Evil Dreams by John Tigges Page B

happened?”
    An almost audible moan snapped her back to reality and she stared at her husband. Alive? Could he be alive? She fumbled for his pulse, finding a strong, steady beat. Relief intermingled wildly with her terror.
    Gently laying his head back on the floor, she stood. What should she do? Had he shot himself? They didn’t own a gun of any sort. What had happened? She should call someone, but who? Paramedics? A hospital? A doctor? But which one? Who could be of the most help? Then, like a blazing neon sign, Samuel Dayton’s number flashed in her mind, the same number she had dialed that morning. Dashing to the phone, she juggled it for a long second before getting a firm grip on the instrument. She spun the dial three times and then slowed, to avoid a mistake. Somehow, her composure reluctantly inched its way back into place. She wanted to scream. But she couldn’t. She had to help Jon.
    The buzz sounded only once before the receiver was lifted on the other end. “Doctor Dayton ‘s office,” Tory Worthington announced.
    “Please, I must speak with Doctor Dayton. Now! Immediately!” she managed.
    “I’m sorry,” Tory said. “Doctor Dayton is with a patient. Who’s calling?”
    “Trina Ward. Jon Ward’s wife.”
    “Are you a patient of Doctor Dayton’s?”
    “No. I’m not, but my husband is.”
    “Would you like to make an appointment, Mrs. Ward?”
    “Listen to me. This is an emergency. My husband is in deep trouble. I must speak with the doctor this instant. If my husband dies, it will be your fault!”
    “Just a moment, Mrs. Ward.”
    The line went dead. Trina suddenly found herself questioning the wisdom of calling the psychiatrist. If anything, Jon needed someone who could tend his wound. What had happened? Why was he bleeding? If he hadn’t shot himself, and she wasn’t positive he hadn’t, what had caused so much blood? Perhaps she should hang up, break the connection, call the emergency number. But what was that number? There were only three digits to remember and she couldn’t recall a single one. How had she remembered the psychiatrist’s number?
    She reached for the bar to cancel the call when Tory broke into her wild thoughts. “One moment, Mrs. Ward. Doctor Dayton will speak with you.”
    Again, the line went dead. She waited.
    “Mrs. Ward? What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked.
    “It’s my husband,” she choked, feeling immediate relief at the sound of his voice. She quickly related everything that had happened since she opened the door to their apartment.
    When she finished he didn’t speak immediately, but cleared his throat instead.
    “I’ll call an ambulance and we’ll get him to Presbyterian Medical Center. I’ll contact the emergency room there. Are you all right, Mrs. Ward?”
    Tears of relief gushed down Trina’s cheeks. Nodding her head, she managed, “I’m fine, Doctor. Tell them to hurry.”
    “Do whatever you can to help him until they get there.” The doctor’s voice was gone with the click.
    Trina looked dumbly at the receiver in her hand before slowly replacing it in its cradle. Wiping her eyes, she turned when her husband moaned again.
    Sitting up, close to the spot where she found him, Jon rubbed his head. She screamed, her bewildered expression distorting into one of confusion.
    She could not see a trace of blood—anywhere.
    His legs trembling, Jon moved to the mirror in the living room’s short hallway. He could not recall when the dream had left him so exhausted, so weak. Then, too, he could not remember having the dream at any time other than when he was in bed, asleep. He ran one hand over his face before pressing gently on his eyes with his finger tips. Other than the headache and severe nausea, he felt weakened but unharmed. Turning, he found his wife sitting in the antique rocker, her face drained of color, her eyes red from crying.
    “I still don’t believe it,” he said shakily. “There isn’t a trace of blood anywhere—not on