Hello there, fellow dreamer!

This is the first in a series of videos I plan to make about my first book and only novel, “Map of Dreams.” In these videos, I provide the novel’s backstory, which I believe is as interesting as the story itself. Why did I write the book? What motivated me? What could I have possibly been thinking?

Since my unscripted videos might include spoilers, as a courtesy to you, dear reader, I am also providing a complete, unabridged copy of the book along with the videos. Read the chapters first, or watch the video first — your choice.

My Video

What’s the book about?

If you are one of those who (like me) enjoy holding a real book in your hands, you can buy a paperback of “Map of Dreams” from Amazon. It is also available there as an ebook. Here is the link:

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Whichever way you enjoy “Map of Dreams,” thank you for your time and interest.

Prologue

From the personal journal of Achibar al-Qaradawi, dated May 2006

ALMOST A DECADE HAS PASSED since the distasteful events of that Christmas day in Algeria, and I still cannot forget. The Atlas Mountains were heavy with snow in 1996, but I was kept safe and warm at the French monastery, where I worked in the kitchen. I was only twelve years old. So great was my fortune to have been tutored there by Christian monks from the age of eight. All peaceful men, they were, but none more loving and wise than the Dom — Father Christian de Thiergé.

Father de Thiergé was one of the best men I have ever known. Born a Catholic, he followed his father’s example by joining the French army and was stationed in Algeria in the late 1950s as part of the occupying force. During this time, de Thiergé became friendly with a local Muslim man, Mohammad, who served as an officer in the town’s police force. The two friends often took walks through the city, arm in arm, discussing the things that inflame all young men’s hearts — politics, war, religion, culture, travel, and women.

On one such walk, they were confronted by a gang of local men. Offended by the friendship between a Muslim and a Christian, the gang intended to kill de Thiergé on the spot. Risking his life, Mohammad stepped between the gang and his friend, ordering them to leave.

Now, it amazes me that the gang dispersed that day, for those were troubled times in Algeria. Resentment toward the French “Crusaders” was growing, and the movement to restore Algeria as a “pure” Islamic state was underway. Mohammad paid a dear price for his bravery; the next day, he was found beaten to death. The incident affected de Thiergé so profoundly that he dedicated his Christian service to the cause of peace and to a lifetime of service in the monastery.

Trouble had been brewing throughout the summer and fall of 1996. Every month, I would leave the monastery, perched high in the mountains, and walk into the valley to visit my family for a few days. That November, I overheard my father talking with some of the village men. An Islamic organization called the Armed Islamic Group of Algeria, or GIA, had warned all infidels to leave the country. To underscore their demand, they murdered twelve foreign workers, slashing their throats from ear to ear, and tossing the blood-drained corpses into the village center. That was the first time I heard the name of Sayat-Attya, the GIA’s ruthless leader.

The monastery had always been a safe place for me, so I was surprised when the GIA pounded on its door that snowy Christmas night, demanding entry. The monks quickly ushered me to a safe place — a kitchen pantry — where I was told to hide among sacks of flour and cornmeal. From this vantage point, I heard everything.

Father de Thiergé opened the door to the GIA, but he was not intimidated. “This is a house of peace. If you want to talk with us, come in, but leave your weapons outside. If you cannot do that, I’ll come out,” I remember him saying. But Sayat-Attya’s vicious zeal for Islamic purity would not be deterred, and the GIA men burst into the kitchen.

I cannot bear to recount everything I heard that night. Three of the twelve monks were taken hostage and used as bargaining chips with France. They were later murdered. The other nine monks, including Father de Thiergé, were slaughtered on the spot, while our Christmas dinner grew cold on the table.

I listened to the grisly sounds of mass murder for what seemed like hours. When I thought it was over, I peeked out from my hiding place and, in the candlelight, saw a fiercely built man kneeling over a headless corpse — a ragged saw in one hand. In that instant, the murderer, his face spattered crimson, looked up and stared straight into my hiding place! I knew it must be Sayat-Attya. One eye was milky white with blindness, and the other cold and black.

I will never be sure if he saw me or not, but in that moment, without looking away, he slowly lifted the dead monk’s head by a wet hank of hair — tentacles of severed arteries dripping below it. The image is forever etched in my tortured mind. I must accept this experience as a crooked passage on my path, and a necessary rite in the fulfillment of my divine destiny.

***

A federal black-site facility somewhere in the United States, August 2014

His windpipe collapsed like a paper cup underfoot. A fluorescent bulb buzzed down the hall, casting a dim light on two men, one strangling the other. The only other sounds were soft, determined grunts and a faint gurgle — nothing the guards would hear.

The victim’s eyes, bulging with pressure, rolled in their sockets, searching for anything that might save him. He could feel blood stopping up in his neck, starving his brain of oxygen. The murderer’s thumbs expertly pushed the broken trachea back toward the spine, stifling all screams.

He looked into the face of his attacker. It showed no emotion. The eyes were sparkling, dark, and focused. The cruel mouth grimaced with effort. The skin of the victim’s neck burned as fragile blood vessels snapped, releasing their precious contents into the subdermal tissue.

He dug his nails into the killer’s sinewy forearms. His mind raced. Is this how it ends? What will become of my work? It’s not finished... I can’t die now! His panic reached a crescendo, even as time slowed to an almost imperceptible crawl.

He became acutely aware of every detail around him, as if he were watching a high-resolution, slow-motion film of his own death. He could see coarse black hairs on his murderer’s arms, and beneath those, pores in the sallow skin, glistening with beads of oily perspiration.

His field of vision narrowed and focused — only the killer’s face remained. Their feet shuffled dryly on the concrete floor, in a sad, fatal dance. Death, shiny and black, crept spider-like into the room. His mind raged with fear, bitterness, and desperation. Light collapsed to darkness. The heartbeat slowed and then stopped.

They say that in death, hearing is the last sense to go, and so it was for this young man. The buzzing fluorescent light was the last thing he heard until it, too, narrowed to silence.

