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“More than intent,” Pallas said, studying her drawing. “He’s... feverish. He’s got a real mad doctor vibe. That explains the heavy layers of anxiety I picked up in your room. I told you I didn’t think they had come from you.”
“Well, he was in the process of covering up the death of a patient who had died in the middle of an illegal drug trial. Makes sense he was more than a little anxious.” Ambrose turned back to the video. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Something about his body language seems off. As you said, he’s got a real mad doctor vibe. It’s as if he’s never attached electrodes before and is worried about getting it right.”
“He was rattled by what had happened to Kendrick,” Pallas said. “But I see what you mean. Nothing about hooking you up to those electrodes looks routine, yet he must have done that procedure countless times.”
Ambrose did not take his eyes off the screen. “Attaching electrodes to a patient is a common procedure. It’s done all the time for various tests, and the job is often handled by an assistant. But Fenner handled that task personally—both times, in my case. Look, I’m already out.”
“Probably because Fenner gave you that injection when he found you in the hall.” Pallas watched the screen. “But you’re right. He spends a great deal of time and care attaching the electrodes again.”
“He had to repeat the entire process because the sticky parts of the original electrodes wouldn’t adhere to the skin very well after being yanked off.” Ambrose stopped as understanding slammed through him. “That’s how he did it. That’s how he administered the drug that knocked me out so quickly and kept me out for hours.”
Pallas looked up from the screen, frowning. “He used the electrodes? But they don’t work that way.”
“The hardware doesn’t, but the sticky patches could have been infused with the medication and administered through the skin like a nicotine patch. There’s a word for delivering drugs that way.”
“ ‘Transdermal,’ ” Pallas said.
“Right. That’s what Geddings meant when he assured me he had evidence of what was going on in the clinic. Maybe he planned to sell me a sample patch as well as the memory card when we did the deal at the asylum. Moore and Guthrie must have grabbed the evidence when they murdered him.”
Pallas sat back, eyes narrowing. “We’re assuming a lot here. I don’tsee anything on that screen that proves you were given an illegal drug. And even if we could prove it, the man who did it is dead.”
“Conveniently.” Ambrose looked at her. “Case closed, as far as the local law is concerned.”
“But not forThe Lost Night Files,” Pallas said. “We’re still looking for the anonymous donor who funded the Carnelian Sleep Institute.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The woman’s screambrought him to the surface of the nightmare but not out of it. Ambrose knew that he was in the in-between place, the borderland between the dreamstate and the waking state.
In the dream he was in bed at the Institute, hooked up to a black box data recorder by a dozen electrodes.
The part of him that was awake and aware that he was dreaming understood he was in bed with Pallas in the hotel room, but the urge to get up was powerful. Overwhelming. There was something he had to do, something important.
In the dream he gets out of the bed and starts across the room. The sticky patches that connect the electrodes to the data recorder rip off, leaving a maze of wires scattered across the sheets.
The door opens. A woman is there but she is standing in deep shadow. He can’t see her face, but he knows he should recognize her. Why can’t he identify her?
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“You’re in this place because of me,” she says.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Ambrose, wake up,” Pallas said.
He felt her hand on his shoulder. Her calming energy whispered to his senses. He yanked himself out of the dream. The vision of the Institute sleep room vanished, taking the woman with it.
He realized he was on his feet beside the bed. Pallas was in front of him. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds.
“Shit,” he said, opening his eyes. He stared at Pallas. “I was sleepwalking again, wasn’t I? I should have set the alarms. Used the damn chain. Thanks for waking me before I wandered out into the hall in my underwear. My publisher would not be happy with that kind of branding.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re awake now.”
“I can’t go on like this,” he said. “I can’t spend the rest of my life worried that I’m going to walk off a cliff in the middle of a dream.”
