“I have no doubt you are correct. My grasp of Gnosticism is lacking, as you might expect from a pneumatic.”
“Quite.” She looked down her nose at Bloodstone. “Now, if I may continue…”
I could go through and transcribe from memory everything she said. Her lecture was incredible, and I mean that in the very original sense of the word. She began by chastening Bloodstone with a lesson on the universally acknowledged Law of Attraction—if you want something, put your desire out there in the world and that thing will come to you. Once she’d established that as a fact, the Law of Negation had to be true because anything that exists de facto has its antithesis.
So, yes, she conflated Affirmation with Attraction, but it was performance art. She was playing to a select audience, and playing well. Radu stared up at her with a reverent awe I’d never seen before. Carol sat riveted. Hank, Don and Theresa listened with decreasing levels of belief, but Bloodstone sat there enthralled.
Me? My bullshit meter was redlining. One of things that fascinates me about psychic practitioners is that they’re aces at adopting the language of science without abiding by any of its rules and procedures. She tossed in random references to string theory and dark matter—the latter because mathematics proves it exists, but it is beyond our ability to sense—making it paranormal, get it? Quantum mechanics, orders of magnitude and the ever-receding date for the advent of homo sapiens leaving Africa—which, according to her, had somehow involved Atlantis—all combined to suggest everything she was saying was science fact. Once she got going, she sounded fairly convincing.
But she took it too far. In focusing down onto the Law of Negation, she impaled Bloodstone with a hooded stare. “Unlike you, I have found the records from the Court of Farondis to be of dubious provenance and highly unreliable.” The ease with which she’d pulled that name from Bloodstone’s commentary impressed me with its facility and daring. However, since the Court of Farondis only exists in World of Warcraft, her use of it grossly overplayed her hand.
I can’t honestly tell you how long she spoke. I mean, my watch said she held the floor for all of twenty minutes. Maybe waterboarding could have made the time feel like it was passing more slowly. Still, Radu hung on her every word.
Hank looked like he wanted to hang himself.
Bloodstone stood. “I believe we have endured enough.”
Madame Theosophe stopped in mid-sentence. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sit down. My apologies to everyone for letting her prattle on this long.”
“You are incredibly rude.”
“Hardly a revelation.” Bloodstone slowly smiled. “You raised a point concerning the Law of Attraction—that what you desire will come to you.” He retrieved the folded pieces of paper from the tea caddy drawer and held them aloft. “An adjunct of that dictum would be that what you are—your occult nature—indelibly taints everything you touch.”
Bloodstone handed Don the sheet he’d written. “Please, read it, show it.”
Hands trembling, Don unfolded it, then a smile blossomed on his face. “It has my name, but all around it is written ‘honest’ and ‘faithful’ and ‘generous.’” He held the sheet up. Those superlatives and many more, in various hands, of various sizes, colors and orientations, covered the paper around and beneath his signature.
“Affirming, or revealing who you truly are.” Bloodstone gave him a solemn nod. “So, Don’s nature is affirmed. But the affirmation of truth can be dangerous. It can be a public negation of illusion.”
Bloodstone focused on Carol and Hank, holding their sheets aloft. “The negation of an illusion could be humiliating. I would spare you that, if you wish, under one condition.”
Don turned toward his wife. “I don’t understand.”
Carol lifted her chin. “Your condition, Doctor Bloodstone?”
“Leave immediately.”
Don frowned. “Now, wait…”
Carol rested a hand on his shoulder. “No, Don, I agree to his condition.”
“And you, Mr. Doren, will you have your secrets exposed here?”
Hank stood, hands curling down into fists. “I have half a mind to…”
“If you had as much as half a mind, you would not be in this position.” Bloodstone pointed toward the door with both papers. “Go, quickly, lest I reconsider.”
Carol snatched the sheets from Bloodstone’s hand, then stalked out the door. Hank slammed it behind them.
Bloodstone handed Theresa and me our sheets. “Indulge me and do not open them yet.”
Theresa nodded and set hers on the blotter in front of her. I followed her lead.
“And now, for our guest of honor.”
