurred.

  Claudia groaned and collapsed against me. At the same time, Treena ferreted Greta out as the Robber and she was celebrating with loud toasts from the rest of the group.

  I draped Claudia’s arm over my neck and helped her up. Don-Tom had already noticed something was wrong and stepped around to my side.

  “She okay?”

  “Can you help me outside,” I asked him. “I think she needs some air.”

  “I knew tequila was a bad idea,” he grumbled in response.

  Between Don-Tom and me, we helped Claudia outside onto the porch and began to walk her around the front yard. Almost immediately, my cell phone began to buzz, an indication that I had missed a call probably because of a lack of signal, and a call had gone directly to voice mail.

  “How much did she have to drink?”

  “It looked like a maybe a half cup of tequila, maybe more.”

  “I don’t think she’s drunk, dude,” Don-Tom suggested. “I think this is something else.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Deputy Sterling was striding up the walkway and grabbing Claudia from both of us. Don-Tom just stood confused as the plain-clothed deputy picked Claudia up and carried her to the car. “It’s okay,” I assured him. “He’s with us.”

  I ran after the deputy and watched as he helped Claudia in the backseat. I climbed in after her and lay her head down in my lap. He leaped behind the wheel and sped off without a word.

  “What happened?” Sterling demanded.

  “She was drinking.”

  “What? Specifically.”

  “Tequila.”

  “How much did she have?”

  “A half cup maybe more,” I offered, my voice wavering under the stress. “Do you think..?”

  But the deputy was already calling ahead to the nearest emergency room, which turned out to be Lockhart, about fifteen miles away. After he hung up, he said, “You call 9-11 from your cell?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because someone already called this one in.”

  Claudia opened her eyes foggily and tried to focus on my face. She wore a serene expression. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re taking you to the hospital?”

  “No… s’okay… He’s here with me.” Her eyes closed.

  “Keep her awake,” Deputy Sterling snapped.

  I shook her but she barely groaned. Finally, I gave her a gentle slap. She opened her eyes. “What..?”

  “You’ve got to stay awake.”

  Her calm expression changed, and her eyes seemed to focus for the first time. “Sumthinswron,” she muttered under her breath, her words running together.

  “I know, but it’ll be all right as soon as you throw it up.”

  “Not-alkhol.”

  “Well, you had a lot.”

  “Haddamuch-fore,” she offered. “Sumthin-difren.”

  She didn’t say anything else that was audible by the time we reached the ER. A couple of paramedics met us at our car with a gurney and helped Claudia inside.

  My phone rang and I suddenly remembered the earlier missed call.

  “Hello?”

  “Paul?” It was my father. “Are you okay?”

  I reassured him that I was fine and told him what was happening. He said that they were already on route to the hospital. Only then did I check my voice mail messages. It was Uncle Hank of all people.

  “Paul, this is your uncle.” His voice sounded a little edgy and uncertain. “Paul, listen, I don’t want to alarm you, but she was very adamant that I call a
nd talk to you. The Tatum woman, that is. She said that Claudia was in trouble.” He sighed. “I’m sure this is nothing, but she insisted that I call you and your father. I’m sure everything’s fine, but please call me back anyway. Love you, Paul.”

  About an hour later, Mom, Dad and Mrs. Wicke met me in the waiting room. As soon as I saw Mrs. Wicke, I just began to apologize over and over until my Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me to focus on him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I went through the night in as much detail as I could remember, telling him about the card game and the tequila everyone gave Claudia. Mrs. Wicke disappeared to go talk to one of the nurses. About ten minutes later the attending doctor, Dr. Patel, said that she had a drug called Rohypnol in her system. “Commonly called Roofies,” the doctor explained. “It’s called a date rape drug. The drug itself is used legitimately as a pre-operation anesthetic or a sleeping pill, but when used with alcohol the effects can be devastating.”

  Mrs. Wicke asked the doctor how long the effects would last. “Well, the drug will be in her system for another eight hours or so. She’ll have to stay overnight for observation. If she checks out as normal, we can send her home by noon tomorrow at the latest.” He said that Mrs. Wicke could go see her briefly, but that she should then let her sleep. “The drug peaks right around two hours, so she very well might be completely out of it right now.”

  “Doctor, my daughter is bipolar,” Mrs. Wicke told him. “Should I be worried?”

  What an idiot, I was! In all the excitement, I had completely forgotten.

  Dr. Patel verified that Mrs. Wicke had spoken to a nurse earlier about the prescription medications that Claudia was taking. “Her blood results have given me no cause to worry, but we’ll be keeping a close watch on her throughout the night. It’s not necessary that you stay here, but I’d understand if you did.”

  Mrs. Wicke insisted that she would stay, and the doctor excused himself to go talk to one of the nurses. Mom and Dad offered to stay as well but she only talked them out of it.