Sleeper Seven by Mark Howard Read Free Book Online Page B

offering her hand.
    "Jess, thanks."
Why did I just say thanks?
she asked herself.
    "Yeah, mostly it's a vacation for old-school new-agers from the 80's, like us, 'cept with money," Kal added with a throaty laugh. "Did pry open our minds a bit though, which is always good! You say you don't have a reservation? What's yer deal here sweetie?"
    "I'm not really sure, but definitely interested in what's going on there. So...what goes on there?" Jess asked with a wry smile, as the parents behind her shushed their kids.
    "Well it's different for everybody, so I guess you'll find out soon enough," she answered mysteriously. "When you get there, though, ask for Terry, tell him you talked to me, OK? Oh goodness, I'm sorry — we've been gabbing so long, I haven't even put your order in." She headed back toward the kitchen, shouting "Hal! One dirty kitty!"
    Jess checked her Twitter feed on her phone — painfully slowly over the old-tyme EDGE connection she was getting — until her order arrived. She wolfed down her meal, anxious to get going and finally resolve the mystery of the Adams Center. Belly full, she settled her bill and yelled her goodbye to Kal as the screen door slammed shut behind her.

~ 14 ~
    A few minutes down the road, Jess saw something large and yellow behind the trees to her right. Coming around a bend, she spotted the massive dome rising from the ground in the distance. It seemed to be a couple hundred feet in diameter, but it was hard to tell as the far side was embedded into the slope of a small hill. A ribbon of forested hills splayed out behind it, merging with the blues and greens of the aptly named mountains that shimmered on the horizon beyond.
    Glancing back at the road, she almost missed a faded white wooden sign at the edge of the partially-hidden sloping driveway. Slamming on the brakes, she made the turn even before she had time to fully read the sign, which stated, simply:
Adams Center for Consciousness Studies — est. 1972
. Heading down the gravel drive, an old Victorian-era mansion appeared on her left. The large house, still in relatively good condition despite her age, was skirted with a wide wraparound porch, and nestled within a shaded grove of tall pines. The driveway continued further towards a scattering of other outbuildings — and the dome itself — but as this appeared to be the main house, she parked the car in front.
    A grizzled older man in overalls, his doughy, shirtless paunch peeking out from underneath the blue denim, sat reclining in a peeling white rocker on the front porch. His large, rough hands, interlaced over his belly, rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and a straw hat covered his face as he slept. Her arrival hadn't seemed to stir him, and after climbing the steps up to the porch, she stood before him, wondering what to do next. The buzzing of two flies wound past them and disappeared around the side of the house.
    "Howdy," he rumbled, without lifting his head — or his hat for that matter.
    "Um, Hi," Jess replied, startled. "I'm looking for Terry. Ah, Kal at the Runaway sent me."
    "Inside. Kitchen," he replied, with a voice like the loose gravel of the driveway. Raising one hand from his belly, he lifted his hat and dropped it back to his face — eyes still closed — in a parting gesture clearly optimized to require the minimum energy expenditure possible.
    Opening another wooden screen door — they seemed ever-present here — and entering the house, she was reminded of a bed and breakfast. Antique furniture and knick-knacks were scattered throughout the living and dining rooms at the front of the house, and down the main hall beside a large ornate wooden staircase, a potbelly stove poked out of the doorway to what she presumed was the kitchen. Hearing some shuffling coming from that area, she headed back to investigate.
    "Hello...I'm looking for Terry?" she queried, knocking on the rail of the staircase as she approached. A shock of white hair, perched on