Brian Drecker was dead. He had been bright, full of life, opportunity, ambition, and hope. But he had a secret — his doctoral research had just made a discovery with the potential to change the world in ways beyond comprehension.

But some want to keep the world as it is, so while Brian Drecker’s warm corpse lay on a cold concrete floor, the most powerful forces on earth were mobilizing to ensure his discovery remained a secret forever.

Chapter One

TYLER DRECKER’S PHONE RANG FROM somewhere inside his truck. He rummaged through greasy fast-food bags and grocery store receipts to find it. A glance at the caller ID confirmed his suspicion. Lena was calling for the third time. He wanted to ignore the call again, but knew he shouldn’t. With a sigh, he tapped the green “answer” icon on the smartphone’s screen.

“Yes, Lena?”

“Where are you?” It wasn’t a question — it was an accusation.

Tyler glanced at his watch — 1:23 PM. The funeral didn’t start until three.

“I’m about an hour away.” He wasn’t lying — this time.

“Sharp as a tack, that one,” Tyler’s father used to say about Lena. What he did not add, but that Tyler could still hear, was, “Unlike you.”

“Why don’t you get your law degree, like Lena?” His father would ask. “You two could start a law firm together.”

“Something wrong with landscape work?” Tyler would retort.

“Nothing at all, unless you can’t keep a job, which you don’t seem to be able to,” said the father.

It was a tired argument. Tyler had given college a fair shot, but it didn’t suit him. His younger brother Brian was the brilliant one, or at least, he had been. Now he was dead.

What the hell happened? Tyler wondered. Everything was so… so great.

That was five years ago.

Brian was the best man at Tyler’s wedding to Lena. The ceremony was their kind of gig — outdoors, with reggae music, no tuxes, and plenty of Red Stripe beer. The wedding vibe reflected the young couple’s temperament at the time — relaxed, fun, and colorful. Lena and her mother had spent months preparing, and the event came together beautifully.

“Are you ready?” Brian had asked him just before the ceremony, grinning and grabbing Tyler by both shoulders.

“As ready as I’m gonna be,” Tyler said.

Brian laughed easily and gave his older brother a sucker punch. “Come on, bro, relax. This is gonna be awesome!”

With only thirteen months between them, the two had been close since birth. While Tyler, the firstborn, was cautious and reserved, Brian was wild and impetuous. When the boys were twelve and thirteen, Brian talked Tyler into donning homemade superhero suits and jumping off the roof into the family’s above-ground pool. Brian missed, hit the side of the pool, and broke his leg in three places. That summer, while laid up with a cast from ankle to hip, Brian read forty books, including a primer on human psychology that sparked his fascination with the human mind and, nine years later, led him to the doctoral program at the University of Virginia.

Tyler and Lena’s wedding ceremony took place on the sun-drenched grounds of The Whalehead Club in North Carolina’s Outer Banks (OBX), a narrow strip of land less than a mile wide, with the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the glassy Currituck Sound on the other. The late-summer wedding day blossomed like a perfect flower, kissed by a cool breeze that tossed the rose petals carpeting the grassy path to the altar.

Standing there, waiting for his bride to appear, Tyler could see the sparkling waters of the Sound to his right, dotted with the bobbing gray-and-white bodies of trumpeter swans and Canada geese. He caught glimpses of the royal-blue ocean stretching between sun-bleached beach houses. Live oak trees, their shiny leaves so intensely green as to be nearly black, twisted their gnarled limbs among careless clusters of sea oats. A flawless pale-blue sky stretched overhead, swirling with white, squawking seagulls.

Lena appeared, her athletic build hidden beneath a cloud of white satin and lace. Steel drums played as the wedding procession moved forward, followed by Lena and her father.

Tyler felt weak. He turned to look at his brother Brian for encouragement, and Brian, grinning from ear to ear, slowly closed his eyes. Written on his eyelids in black ink were the words GO and BRO! — one word per eye. Tyler began to laugh, and, as the wedding pictures later showed, the two brothers kept laughing through the rest of that perfect day.

The marriage bumbled along for four years. Lena earned a law degree and joined the staff of James Aversade, an ambitious conservative politician from South Carolina. At the time, he was Speaker of the House, and it was no secret he had eyes on the White House.

Tyler started a degree in political science but quit halfway through. He often struggled to find work, but did what he could. Over time, he noticed Lena pulling away from him. She put in long hours at the office, often going out after work and not returning until late at night. They stopped talking, and their sex life dried up.

Tyler tried to reconnect with his wife, but she did not seem interested. He asked whether there was someone else, but she insisted it was just a phase and that it would work itself out.

It didn’t.

Four and a half years after their wedding day, Lena filed for divorce and moved out. Tyler stayed in their Washington, D.C., apartment, along with mounds of dirty laundry, an empty refrigerator, and a large gray cat. He still didn’t understand what happened.

“Tyler! Tyler! Are you listening to me?” Lena broke through the fog of his memories.

“Oh, yeah, sure. What’s up?” he said.

“I’m just checking on you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Tyler lied. He was not sure he could handle his brother’s funeral — he was just barely holding himself together. The news of Brian’s murder had shocked him. Disbelief was now yielding to the deep ache of sadness, its painful roots sinking deeper and deeper into him. Although Lena had often annoyed him by micromanaging his life, today he found her call comforting.

“Look, don’t be late. I’m already here. Your parents are here, too.” Her admonition, while well-intentioned, struck a nerve in his defense mechanism.

“Sure, sure. I’ll be there on time. I just stopped for a soda.”

Tyler hung up the phone and wiped sweat from his forehead. He did not want Lena to know he had taken the back roads. He needed the time to be alone. The blue cotton shirt he had carefully ironed hours earlier clung to his torso with sweat, and strings of curly brown hair hung down into his tanned face.

Tyler’s 1986 Ford Bronco sat parked in front of a dingy CITGO station plastered with faded cardboard placards advertising beer and cigarettes. The Bronco had once been yellow, but Tyler had rolled it in blue house paint to cover its many dents and rust spots. It reeked of fertilizer and grass seed and radiated heat like an oven, but it was his only wheels. He preferred driving Lena’s shiny new black BMW Roadster, a reward she gave herself for her first promotion, but it was not his — a fact Lena never let him forget. The Bronco, instead, was all his — bought and paid for. Besides, Tyler loved that truck. It was a perfect expression of how he felt about himself: beat up but still running.

