“Ivy, having failed over these past months to coerce me, believes it has become necessary to deceive me,” the tiny woman said. “She cannot do that, either. What she can do is badger me relentlessly. Therefore, I am the reason the two of you are here. This dear woman believes I am in need of your assistance and, perhaps, she is right. At any rate, I have heard a great deal about your persistence and valor. Ivy has told me your story. Finish your breakfast and join us later in the library. Then, I suppose, I will tell you mine.”
CHAPTER SIX
Really bad dreams
The library was solid walnut bookshelves from the floor to the wood-paneled ceiling fourteen feet overhead. Glancing around as he crossed the deep green carpet, Crockett couldn’t locate one gap in the endless procession of volumes lining the shelves. Ivy and Marta were sitting in two of four maroon leather armchairs arranged in front of a massive stacked stone fireplace. Red oak crackled quietly behind the andirons. A tea service was in place beside Ivy. Ruby and he took the other two chairs.
“Children,” Ivy said, “I believed myself to be quite sly when I arranged this little charade. Marta, as usual, has outfoxed me.”
The small woman patted Ivy’s hand.
Ivy smiled and continued. “For some time,” she said, “I have encouraged this woman to seek help for her deteriorating health. Over the past few months, I have watched her be reduced from an energetic and active individual to the condition you see before you. I realize I am speaking quite frankly and it is not my design to cause any of you embarrassment, but since Marta has at least consented to talk with you about recent events, I feel I must not allow momentum to lag.”
Ivy paused a moment to gather her thoughts.
“First, a short bit of background. I have known Marta for many years. She has counseled me, advised me, listened to me, and helped me through many of the rough patches of my life. I highly value her opinion and insight. Calls to her during your coma, Crockett, kept my hope for your recovery alive. As a matter of fact, she encouraged me to contact both you and Ruby in the first place. Over the years, she and I have passed from the realm of advisor and client to the condition of friend and friend. She is one of the dearest people I know and watching her struggle these past months has torn at my heart. I am too selfish to allow it to continue.”
The old woman freshened her tea before she went on.
“I have sent her to doctors to confirm that there is nothing wrong with her physically to account for the decline she has suffered. While they have quickly arrived at drugs to alleviate her symptoms, not one has been able to find a reason for those symptoms. I have encouraged her to seek the assistance of a psychiatrist and she has steadfastly refused. She has gone to see others in her profession and they have been extremely sympathetic, but also unable to assist. In spite of my continual meddling and the failed ruse of your arrival, she has consented to speak with the two of you. I can be a very persistent nag.”
Crockett grinned and Ruby spoke up.
“Ms. Boothe,” she said, “what is your profession?”
“Please call me Marta,” the tiny woman said. “I am a psychic.”
Crockett shifted in his chair and Ruby went on.
“A reader?”
“Yes, among other things. I read cards. The Cartouche, to be more precise.”
“The Egyptian symbols.”
“Why, yes,” Marta smiled. “Do you know it?”
“Only in passing. Much simpler than Tarot.”
“And much more intuitive in nature. Less restrictive in interpretation. More like the Runes in that respect.”
“And do you believe that your work as a psychic has something to do with your illness?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
“What do you believe has caused your physical problems?”
Marta’s posture stiffened and the shawl tightened around her narrow shoulders. She lifted her chin, looked Ruby directly in the eye and smiled.
“Some people might say,” she said, “that I am being haunted.”
Crockett stifled a snort. The three women ignored him.
“Haunted?” Ruby said.
“More or less,” Marta said. “Oh, I don’t mean ghosts are roaming my house, rattling chains and moaning in the night. That type of discarnate theatrics is relatively easy to deal with. This is much more internal and invasive. It is a repetitive dream, a vision of sorts that comes to me during sleep. It never changes, it never varies, and it never fails to wake me. During the past six or seven months, I have not slept for more than an hour or so at a time unless under the influence of heavy drugs. My choices are to either continue to waste away from sleep deprivation, or to be reduced to a drug-addicted zombie, useless to both myself and others. I don’t care for either of those options.”
“What’s the nature of your vision?”
“It is night, cool with a slight breeze. I am watching a country lane as if standing beside it. A large black car, the type and style of the 1930’s or 40’s drives, with it’s headlights off, to a spot in front of me and two men get out, one of them very large. The big one is wearing a dark colored windbreaker, the smaller one is just in short shirtsleeves. He rubs his arms as if he is cold. They remove shovels from the rear seat and step a few paces into knee high grass and dig a hole. When the hole is finished, they return to the car and open the trunk. In it lays the body of a woman. She appears to be youthful and is wearing a dark dressing gown. Her feet are bare.”
Marta stopped and swallowed a sip of tea. Crockett watched her rub her thighs in a jerky motion and noticed her pupils dilate then contract. She cleared her throat.
“The woman,” she said, “has no hands. They have been cut off. From her nose to her chin and back through the length of her jaw, her face has been terribly beaten. It is little more than a misshapen bloody pulp. I am always left with the impression that before the disfigurement she was very attractive. The two men pick her up by the ankles and under the arms, carry her to the freshly dug hole, and brutally drop her down into it. The only sound I hear in the dream is the cruel thud of her hitting the earth. Then I wake up, always shaking and usually crying.”