Madame Theosophe stood. “I don’t know what your game is, Merlin, but I shan’t be a party to it. Come, Radu.”
“Sit. Down.”
Her eyes blazed. “I shall not be ordered about!”
Ice tinged Bloodstone’s tone. “I am not speaking to you. Mr. Antonescu, you know the foul secret the paper describes. About who you are. About what you have become in your association with Madame Theosophe. You have an opportunity now—for perhaps as long as it will take you to finish drinking your tea—to determine how the rest of your life will play out. Indeed, finish your tea. Permit Madam Theosophe to read your dismal future in the leaves.”
Radu made an attempt at being brave, but tremors sloshed tea from the half-drunk cup into the saucer. “I…I don’t…”
“Say nothing, Radu! Silence is truly golden.” Madame Theosophe grabbed him by the collar and started toward the door. “This is an outrage! We are leaving. Now.”
Bloodstone swept a hand toward the door. “By all means, flee. Live your illusion. but, Radu, remember, you can never outrun the truth.”
Madame Theosophe bared her teeth. “You, you, I will ruin you!”
“I await your best effort.” Bloodstone tossed their sheets of paper on the table as the pair darted through the door. “When you are free to pursue it.”
Don sat there, gaze fixed on the table, eyes unblinking. “I don’t know what just happened.”
“I shall explain. Succinctly.” Bloodstone nodded over at Theresa. “Perhaps now would be a good time to reveal yourself.”
He’d meant for her to unfold her paper, but she just produced her FBI credentials instead.
“Special Agent Theresa Jensen.” Don leaned back. “That doesn’t really help.”
“This will.” Theresa pulled a plastic evidence bag from a jacket pocket and turning it inside-out, grabbed Anton’s tea cup and sealed it inside. “I trust, Doctor Bloodstone, this evens accounts with the FBI over the Deathdealer affair?”
“My account with you, yes, Agent Jensen. Your employers, we shall see.” Bloodstone sat and turned toward Don. “This all began because of a coincidence—a man similar in build to you, in a Starbucks, sitting at a table where you were supposed to be sitting, was murdered. I do not believe in coincidences—less so than I believe in curses. Therefore I began by assuming you were the intended target.”
“But who would want me dead?”
“You’re a logical man, Mr. Hempstead.” Bloodstone kept his voice even. “You have failed to see because you did not want to let yourself see.”
“But, why…?” Don covered his face with his hands.
“Operators like Madame Theosophe study their clients as a leopard studies its prey. She doubtless had Radu follow your wife to learn her habits so, in a reading, Madam Theosophe could reveal something known only to Carol and, thereby, convince your wife that she truly had psychic powers.” Bloodstone slowly turned his tea cup in circles. “Radu uncovered a secret which gave Madame Theosophe great sway over your wife. She learned…”
Don lifted his head. “Carol and Hank were having an affair?”
“Knowing of the liaison allowed Madame Theosophe to coax Carol into revealing more secrets. In fact, the woman likely exacerbated the situation, poisoning your wife against you. Madame Theosophe used the illusi
on of paranormal powers to manipulate Carol to the point where your wife agreed to pay to have you murdered.”
“Carol, no, never, I don’t believe it.”
“You do, deep down.” Bloodstone canted his head. “You made a remarkable comment when you described the events of that day. You said that Carol, once she heard the news about the shooting, called Mr. Doren.”
“Well, he was there.”
“He was, but if she feared you were dead, or feared for your safety, wouldn’t her first call have been to you?”
“I…yes…” The man’s shoulders slumped as his world crashed in on him.
Bloodstone showed some mercy and didn’t point out that for the murder to have been possible at all, Carol and Hank had to let Radu know where Don was going to be and when. Don would figure that out eventually, but he had enough to handle at the moment.
Bloodstone pointed at the cup shrouded in plastic. “The police had DNA to link to the killer, but no match. While you were away, Connor looked into Madame Theosophe and determined Radu was the right size for the clothes the killer abandoned at the murder scene. His observation was insufficient to grant a warrant to obtain his DNA. I needed Radu here to obtain a sample, so I simply made my invitation to Madame Theosophe for two. Bringing an aide would put her on equal footing with me which, along with cash, I assumed would be sufficient inducement to gain her cooperation.”