Across the road, in a dry field of buff-colored grass, a half-dozen black cows huddled in the shade of a massive oak tree. Tyler watched the sky, white with humidity, for any sign of a breeze, but none came.

Tyler climbed into the Bronco and programmed his smartphone — a gift from Lena — for the most direct route to Staunton, Virginia, a town nestled in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley. Driving south on I-81, his mind cycled over the same tired questions he’d been asking for days. Who would want to kill his easygoing kid brother? How had he ended up in prison? It was not like him to run afoul of the law. And why had Brian behaved so strangely over the past few months? The questions had no answers, but they tore through Tyler’s brain like ruts worn in a road to nowhere.

“Turn left in thirty seconds,” intoned the voice of his phone’s navigation system, programmed to sound like Sophia Loren. It broke Tyler’s melancholy trance. A few minutes later, just before three o’clock, the Bronco pulled into the Avalon Funeral Home’s crowded parking lot. What he saw there stunned him.

The line of people waiting to go inside stretched into the parking lot. The mourners looked typical of Brian’s friends—T-shirts and shorts, dreadlocks, piercings, and tattoos. They smoked cigarettes and talked quietly among themselves.

Trying not to be noticed, Tyler slunk along the edge of the crowd. As he slipped into the foyer, a photo collage of Brian caught his eye. Tyler paused to look it over. A recent shot showed Brian in baggy shorts, a Jerry Garcia T-shirt, and flip-flops. His brown hair was shaggy and unkempt, and he was smiling through a few days’ growth of beard.

Stinging tears welled in Tyler’s eyes. He felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He tried to draw a breath, but it wouldn’t come. His knees buckled, and it took a few kind, strong hands to bring him back to his feet.

The service seemed to drag on forever. Again and again, Tyler fought back tears, but he lost every battle. Finally, around five o’clock, he left the funeral parlor to join a reception at his uncle’s home, a short drive away.

It had rained during the service. A charcoal-colored ribbon of wet asphalt cut through the steep Virginia hillside. Tall trees arched over the winding road, their olive and white leaves tossing and drying in the breeze. Tyler’s ancient Bronco pulled steadily up the hill toward the house, which stood in a clearing. In the backyard, a crowd gathered around a few picnic tables beneath a canopy of tall oaks.

Tyler parked the truck in a side yard and walked up a short gravel path to the backyard. His Aunt Caroline was the first person he met. She greeted him with a warm embrace.

“You’ll want to see your parents. They’re in the house. Come on, I’ll take you to them,” she said, taking him by the arm. Caroline was a special aunt — close to everyone in the family. Tyler loved her. She stayed in the background while Tyler wept with his parents, and she was ready with another hug when their time of private mourning was over.

“You must be hungry,” Caroline said, taking him by the arm. “Come with me.” Tyler realized he was hungry. He had skipped lunch to make it to the funeral on time.

“We Southerners are a strange bunch, aren’t we?” Caroline said with a laugh as she walked Tyler to a table heaped with food. “We’ll use any excuse to have a picnic. Grab a plate and meet me on the front porch. I want to catch up. There’s lemonade and iced tea in the coolers, and beer on ice.”

Tyler loaded a paper plate with homemade fried chicken, three-bean salad, creamy macaroni and cheese, fresh cornbread, and baked Virginia ham. Grabbing an iced tea and eyeing the dessert table for later, he made his way to the house’s wide front porch, politely accepting condolences along the way. He took a seat on a sofa and began to eat. The Shenandoah Valley spread out below him like a tapestry woven from emerald, sage, rust, and white. A moment later, Aunt Caroline arrived and plopped down with a sigh in a white Adirondack chair, balancing her plate on one of its arms.

“How are you holding up?” she asked, leaning toward him. Tyler paused, a forkful of ham suspended before him.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Well, I would have preferred another occasion for a get-together.” She leaned back and popped open a beer.

“Yeah,” Tyler agreed. He looked east across the valley toward the distant ridge of dusty-blue mountains, their peaks glowing burnt orange with the last low rays of sunset. He and Brian had spent many hours playing in this big yard on peaceful summer evenings just like this one.

Tyler got lost in his memories. Caroline noticed his distraction but waited it out. The sun set quickly, and the ensuing haze of dusk made it hard to see where the mountains ended and the sky began.

“Say, I understand you and Brian stayed in touch via email,” Caroline said, interrupting Tyler’s trance.

“Yes,” Tyler said, poking at his salad. “We kept up until about three months ago. Then I lost track.”

Caroline said nothing, but Tyler knew the questions on her mind. They were the same as his. The whole family became alarmed when Brian suddenly left for the Middle East without saying a word to anyone, leaving his PhD research unfinished.

“I’m as confused as everyone else, Aunt Caroline. I don’t understand his last-minute trip to Egypt and God knows where else. I can’t understand why our government considered Brian a threat or how he got involved with this… this GIA, whoever the hell they are. I don’t get it. It just wasn’t like him.” Tyler pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

Caroline allowed a moment of silence to pass, and then gently asked, “Tell me, what was going on with Brian? I mean, before you lost touch?”

Tyler leaned back and thought about the many email exchanges he’d had with Brian over the past year.

“I dunno, Caroline,” Tyler said. “Most of our exchanges were just normal bullshit about girls, parties, and sports, you know, the kind of stuff you might expect from two young guys. But toward the end, just before…you know…” Tyler’s voice trailed off.

“I know,” Caroline said. “Go on.”

“Well, Brian’s tone became darker, more serious. More than once, he referred to his dream research as ‘strange’ or ‘bizarre’. The work was clearly consuming more and more of his time and energy, and he seemed disturbed by it.”

“Yes, we all noticed that.”