“I see,” Ruby said quietly, watching the woman tremble as she attempted to collect herself. “Tell me, Marta. During the vision, do you ever realize that you are in a dream that has come to you before?”
“No. Each time it is as if it were the first.”
“And how many times would you say you’ve had the dream?”
“Two or three times a day for the past six or seven months. Every time I go to sleep unless I am heavily drugged.”
“You have, of course, attempted to work this out yourself. To find out what it means, what your role is in this scenario.”
Marta quieted her trembling and took a sip of tea.
“Of course,” she said. “I have searched my past, my thoughts, my feelings, and done several card spreads.”
“What do the cards tell you?”
“Almost nothing. Obstruction, lack of balance, information not forthcoming. Happiness reversed, wisdom reversed. It’s very frustrating. And then there’s the face.”
“The face?”
“Yes. Once in a while when I awaken after the dream, in my mind’s eye, I see a face. A young woman, twenty or so. Very pretty. Blond and blue.”
“The woman from the car?”
“No, but there’s a connection between them I believe. And I also believe I have seen the face before. It is vaguely familiar to me, but I have no idea from where or when.”
Ruby stared at the floor for a moment and Crockett squirmed. Marta seemed to be a nice woman, but she was nuttier than a fruitcake. Cards and readings! He was surprised that Ivy would allow herself to be taken in by anyone calling herself a psychic. She seemed much too intelligent for that. Ruby raised her head and looked at Marta.
“I know this must be terribly difficult for you,” she said. “Would you consider hypnosis in an attempt to put an identity to the fac
e?”
Marta swallowed and looked at Ruby for a few seconds.
“With you?” she asked.
“Yes, with the understanding that I am not a certified hypnotherapist or psychiatrist. I am a psychologist.”
“Of course.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” Marta replied. “I seldom eat.”
“Do this,” Ruby said. “Get some food in your stomach. Carbohydrates would be good, and take a hot shower. Put on the most comfortable clothing you have with you and meet me back here in about an hour. Bring your cards if you like. Perhaps you might do a spread after our session.”
Marta rose shakily to her feet and collected the shawl. “Very well,” she said. “Will David be on hand?”
Ruby grinned at her casual use of Crockett’s first name.
“That’s up to you, Marta,” she said. “It’s your decision.”
The little woman turned to Crockett and held his eyes with hers.
“It’s fine as far as I’m concerned, but it may not be fine as far as David is concerned.”
“Call me Crockett,” Crockett said.
Marta smiled. “I don’t think so,” she said. “David is a name of great power and tradition. In some very old cultures it translates to Beloved Warrior. I think I like the idea of having a beloved warrior around.”
“Whatever,” Crockett said, a little fed up with the whole thing.
Looking to Ivy and Ruby, Marta went on.
“You see,” she said, “David, while sympathetic to my condition, believes me to be full of shit. Don’t you David?”
Ivy chuckled as Marta turned back to Crockett. His ears were red.
“Don’t be distressed, Sir. You’re certainly not the first to make such an observation about me. I would appreciate it if you would be here for the hypnotism. I like your vibration. It’s very reassuring, even when you’re conflicted.”
“I’ll be here,” Crockett said, wishing his ears would cool off.
“Good,” Marta said, and followed Ivy from the room.
Near the doorway she stopped for a moment and stared into space, then turned again to Crockett.
“By the way, David,” she said. “The cold milk is a lovely tribute.”
“Jesus,” Crockett whispered, and sank into his chair as he watched her totter out the door.
Ruby turned back to Crockett. “What was all that about?” she said.
A startled look flickered over her face.
“Damn, Crockett! You’re white as a sheet. Are you okay?”
“Y–yeah. I’m alright.”
“Bullshit. What’s wrong? What was all that about milk?”
Crockett gripped the arms of his chair for a moment and began to settle down.
“I always keep a jug of milk in the fridge,” he said. “I replace it every couple of weeks or so.”
“Why? You don’t even drink milk.”
Hot tears gathered in his eyes.
“Rachael did,” Crockett said. “That’s what started her off on planning my new kitchen before she died. She said she wanted a place to keep her milk cold.”
Ruby knelt beside Crockett’s chair, put an arm over his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Aw damn, Crockett,” she said.
In a moment she pulled back, used her thumbs to wipe his face and smiled at him.
“Witness if you will,” she whispered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Deeper…and deeper…and deeper
Crockett sat and stared at the floor while Ruby wrestled one of the armchairs across the room and next to a massive suede couch. Finishing that task, she looked at him.
“How ya doin’?”
“This is bullshit,” he said.
She walked over and took the chair next to him.
“Is it?”
“I mean, Marta is obviously very ill and I feel sorry for her, but a fortune teller? C’mon.”
“Who said she was a fortune teller?”
“She did,” Crockett snorted.