“This should have said I was gullible, too.” Don crumpled his sheet into a ball. “What did Carol’s paper say?”
“All four of theirs said the same.” Bloodstone opened Madame Theosophe’s. The word murderer surrounded and underscored her name. “I prepared all four of their sheets identically in case Madame Theosophe sought to grandstand and exchange paper with someone else.”
Theresa smiled. “And you went through that bit of Kabuki with Connor and the pens to distract her.”
“Your deductive skills, Special Agent Jensen, are not without some merit. Overplaying that bit of theatre, as you saw, caused Theosophe to switch pens with her puppet.” Bloodstone lifted up Theosophe’s sheet. “I wrote the words using thermochromic ink. It disappears when heated above one hundred forty degrees, and becomes visible again when chilled to at least fourteen. I heated the paper to vanish my handiwork and I had Connor fill the space beneath the tea caddy’s drawer with dry ice. I allowed the samovar’s excessive steam issues cover for the fog of the dry ice evaporating, and allowed Madame Theosophe to spout her evanescent persiflage to buy enough time for the paper to sufficiently chill.”
“All that work…” Don looked back toward the door. “All that work and you let them go.”
“But they did not go far.” Bloodstone shook his head. “Phoenix homicide detectives were waiting in my office and detained your wife and Hank Doren before Madame Theosophe left us. Carol or Hank, whomever sings first and implicates Madame Theosophe will get a deal. The reason I dismissed them first was to prevent Madame Theosophe from cautioning them as she did her aide.”
“Adding witness tampering to a long list of charges.” Theresa scooped up Theosophe and Radu’s papers. “Madame Theosophe is relatively new in Phoenix, but under other names has warrants out for her in Atlanta and Houston; and will soon be under indictment for extortion and murder for hire. She’ll be arrested right outside the gates.”
“Agent Jensen, please don’t forget she has eight thousand dollars of mine.”
“Evidence, Dr. Bloodstone.” Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get you a voucher.”
“My tax dollars at work.”
Don raked fingers back through his hair. “So all this…If I hadn’t come to you, they would have tried again, right?”
“Madame Theosophe’s continuing extortion likely would have propelled your wife toward that end, yes.”
“Oh my God. I…” Don shivered. “How can I repay you?”
Bloodstone shook his head. “You owe me nothing.”
“You saved my life.” Don leaned forward. “I owe you.”
“No. Our bargain was that were I to save your marriage, you would be in my debt.” Bloodstone stood and offered the man his hand. “I accept no recompense for work I failed to do.”
Back to TOC
The Waking Dread
Donald J. Bingle
Jessica stared out the car window, filled with dread. She wasn’t sure why; she’d been through this drill before. This was…what?…the fourth move in five years? Counting the switch from junior to senior high, that made five new schools as many years, almost all of the shifts occurring mid-semester. You’d think with an all-volunteer army, the powers-that-be would try a little harder to keep the troops happy, rather than transferring soldiers from base to base at the slightest whim, but no such luck. Orders were orders.
Dad followed orders and Mom followed Dad. Jessica got dragged along. Every town was different, but every time was just the same: a new room in a new house and a new school, where she would supposedly make new friends—friends she would just have to abandon when the next set of transfer orders were sent down from the Pentagon.
“Here we are,” said Dad with the same overly jolly tone he always used when announcing their arrival at a new posting. “Lindenwood Avenue.” He turned the wheel of their aging Ford Taurus, making a smooth, wide left-hand arc onto a side-street in the even more aging, residential neighborhood. A U-Haul trailer followed obediently behind. Big, leafy trees lined the street, their roots snaking out to contort the cement sidewalk into a heaving, buckling mass. At least the jumble of cracked pavement would prevent neighborhood boys from skateboarding at unsafe speeds, frightening inattentive pedestrians and little old ladies walking their yappy Yorkies.
Dad turned into the pot-holed gravel driveway of a weathered yellow two-story house with white gutters and, she thought, a detached garage in the back yard. It was hard to tell, what with the ramshackle wooden fence, the waist-high weeds, and the rotting pile of firewood sprouting mushrooms smack-dab in the middle of the driveway.