“Then, one night at about three o’clock in the morning, my phone rang,” Tyler said. “It was Brian. He wanted to talk about his research, how he was conducting it, and, most importantly, what he was finding. He did not want to talk over the phone. He said he’d drive up to D.C. so we could meet for lunch.”

“So, did he?” Caroline asked.

“Yeah, yeah, he did,” Tyler said, scratching his chest unconsciously. “It was the last time I saw him.”

“So what did he tell you?”

“I’ll do my best, Aunt Caroline,” Tyler said, picking up his fork again. “But this is a little hard to explain, and I’m no brainiac like Brian.”

“Don’t cut yourself short,” Caroline said gently.

Tyler collected his thoughts, gazing out over the darkened valley, now sprinkled with electric lights. The shadowy figure of a possum slunk along the edge of the yard. Tyler watched until it disappeared into the shrubbery, then finally spoke.

“Brian’s doctoral dissertation was on dream analysis, you know, comparing and contrasting how people from different cultures dream, finding similarities and differences. That sort of thing. He expected to present his final paper this spring. To collect data, he extracted information from websites using a technique called ‘web scraping’, also known as ‘web harvesting’. The simplest example of web harvesting is when you manually copy and paste, copying content from a website and pasting it into another piece of software, like Microsoft Word.”

“Sure,” Caroline said, “I understand. I use that technique all the time, but I didn’t know it had such a fancy name.”

“Well, Brian’s techniques weren’t as simple as that. He wrote a sophisticated software program, called a ‘bot’, and used it to harvest web content from dozens of popular dream-journaling websites, you know, where people, like, record their dreams. Brian’s bot made it possible to collect massive amounts of data in just a few months.”

“Wait a sec,” Caroline said, “A bot? What the hell is that? Help me out here!”

“Sorry, Aunt Caroline,” Tyler said, smiling. “Bot is hacker lingo for a software robot. Bots typically automate computer tasks you would otherwise do manually, such as cutting and pasting. They just do it way faster, 24 by 7, for months on end, without ever taking a break.”

“I get it,” Caroline said, “Brian’s ‘bot’ harvested dreams by the thousands... ”

“Actually, tens of thousands,” Tyler said, swirling his glass of tea and examining its ice cubes.

“Okay. Tens of thousands, which he then studied for his dissertation.”

“Exactly,” Tyler said. “Once he harvested the dreams from the online dream journals, he could organize the data and analyze it with advanced, AI-powered data-mining techniques.”

“Stop!” Caroline said. “You’ll have to forgive my ignorance of computer jargon. AI, I know. That’s Artificial Intelligence. But what is ‘data-mining’?”

“Data mining uses sophisticated software to identify patterns in large databases of information. For example, credit card companies use data mining to track your spending patterns. If they, or rather if the computer, detects something out of the ordinary, it can instantly freeze your card and investigate. That’s how the bank knows when your card has been stolen and is being used fraudulently.”

“Hmmm. I always wondered how they knew that. A bit like Big Brother, don’t you think, Tyler?”

“Well, sure, if used the wrong way. Brian’s idea was to understand how dreams might differ across different nationalities and cultures. AI-powered data mining was the perfect tool for his purposes, along with the Internet, which made it possible for him to collect data easily.”

“Interesting,” Caroline said. “So, was he collecting dream data from around the world?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tyler said. From everywhere... China, Peru, Germany, the United States, even Iraq. It was pretty cool, actually.”

“I’m curious about something,” Caroline said. “How did he solve the obvious language problem?”

“Brian was a resourceful guy. Most of the translations were done by AI. For the rest, he cut a deal with the university’s foreign language department. Their grad students would polish the dream translations into word-perfect English in exchange for credit. It was interesting work for them, easy for the professors, and good for Brian. Everybody was winning.”

The valley was now completely dark, and a thin, silvery sliver of moon was rising over the low, shadowy roll of purplish mountains on the horizon. People were saying their goodbyes, and cars were streaming out of the property, their taillights sailing into the black woods like streams of red fireflies.

Caroline was quiet for a moment and then said, “It all sounds innocent enough. So how did Brian find himself in all this trouble?”

“Good question. Brian launched his data-harvesting bot in December, just before Christmas. The project was coming along great. Brian was really excited and very busy. It was around April when he started noticing something unusual — something he couldn’t explain. The computer software was turning up some odd patterns.”

“What kind of patterns?” Caroline asked.

“It was weird, you know? Some dreams would start where others finished. Certain characters, places, and objects would show up…again and again. It was, you know, implausible, because the dreams came from different people who lived on opposite sides of the world and who didn’t know each other. And yet, a significant number of the dreams yielded connections, some obvious, some hidden. It was an unexpected twist in his research. Fucking crazy, you know?”

“Connections? You mean…one dream to another?” Caroline was leaning forward in her chair now, her hands clasped beneath her chin.

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“What did he think?”

“Well, by mid-spring, Brian had developed and discarded dozens of working theories. It wasn’t until June, and three weeks after Brian left the United States, that I received a text message from him, suggesting he had solved the puzzle. It simply read, ‘I’ve got it.’”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Nothing more. The next thing I knew, Brian had been arrested by the Department of Homeland Security the moment he set foot on U.S. soil. They kept him at some federal black-site facility, but before any family or our lawyer could visit, we learned Brian was dead.”

Caroline sat in stunned disbelief for a long time. Then she said, “I’m so sorry, Tyler.”

“Yeah. It sucks.”

He was grateful for the darkness, which hid the tears leaking from his clenched eyes. Finally, Tyler said, “I think I’ll drive into Charlottesville tomorrow and see if I can find Brian’s doctoral advisor. Maybe I can learn something, anything, that might make sense.”

“Do you know what you are looking for?” Caroline asked.

“I’m not sure,” Tyler responded. “But UVA certainly has copies of his notes and papers. I’d like to see a draft of his dissertation, at the very least. But this much I know,” Tyler looked straight at his aunt. “Brian said the dreams were leading him to something — something important. And I know something else.”

“What’s that?” Caroline asked.

“He was scared.”