“No, she didn’t. She said that she was, among other things, a reader.”
“Same difference.”
“Big difference. We’re not talking about ‘Madam Zola, sees all and knows all’, one flight up from the hair salon. Readers, legitimate readers, many times function the same way that I do. They assist their clients in making decisions based on alternative perspective and enlightened observation. Some of them can be quite amazing. The cold milk, for instance. Scared the hell out of you, huh?”
“Well–”
“Well, my ass,” Ruby said. “What do you think it was, a lucky guess?”
Crockett flared. “You’re so damn smart,” he said, “you tell me what it was!”
Ruby paused for a moment, studying his face.
“Alright, Crockett. That woman sat in this room with an old friend and two total strangers and was honest with us. She talked openly about a very personal, very horrific situation in her life. In doing that, she asked for help and showed a willingness to trust us. It was a wonderful display of both acceptance and intimacy. You told her she was full of shit.”
“What?”
“Oh, you didn’t say anything. You’re far too polite for that. But your emotional attitude, your body language, your expression all screamed far louder than mere words. She then reached out to you, calling you David and explaining why she preferred your first name. She paid you a marvelous compliment and you dismissed it out of hand. Marta, in the struggle of her life, was willing to expose that very personal struggle to you, and you insulted her.”
“Insulted her?”
“Big time.”
“Ruby, I did not insult that woman!”
“She has a name, Crockett,” Ruby snapped. “It’s Marta.”
“I know what her name is! Jesus Christ! It was not my intention to insult her. I think this whole psychic thing is a load of crap, but–”
“Whatever,” Ruby muttered, turning away.
Crockett bristled. “Goddammit, Ruby!” he said. “Don’t fucking brush me off! I’m trying to get you to understand something here!”
Ruby smiled. “Hurts, doesn’t it,” she said.
“What!”
Ruby stared at Crockett, giving him nothing. He paused for a moment and swallowed.
“What?” he asked.
“Whatever,” Ruby said. “Hurts doesn’t it.”
Crockett tried to hold her eyes and couldn’t.
Ruby put her hand on his arm. “That’s exactly what you said to Marta, Crockett,” she said. “She was trying to explain something to you and paying you a compliment. You dismissed her in the most casual of ways. Whatever.”
“Oh, shit.”
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“Christ. I owe her an apology.”
“That’s true.”
“So that’s why she laid the ‘cold milk’ thing on me, huh? To freak me out?”
“To get your attention.”
“Yeah, but that was just between Rachael and me. How the hell did she know about it?”
Ruby smiled. “Simple,” she said. “She’s psychic.”
When Ivy and Marta returned to the library, Crockett crossed to the tiny woman and extended his hand. She took it in both of hers. Her touch was delicate and cool.
“Marta,” he said, “it has been drawn to my attention that I insulted you. I am truly sorry. Please accept my apology.”
She smiled up at him.
“It was necessary to draw it to your attention because it was not your intention,” she said. “Intent is a very powerful force, David. I intend to accept your apology. I am glad you are here. The fact that you give no credence to what I do means nothing. You are here for a purpose. God has a plan. Like it or not, understand it or not, you are part of it. The Spirit moves always with purpose.”
She patted his hand and looked to Ruby.
“Here I am,” she said.
“Stretch out and rel
ax,” Ruby said, indicating the couch.
Ivy took her arm and assisted the frail woman to the other side of the room. As they passed the coffee table, Ivy placed a small leather case on the polished wood. An Egyptian symbol of some sort was dyed into the flap.
Marta lay down on the couch. She was over a foot short of stretching its length and looked like a child lying there. Crockett carried over two more chairs and Ivy and he sat a short distance away.
“Are you comfortable?” Ruby asked.
“Very. The shower relaxed me.”
“Good. Just close your eyes and rest. Do you need a cover?”
“No.”
“Fine. Direct your attention to your toes, please.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ruby led Marta in a relaxation exercise, repeating it over and over. As Crockett watched, slightly bored, he noticed Marta’s small body nearly sink into the couch. When the relaxation reached a level Ruby desired, she stopped and let the woman lie still for a while. The room was ponderously quiet.
Ruby broke the silence. Her voice was low and breathy.
“You will hear only the sound of my voice,” she said. “I will count backward from twenty to one. With each descending number, you will become more relaxed, you will become more at ease, you will become ever more deeply entranced in a restful hypnotic sleep, completely free from discomfort and worry, very safe, very loved, very protected, hearing only the sound of my voice, hearing only the sound of my voice.”
Ruby’s speech pattern became nearly singsong, a rhythmic drone, repetitive and relaxing.
“Twenty…relaxed and at ease, nineteen…comfortable and protected, eighteen…loved and safe, seventeen…hearing only the sound of my voice, sixteen…”
Four or five times she repeated the countdown, her voice a quiet chant, gentle and reassuring. So compelling was Ruby’s delivery that both Ivy and Crockett were drawn to it, each peering around the room from time to time to change focus and pull back a bit. Finally the series stopped. Ruby leaned back in her chair and stretched.
Grave Promise Page 3