She bit her lip. Her eyelids were clenched.
“Men,” she said.
Quickening her breath.
She dropped her head, as if discouraged.
“Men you know, Lucy?”
Nod.
“Who?”
No answer.
Several quick, shallow breaths.
Her shoulders bunched.
“Who are they, Lucy?” I said softly.
She winced.
More silence.
Then: “My father . . . and others, and . . .”
“And who?”
Almost inaudibly: “A girl.”
“A little girl like you?”
Headshake. “No, a woman. He’s carrying her—over his shoulder.”
Eyes moving beneath the lids. Experiencing the dream?
“Your father’s carrying the woman?”
“No . . . one of the others.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“No,” she said, tensing, as if challenged. “All I can see is their backs.” She began talking rapidly. “She’s over one of their shoulders and he’s carrying her—like a sack of potatoes—with her hair hanging down.”
She opened her eyes suddenly, looking disoriented.
“This is weird. It’s almost as if I’m . . . back in it.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Just relax and experience what you need to.”
Her eyes closed again. Her chest heaved.
“What do you see now?”
“Dark,” she said. “Hard to see. But . . . the moon. . . . There’s a big moon . . . and . . .”
“What, Lucy?”
“They’re still carrying her.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know. . . .” She grimaced. Her forehead was moist.
“I’m following them.”
“Do they know that?”
“No. I’m behind them. . . . The trees are so big . . . they keep going and going . . . lots of trees, everywhere—a forest. Huge trees . . . branches hanging down . . . more trees . . . lacy . . . pretty . . .” Deep inhalation. “They’re stopping . . . putting her on the ground.”
Her lips were white.
“Then what, Lucy?”
“They start talking, looking around. I’m scared they’ve seen me. But then they turn their backs on me and start moving—I can’t see them anymore, too dark . . . lost . . . then the sound—rubbing or grinding. More like grinding. Over and over.”
She opened her eyes. Sweat had trickled to her nose. I gave her a tissue.
She managed a weak smile. “That’s basically it, the same scene over and over.”
“How many times have you had the dream?”
“Quite a few—maybe thirty or forty times. I never counted.”
“Every night?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just two or three times a week.”
“Over how long a period?”
“Since the middle of the trial—so what’s that, four, five months? But like I said, after I started seeing you, it stopped till last night, so I figured it was just tension.”
“Does the girl in the dream look like any of Shwandt’s victims?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t—maybe this is wrong, but I get the feeling it has nothing to do directly with him. I can’t tell you why, it’s just something I feel.”
“Any idea what it does have to do with?”
“No. I’m probably not making much sense.”
“You never had the dream before the trial?”
“Never.”
“Did anything happen in the middle of the trial to make you especially tense?”
“Well,” she said, “actually, it started right after Milo Sturgis testified. About Carrie. What she went through.”
She stared at me.
“So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe hearing about Carrie evoked something in me—I identified with her and became a little girl myself. Do you think that’s possible?”
I nodded.
Her eyes drifted out toward the ocean. “The thing is, the dream feels familiar. Like dÉjÀ vu. But also new and strange. And now, the sleepwalking—I guess I’m worried about losing control.”
“Have you ever sleepwalked before?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Did you wet the bed as a child?”
She blushed. “What does that have to do with it?”
“Sometimes sleepwalking and bedwetting are related biologically. Some people have a genetic tendency for both.”
“Oh. . . . Well, yes, I did do that. A little, when I was very young.”
She shifted in her chair.
“Do the dreams wake you up?” I said.
“I wake up thinking about them.”
“Any particular time of night?”
“Early in the morning, but it’s still dark.”