Chapter Two

TYLER SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT in a cheap motel outside Staunton. The morning dawned steamy and hot. After a quick “free” motel breakfast of generic Fruit Loops, bad coffee, and a green banana, Tyler started the hour-long drive east on I-64 to the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.

The Bronco had what Tyler called “2-80” air conditioning — you open two windows and drive 80 miles per hour. At least this will blow out the smell of the fertilizer, Tyler thought, as the warm, humid air rushed in, stirring up cyclones of empty Styrofoam coffee cups and old receipts.

Tyler plugged his phone into a creaky aftermarket stereo barely hanging from the dashboard, dialed up Best of ZZ Top, and hit play. The stereo needed a few persuasive whacks with his fist to start, but once it cooperated, he turned up the volume and leaned back.

The route took Tyler over the Blue Ridge Mountains he’d seen from his uncle’s porch the day before and down into the lush green country that is home to UVA, or “Mr. Jefferson’s University,” as its students like to call it. By about nine o’clock, he was parked in front of the Department of Psychology, which, like every other building on UVA’s grounds, is red brick with white columns. An oppressive heat assaulted him as he stepped from the Bronco, so he hurried to the front door and went in.

A plump, middle-aged woman sat behind a wooden desk, talking on the telephone, twirling a lock of unnaturally blonde hair between her fingers. An air conditioner buzzed in the window behind her, barely cooling the stale air. She cupped her hand over the phone and whispered, “I’ll be just a moment.”

Her voice carried a touch of a Southern lilt. A tiny gold cross hung from her neck on a thin chain, dangling into her cleavage like a blessed mountaineer rappelling into Valhalla. Tyler wondered what she might have looked like in her younger days. Maybe okay, he thought, then shook his head, as if doing so would rattle the thought out of him.

He sat down and leafed through a recent issue of Psychology Today, stopping at an article about how sleep deprivation is used to torture prisoners at the Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. He was just getting to the disconcerting parts when the plump secretary hung up the phone.

“Thank you for waiting. May I help you?” she asked, leaning forward so her breasts pressed together. They bulged from her blouse like two plump, ripe peaches. Tyler wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead.

“Yes. My name is Tyler Drecker. I’m Brian Drecker’s older brother. He was a student here.”

“Oh yes,” the secretary said. “I’m so sorry. The whole department is upset about his passing. We heard he was... um... ” She looked at Tyler with embarrassment. The murder had made the papers, so everyone knew. He decided to make it easy for her.

“Well, thank you,” Tyler said. He changed the subject. “I’m hoping to retrieve some of his papers and so forth.”

“Of course, of course,” she said brightly. “I can help you with that.”

For the next few minutes, Tyler was under this woman’s efficient command as she examined his driver’s license and had him sign the necessary releases. As he signed the last form, she said, “We have to be careful, you know. You aren’t the first person to ask about Brian’s papers.”

Tyler looked up. “What do you mean?”

She lowered her voice, as if sharing a juicy piece of gossip. “Well, there was a man in here yesterday afternoon. Said he was a relative, but I just didn’t see the resemblance, you know? When I asked to see some identification, he told me it was in his car and left to get it, but you know something?

“What?”

“He never came back,” she said with a touch of astonishment.

“Did he give his name?”

“No, he didn’t. But he was very polite. And a Christian too.”

“What makes you say that?” Tyler asked.

“He noticed my calendar,” she said, spinning in her chair and pointing to a paper calendar pinned to the wall behind her. It was opened to August and showed a picture of a Hollywood handsome Jesus holding a snow white baby lamb, inscribed with the words: “EVERYONE WHO CALLS ON THE NAME OF THE LORD WILL BE SAVED. ACTS 2:21”

“So again, what makes you think he was a Christian?” Tyler said, rubbing his forehead.

“Oh, because he knew the rest of the verse by heart,” she said, twirling her hair. “Heck, even I don’t know that. Hold on. I’ll look it up.” She reached under her desk and pulled out a Bible with a cracked and worn blue leather cover. After leafing through it for a few seconds, she said, “Here it is! Acts Chapter Two, verses sixteen through twenty-one. That man recited it word for word, exactly as it’s written here.”

“Will you read the rest of the verse to me?” Tyler asked.

“Sure!” the woman said. She cleared her throat.

But this is what was spoken of through the Prophet Joel: ‘In the last days,’ God says, ‘I will pour out my Spirit upon all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy. Your young men will see visions, and your old men will dream dreams. In those days I will pour out my Spirit, even on my servants — men and women alike — and they will prophesy. And I will cause wonders in the heavens above, and signs on the earth below — blood and fire and clouds of smoke. The sun will become dark, and the moon will turn blood red, before... ’

“Hold it!” Tyler said. “Reread that part about the dreams. Please.”

She traced her finger back to the spot and repeated, “... and your old men shall dream dreams.”

She looked up from her Bible, smiling.

Tyler stared at her, his mind far away.

Her telephone buzzed, and she answered it.

“Yes, Dr. Granger? Of course. I’ll send him right in.”

“Dr. Granger will see you now. He’s been expecting you. He’s the Chair of the Department, you know?” The woman smiled at Tyler and stroked her fingers down the front of her neck. “It’s been nice chatting with you.”

***

R.L. Sidewith often couldn’t sleep at night, making her a favorite among students who felt free to call in the wee hours for help with their computer science projects. Brian Drecker was a frequent caller, especially in the last days of his project, when the data showed inexplicable patterns. Even at 3 AM, he could hardly contain his excitement.

“What does it mean?” he would ask Sidewith, almost to himself as much as to her. But she honestly didn’t know. It was clear that patterns were emerging, and they became more apparent the longer the data-mining software ran. Even with a decade of experience in the U.S. Army as a cyber warfare expert, deciphering, or more often creating, some of the most sophisticated hacks in computing history, she had still never seen anything like the patterns in Drecker’s data. They seemed almost alien.