She clambered out of the backseat on the driver’s side. Dad fumbled in his pockets, declaring he had the keys to the new place “somewhere,” while Jessica did a slow, counter-clockwise spin, taking in the house and the neighborhood. The wood blocking the driveway meant that the U-Haul was hanging awkwardly out into the street, completing the hillbilly motif.
This place was even more of a dump than the one in Georgia.
“Ta-da!” Dad held up a shiny silver key on a gaudy keychain with “Ritchart Realtors” on it, as Mom headed for the front door. Dad snaked his arm around Jessica’s waist. “C’mon, Jess. Let’s go check out your new room.”
She wriggled loose. “You’re kidding, right? I bet it doesn’t even have air conditioning.”
“Unnecessary. We’re in California now, not the deep south. It’s cooler and drier.”
“Marcie says it’s sunny here all the time.” She nodded at the house. “And the shingles are black.”
Dad didn’t even bother to look. “Sure, but the attic fan pulls in the cool night air and keeps hot air from building up in the attic even on the sunniest days.” He started to walk her toward the front door. “It’ll be fine.”
A mildewed couch cushion spilled moldy stuffing into the weeds crowding the flagstones to the front porch. A mouse poked its head out of the cushion, then scurried back in. She pointed. “That’s disgusting.”
“Huh?” Dad turned toward her, following her finger. Oddly, he beamed, dialing up the faux joviality once again. “That…that is why we could afford a house with three bedrooms, a basement workshop, an attic, and a two-car garage. That is why we bought, rather than renting.”
“You bought a derelict old mansion straight out of Hoarders? Does that mean we’re staying here longer than usual?”
“Who knows? It’s not like the Army tells me anything. The point is the inside looks better than the yard and I can fix the place up and resell at a profit if we’re not here long.”
“Really?”
<
br /> “Yep. It needs cleaning and painting, but those shiny black shingles you noticed are only five years old, so the roof hasn’t leaked. And the windows are all intact, except for a basement window near the sump pump. The last owners apparently left in a hurry and forgot to arrange for a lawn care service. It’s been sitting vacant for more than a year. I’ll start weed-whacking and moving the trash to the curb while you and Mom start dusting and painting. Kitchen and bedrooms are first priority.”
Jessica rolled her eyes, then sighed. “Whatever. But, I get to pick the color for my bedroom.”
Dad smiled. “Sure. Anything you want.” He turned and trotted to the front door, where Mom was waiting. He opened the door, then turned and, with a chuckle, swept Mom up into his arms and carried her across the threshold—just like he had at every place they’d ever lived in since Jessica could remember. Cornball stuff, but as parents went, she knew she could do a whole lot worse. Plenty of kids in big, fancy houses had parents that did things more damaging to their kids than making them move to a new town every six to eighteen months.
Dad was true to his word, too. There were nine days until he had to report in to his new assignment and he spent every daylight hour whipping the old place into shape. Jessica painted her bedroom—the last door on the left upstairs, as far away from the rest of the house as you could get—aqua, with sand-colored baseboards and doors, giving it an ocean motif that matched her favorite bedspread. She ordered curtains online to match, but put up an old, yellowed window shade in the meantime. It didn’t really look that good, but she needed it for privacy. Her window was directly across from the bedroom window of the house on the corner. Worse yet, she eventually found out that window belonged to Kevin, a boy from her new school. Worst of all, Kevin was a nerdy freshman who always seemed to be staring at her, whether that was in the yard, on the bus to school, in class, or even when she looked out her bedroom window.
She didn’t mind that he had thick glasses or that he wore T-shirts with superheroes on the front. She didn’t mind that he and his friends played video games on their cell phones during lunch and, judging from the constant sounds of explosions and gunfire wafting into her bedroom window in the evening, on their game consoles every night. She didn’t mind that the teacher called on him whenever she had a tech problem or that he was taking Advance Placement Chemistry. She didn’t mind that his mom obviously bought most of his clothes and, even more obviously, cut his hair. But she did mind that he stared at her constantly without ever making eye contact.
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