some permanent brain damage," Veil said at last.
Reyna's smile faltered, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not he might be joking. "Well, you certainly could have fooled me."
"If there's such a thing as a kind of psychic membrane separating the conscious from the unconscious, then the fever I was born with burned it away. It left me vulnerable, you might say, to my dreams. I'm what's known in the literature as a vivid dreamer; my dreams are every bit as real to me as what's happening at this moment."
"You mean, you can't tell when you're dreaming?"
"Now I can. For most of my life I couldn't, though."
Reyna thought about it, then suddenly frowned. "Nightmares . . . ?"
"Oh, as a kid, I not only was chased by the usual ogres and dragons, I was usually caught and eaten."
"Lord, Veil, I know you're minimizing it. The terror you must have felt!"
Veil shrugged, smiled easily. "It caused me some problems. For one thing, it made me into a very cranky kid, adolescent, and—for a good many years—adult. But that's another story or two."
"I'd like to hear all your stories."
"We'll see. Anyway, painting proved to be a kind of therapy. By more or less painting my dreams, I got to the point where I could recognize dreams and even control them. Now, when I start to have a nightmare, I just go away—unless I feel it could have some value."
"What possible value could a nightmare have?"
"Oh, you never know. We resolve a lot of things in dreams. In any case, that approach to painting lent my work a certain style, and it's been my good fortune to have people pay for it occasionally."
"I'm sorry to say that I've never seen any of your work, but you must be very good if you're shown in the Raskolnikov Galleries."
"Victor's kind. He thinks I'm going to be good."
"Nonsense. I know you're good now."
"Reyna, I'd like to know more about you."
This time Reyna did not look away, but her eyes clouded, and she quickly shook her head as she plucked nervously at the sleeve of her blouse. "You know all there is to know."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, thanks to you."
"Those two are gone from the park by now, and I strongly doubt that they'll be back. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go back and look for Toby's footprints together?"
The dark-haired woman with the troubled, dark eyes thought about it as she slowly folded her napkin, then set it down beside her empty cup. "No," she said at last. "He'll never show himself if you're with me. I think it's best just to let things sit for a while."
"Reyna, I keep getting the feeling that you're keeping something from me—something important. What is it?"
"Please don't, Veil," Reyna whispered.
"You can trust me."
"I think so."
"Know so."
"Veil, everything's happened so quickly. I . . . have a lot of thinking to do. By myself."
"All right," Veil said, reaching across the table and pressing her hand. "Then I'll take you home."
"It's not necessary, unless you're going that way."
"To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on it. There's somebody I'd like to talk to."
Reyna patted Veil's arm as she rose. "Then you go ahead and take care of your business. I really am all right. I'll take a cab home."
Veil paid the bill, then walked Reyna out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled away, he crossed the street and headed for the subway.
Chapter Six
V eil searched the streets around Columbia University, then headed into Morningside Park. Fifteen minutes later he found Picker Crabbe. The tall, gaunt man was seated on a park bench near West 120th Street, casually leafing through the latest issue of Hustler while he waited for customers. The man glanced up and saw Veil approaching. He flung the magazine to one side, jumped up, and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Veil easily caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around.
"What the hell's the matter with you, Picker? This is the second time you've run away when you saw me."
"You're a
Reyna's smile faltered, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not he might be joking. "Well, you certainly could have fooled me."
"If there's such a thing as a kind of psychic membrane separating the conscious from the unconscious, then the fever I was born with burned it away. It left me vulnerable, you might say, to my dreams. I'm what's known in the literature as a vivid dreamer; my dreams are every bit as real to me as what's happening at this moment."
"You mean, you can't tell when you're dreaming?"
"Now I can. For most of my life I couldn't, though."
Reyna thought about it, then suddenly frowned. "Nightmares . . . ?"
"Oh, as a kid, I not only was chased by the usual ogres and dragons, I was usually caught and eaten."
"Lord, Veil, I know you're minimizing it. The terror you must have felt!"
Veil shrugged, smiled easily. "It caused me some problems. For one thing, it made me into a very cranky kid, adolescent, and—for a good many years—adult. But that's another story or two."
"I'd like to hear all your stories."
"We'll see. Anyway, painting proved to be a kind of therapy. By more or less painting my dreams, I got to the point where I could recognize dreams and even control them. Now, when I start to have a nightmare, I just go away—unless I feel it could have some value."
"What possible value could a nightmare have?"
"Oh, you never know. We resolve a lot of things in dreams. In any case, that approach to painting lent my work a certain style, and it's been my good fortune to have people pay for it occasionally."
"I'm sorry to say that I've never seen any of your work, but you must be very good if you're shown in the Raskolnikov Galleries."
"Victor's kind. He thinks I'm going to be good."
"Nonsense. I know you're good now."
"Reyna, I'd like to know more about you."
This time Reyna did not look away, but her eyes clouded, and she quickly shook her head as she plucked nervously at the sleeve of her blouse. "You know all there is to know."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, thanks to you."
"Those two are gone from the park by now, and I strongly doubt that they'll be back. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go back and look for Toby's footprints together?"
The dark-haired woman with the troubled, dark eyes thought about it as she slowly folded her napkin, then set it down beside her empty cup. "No," she said at last. "He'll never show himself if you're with me. I think it's best just to let things sit for a while."
"Reyna, I keep getting the feeling that you're keeping something from me—something important. What is it?"
"Please don't, Veil," Reyna whispered.
"You can trust me."
"I think so."
"Know so."
"Veil, everything's happened so quickly. I . . . have a lot of thinking to do. By myself."
"All right," Veil said, reaching across the table and pressing her hand. "Then I'll take you home."
"It's not necessary, unless you're going that way."
"To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on it. There's somebody I'd like to talk to."
Reyna patted Veil's arm as she rose. "Then you go ahead and take care of your business. I really am all right. I'll take a cab home."
Veil paid the bill, then walked Reyna out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled away, he crossed the street and headed for the subway.
Chapter Six
V eil searched the streets around Columbia University, then headed into Morningside Park. Fifteen minutes later he found Picker Crabbe. The tall, gaunt man was seated on a park bench near West 120th Street, casually leafing through the latest issue of Hustler while he waited for customers. The man glanced up and saw Veil approaching. He flung the magazine to one side, jumped up, and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Veil easily caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around.
"What the hell's the matter with you, Picker? This is the second time you've run away when you saw me."
"You're a
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