Sidewith didn’t give much credence to the Jungian psycho-babble from the University’s psych department — her mind was much too analytical for that. She sought a scientific explanation, but it eluded her. She spent many long hours with Brian, more than she usually would with a student, working through endless technical issues, squashing bugs in the code, and fine-tuning the advanced algorithms needed to find patterns. Sidewith considered it some of her best work, and when Brian was murdered, she was dismayed on multiple levels. Losing the man was bad enough — she didn’t want to lose the mission, too. Professional curiosity would have been enough to keep her with Brian’s project, but the threats were what really made her want to dig in.

The first one came from an unexpected place — a neighbor. And it came at an unexpected time — on the day of Brian Drecker’s funeral. Sidewith had attended the service, returned home to her bungalow, and, to shake off her sadness, went for a brisk six-mile run through UVA’s leafy campus. She was cooling off on her front porch with a recovery drink when Bill Cartrell waved from across the street.

“Hey, R.L.,” he said, making an unconscious swipe at his thinning hair. “Mind if I drop by for a minute?” Sidewith answered with a shrug and a beckoning gesture with her glass, which she then drained down to the ice cubes. She didn’t know Cartrell that well. In fact, she didn’t know any of her neighbors that well. She didn’t keep their hours.

Cartrell sidled over.

“Want some?” Sidewith said, lifting her empty glass as a greeting.

“No. No thanks,” Cartrell said. “I just had lunch. Plus, they had cookies and punch after church today. I’m stuffed.” Sidewith suspected she knew what this was about. Stuffed full of deceptive myths from your barbaric and regressive religion, she thought.

“How was your run?” he said.

“Great.”

“Well, it’s a great day for it,” he said, looking up at the cloudless sky. “A gift from God.”

“Maybe,” she said, and quickly realized her mistake. It was the opening he needed, as if he needed one. She hoped he wouldn’t go there, but he did.

“You are not a believer, are you?” Cartrell said.

“A believer in nice weather? Sure, I am,” she said, lifting the empty glass to her lips and sucking out one of the cubes, crunching it to shards.

Cartrell laughed. “No. I mean a believer in Jesus.”

“Bill, is this what this visit is about? Because I’m not interested. What I am interested in is a shower. So, unless there is more to this conversation, I am going to get on with my day.”

Cartrell stopped smiling.

“Fair enough. I’ll cut to the chase. Whether you believe it or not, there are forces in the spirit world that control events in the material world. You would do well to be aware of them.”

“I’m getting in the shower. Thanks for dropping by, Bill,” Sidewith said, moving toward her front door.

“Sin has its consequences, R.L. I would hate to see you fall prey to a reprobate mind.”

Sidewith was about to say, “And what the fuck does that mean?” but she knew better than to mix it up with a fundamentalist. It was a waste of her time. So she muttered “Whatever,” and went inside, leaving Cartrell on the porch.

But once in the shower, she realized she was angry. She knew what “reprobate” meant — unprincipled — and she knew where the term came from — the Bible. If there is one thing I’m not, she thought, it is unprincipled. And what was that bullshit Cartrell was spouting about forces to be wary of? Was that a threat?

Sidewith decided it really wasn’t worth her time and energy. Cartrell is an asshole, she thought, and she decided to forget the whole thing.

Sidewith toweled off, spiked up her boyishly short, frosted hair, and pulled a bottle of cold Chardonnay and a plastic container of Whole Foods organic chicken salad from the refrigerator. Sitting in the salon of her cozy bungalow, she poured an ample glass of wine and studied the golden liquid in the soft afternoon light. Lifting her glass, she said, “To you, Brian,” and took a long, satisfying pull. She wolfed down the salad and poured a second glass of wine.

As the afternoon sun dipped, she sipped her wine and watched narrow strips of light climb the wall, illuminating a picture frame she kept on a glass table. It held the only memento she cared to display from her ten years in the Army — a distinguished service medal.

You don’t leave comrades behind, she remembered, and you don’t leave the mission unfinished. We are not done yet, Brian, she decided. Not by a long shot.

R.L. Sidewith, with a B.Sc. in Physics, a PhD in Computer Science, and a former U.S. Army intelligence officer, decided to do a little digging. She was determined to prove there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she needed to be afraid of.

Or so she thought.

***

The final wail of the muezzin’s sunset call to prayer echoed through the city, mingling with a cacophony of car horns, diesel buses, and motorbikes. A dark, powerfully built man known only by his cryptonym “Baa” finished his evening prayers, rolled up the rug, and stepped onto his apartment balcony with a vodka and tonic on ice. The last burnt orange strands of sunset glowed softly in the western sky, and the white lights of Istanbul’s skyline twinkled against the indigo of a cloudless twilight. Beyond the ancient wall of the great city, red and green boat lights, glowing like electric candies, bobbed on the Straits of the Bosphorus.

Istanbul, the gateway between East and West, is an eclectic blend of modern Europe and traditional Islam. Grand mosques, graceful minarets, and exotic bazaars rub shoulders with glassy skyscrapers, haute restaurants, and upscale shops. Yet the city’s cosmopolitan façade conceals a volatile religious tension, one that has simmered since the fall of the Byzantine Empire and is fueled by ancient vendettas and vows of righteous revenge.

Baa drained his drink and stepped into the hot streets of the bustling city. After a short walk, he entered a small restaurant and found a table at the back, already occupied by two other men. At the center of the table sat a three-stemmed hookah pipe, from which the men smoked in silence. Rich tobacco smoke mingled with the aromas of roasted meat, cinnamon, cumin, garlic, and allspice. The low murmur of men’s voices rumbled through the dimly lit space like distant thunder.

With a nod, Baa ordered döner, slices of grilled lamb garnished with mint and cucumber-infused yogurt and served with palm-sized loaves of fresh pitta bread. The meal, including bowls of olives, was brought to their table by a young female. The three men ate in silence.

When they had finished, they were served small, tulip-shaped glasses of hot tea with sugar. Then, they continued smoking and so became part of the place’s backdrop, and thus, invisible. Only then did they speak.

“Where is Z?” asked the eldest of the three.

“In a Federal prison,” Baa said, “A black site.”

“Did he get to the boy?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he learn?”

Baa paused and then answered.

“Z does not believe the boy knew much.”

The older man looked up. “Is the boy dead?”

“Yes, Alif, he is dead at the hand of Z,” said Baa.

“And what did we learn from him?” Alif said, his deep voice rising.

The other men were silent, their heads hung low. The apparent answer was “nothing.”

“Z has failed,” Alif said, clenching the pipe stem in his teeth. “We had but one chance to learn the whereabouts of what we lost. The Americans who put the boy in prison may now know more than we do.”

A paused and then asked, “Do we have other agents inside the prison?”

“Yes,” Baa answered. “Several, including some guards.”

Then Alif turned to the third man, who remained in the shadows.

“Z can be of greater service to Allah in heaven than on earth,” Alif said, pulling a long draw from the pipe. “It is time for him to enter into Paradise.”

With a nod, the third man rose from the table and left the restaurant. Ten hours later, Z was found in the prison laundry, dead from a slit throat. From his wound, a river of dark crimson flowed onto the gray floor and past a pile of clean, white towels.

Chapter Three

DR. JUDE GRANGER, PROFESSOR AND CHAIR of the University of Virginia’s Department of Psychology, sat at a broad mahogany desk cluttered with papers, head bowed, writing on a yellow notepad.

His spacious office was comfortably decorated, though dated, with sturdy, leather-bound furniture and dark colors. Three windows, framed with heavy draperies and covered with Venetian blinds, shielded the office from the harsh glare of the sun-baked parking lot outside. Tyler tapped on the office’s open door to announce his arrival, and Granger looked up from his work.

“Mr. Drecker!” Granger said. He stood and stepped out from behind his desk, smiling and extending his hand. Granger’s black hair was streaked with gray, and while he appeared to be in his late forties, Tyler guessed he was closer to fifty-five — a benefit of his African-American race. He was neatly dressed and had the build and posture of an athlete, as he had been in his youth. Jude Granger played forward for the University of Connecticut’s nationally acclaimed basketball team before quitting to focus on his psychology studies, graduating from UConn with a PhD.

“Good to meet the brother of one of our finest students,” Dr. Granger said, but his expression turned somber. “I’m so sorry about Brian’s passing. Please accept our heartfelt condolences. We share your grief.”

Tyler took Granger’s hand. It was large, smooth, and cool to the touch. It occurred to Tyler that this was one of the first times anyone outside the family had offered condolences. A wave of grief rushed over him like a flash flood and then passed.

“Thank you,” Tyler mumbled.

“Let’s sit over here,” said Dr. Granger, motioning to a leather sofa and matching armchair.

“Would you like a soda or some bottled water? I have a small fridge here. No beer, I’m afraid.” Granger laughed.

“Sure. Thanks,” Tyler said. “A water would be great.”

Granger took out two bottles of water, handed one to Tyler, and sat in the armchair. He shook his head sadly. “I haven’t gotten over your brother’s death yet, as I’m sure you haven’t. We are all in shock here at the psych department. The project Brian was working on was truly special. I was personally intrigued to see how it would all turn out.”

“Well, Dr. Granger, that’s why I’m here. I’d like to know more about Brian’s project. I’m hoping it might cast some light on his murder.”

“Of course. I understand,” Granger said, leaning forward in his chair. “What I can’t understand is why the police didn’t spend more time investigating Brian’s research. Oh sure, they called, and I spoke with a detective so-and-so, but I don’t think they got it. Maybe it was just too much for them. Over their heads — you know? Brian was on to something — something truly, well, wonderful. And I mean that in the full sense of the word. But his findings were —” Dr. Granger paused and leaned back. “Hard to explain. Some of my own staff still dispute his conclusions. But—”

“But?” said Tyler.

“Well, let’s face it. Human dreams from all over the world? Somehow connected? To many, it seemed like implausible poppycock.” Granger took a sip of his water. “But not to me.”

“Why not?” Tyler asked, his eyes studying the framed degrees behind Granger’s desk.

Granger smiled. “Have you ever heard of Carl Gustav Jung, Mr. Drecker?”

Tyler looked perplexed. He recognized the name Jung, but he couldn’t recall why. Granger sensed his hesitation.

“Carl Jung is one of our favorites here at the psych department. A Swiss psychiatrist from the 19th century, he is considered the founder of analytical psychology.”

Granger took a long pull from his water, got up, and walked over to a cluster of black-and-white portraits on the wall. “Freud and Jung,” he said, peering at the pictures through his reading glasses. “They are the giants of our science. If you choose to call it science,” he added with a shrug.

“You sound doubtful,” Tyler said.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Granger said, straightening and turning back to face Tyler. “It’s just that not everyone in my profession has the same esteem for Mr. Jung as I do. You see, Jung cautioned that modern humans rely too heavily on science and logic and would benefit from integrating spirituality and an appreciation of the unconscious realm. His ideas are not typically treated as ‘science’ in many university-level psychology programs. But here at UVA, we explore the humanities’ impact on our hard sciences. It was part of Thomas Jefferson’s educational philosophy.” He plopped casually into his chair. “Even our engineering students get a good dose of the humanities. It’s what makes us different here at the University.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember Brian talking about Carl Jung, but I didn’t pay much attention.”

“Oh my god,” Granger said, leaning back in his chair. “Brian was a Jung fanatic.”

Granger looked wistful. “Brian really loved that whole Jungian idea of…” Granger waved his hand in the air, searching for the right phrase. “... a connection between the psyche and the world of dreams, art, mythology, world religion, and philosophy. That’s what made Brian’s dissertation so fascinating.”

Granger looked at Tyler, but his eyes were unfocused, as if his mind were elsewhere.

“I know about the dissertation at the 30,000-foot level,” Tyler said. “What else can you tell me?” His question brought Granger’s focus back to the present.

“Brian’s dissertation was born of interests he developed as an undergrad — Eastern versus Western philosophy, alchemy, astrology, sociology, as well as literature and the arts. It really grew from there. And Brian did top-notch work, that’s for sure. Your brother was well on his way to becoming a fine theoretical psychologist. His work on dreams was super clean. If an independent test were to verify his research — which I think it would — then he will have discovered something truly astounding.”

Granger looked intently at Tyler. “Professionally, I believe the dream connections he discovered are real. It’s the interpretation I find hard to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

There was a quick knock on the door, and the plumb secretary entered the office carrying a box.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve collected all of Brian Drecker’s papers and personal belongings.” She set the box beside Tyler and handed Dr. Granger a manila envelope. “This is a release form. Tyler has already signed it. Once you sign it, I can give Tyler passwords for Brian’s university email, computer files, and all that kind of stuff.”

“Thank you, Joan,” Dr. Granger said, pulling the forms from the envelope and peering at them through his glasses. “Have you informed Dr. Sidewith? Does she also need to sign these forms?”

“Yes, Dr. Granger, and no,” Joan said over her shoulder as she left the room.

“Dr. Sidewith?” Tyler asked. “Who is he?”

“She. That would be Brian’s technical advisor, R.L. Sidewith. Dr. Sidewith is an assistant professor just starting her career here at the University, but from what I hear, she’s quite brilliant in her field. I’m not sure what the R.L. stands for, and she never says. You will want to talk with her. I can introduce you.”

“Yes, please. Thanks. But you were telling me about the interpretation of the dreams. What about it did you find hard to believe?”

“Ha,” Granger chuckled. He scribbled a quick signature on the release form, slipped it into the manila envelope, and handed it to Tyler. “Well, buckle up, Mr. Drecker, because this is going to sound a little weird. Mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all. Go ahead,” Tyler said.

“Thanks. I’m not supposed to be inside the building, but being chair of the department has its privileges.”

Granger reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a pipe, stuffed it with sweet-smelling tobacco, and lit it with a kitchen match. As he held the match to the pipe’s bowl, Tyler noticed a silver signet ring on Granger’s pinky finger, depicting an eagle in relief against a black background. A wreath of silver laurel encircled the eagle.

Once the pipe was lit, Granger leaned back in his chair, puffed, and exhaled. A cloud of yellow smoke billowed toward the ceiling, stirred by a slow-turning ceiling fan, and then disappeared. Granger appeared deep in thought, puffing and watching the fan. It was a moment before he spoke, and then he did so deliberately and clearly.

“Your brother believed the dream connections were part of an intelligent design.”

“Intelligent design?”

“Yes. It’s a term commonly used by Biblical Creationists, you know, the Bible-thumping crowd. They believe the world did not evolve, but was, rather, designed by a higher power.”

“A higher power? You mean, like God?” Tyler said.

“Yeah, trust me, I know what you’re thinking. Crazy, right? I mean no offense to your brother, but he just didn’t impress me as the religious type.”

“No, he wasn’t. Brian didn’t have a religious bone in his body.” Tyler was quiet. He fiddled with the end of his shoelace. “So what was the purpose of this design?” he finally asked.

“Your brother believed the dream connections were designed to help him find something extraordinary, profound, maybe even unnatural, as in, not of this world.”

“What… you mean like, alien?”

“Maybe,” Granger said.

“And find something? What kind of something?”

“Your brother never shared that with me. I always hoped he would,” Granger said, taking another puff on his pipe.

“So let me see if I understand you. My brother thought a higher power was guiding him to find something profound, perhaps even alien, using this map of dreams as a kind of freaky treasure map? Do I understand you correctly?”

“Precisely,” Granger said.

“Oh my god,” Tyler said. That’s freaking crazy. What did you think, Dr. Granger?”

“Well, it is an interesting theory. The trouble is, we can’t prove it. Unless... ” Dr. Granger’s voice drifted off.

“Unless what?” Tyler asked.

“Unless you help us. Your brother was onto something. Something big. I think it’s the reason he was murdered. And the killer is still out there. Justice has not yet been served, and it should be.”

“What are you saying?”

“You are your brother’s keeper, are you not?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose so,” Tyler said.

“So, let me be clear,” Granger continued. “If you get involved, your life may be in danger, too. I’ll understand if you just want to leave things as they are.”

Granger tapped his pipe on an ashtray. A small pile of soft, grey ash fell out. Granger studied it, as if he were looking for something. “We could just be stirring up trouble,” he said, almost under his breath.

“Look, Dr. Granger. I don’t know anything about psychology. I’m a landscaper. Dung, I know. Jung, I don’t. How could someone like me be of any help?”

“Ah, Mr. Drecker, that’s where you are mistaken. As Brian’s brother, you have more to offer than you realize.”

“Such as?”

“Access. Privilege. Insight. Things I don’t have, even as Brian’s department chair. Rules of privacy tie my hands and control my desk, but they won’t yours.”

“I don’t have a desk, Dr. Granger. Hell, I don’t even have a job.”

“Then what have you got to lose?” Granger said, still studying his ashes.

Tyler thought for a moment. What did he have to lose? He was unemployed. He was about to be divorced and was running out of money. But most importantly, the one guy who had stuck with him through thick and thin, through the crashed cars and drunken nights, who loved him despite the failures that disappointed their parents, was his brilliant, wonderful brother. He owed Brian this.

Something clicked in Tyler. Maybe he did have a chance to help bring his brother’s murderer to justice.

“Okay. I’m in. Let’s get started,” Tyler said, extending his hand to Granger. “What do I do?”

A slow, broad smile came to Granger’s face.

“Good,” he said, accepting Tyler’s handshake. “Very good.”

Granger turned and walked to the window. He pulled down one slat of the Venetian blinds and looked out at the parking lot. Dust stirred up by the blinds sparkled and twirled in the bright sunlight.

“You must begin by learning as much as you can about a person currently living in Egypt,” Granger said, his back to Tyler. “We only know him by the name Achibar.”

“Wait. What?!? Egypt? And who is this ‘we’?”

Granger turned from the window just as his secretary burst into the office without knocking.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Dr. Granger,” she said, alarmed. “But the president of the United States is about to speak on something of importance. Everyone is gathering in the break room. It appears something terrible has happened!”

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