Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 03 - The School for Psychics

by Carolyn Jourdan

  At first this idea startled Phoebe, but then it made a kind of sense.

  “We will be able to help you refine this ability. You can learn to shake off bodily tension, like the Olympic swimmers do before they race. Because you are highly sensitive in this way, it’s important for your health that you learn to clear and reset your skin,” he said. Then he gestured and said, “Continue through the book, please.”

  Phoebe turned more pages and three more times she got a similar sensation and pointed out the items: a picture of an extremely ornate antique French chair with a separate matching footrest, an odd-looking triangular book, and a round room with a marble floor.

  “Ah! This is very good, indeed,” said. “Now we know what we are dealing with. And it is even better than I anticipated. You have a special relationship to an important individuality. This will be quite useful.” He clapped his hands with excitement.

  “In fact I have just the task for you. It is important and time-sensitive, but, until now, I’ve had no one to send.”

  “What’s my talent?” Phoebe asked, thrilled to have any talent at all and pleased to have a chance to be useful to her lovely Boss, but clueless about what he was seeing in her.

  “You have a relationship with CR, Christian Rosenkreutz. You are able to identify objects he has a connection to.”

  He called Arabella again and asked her to bring him the box from the library. When she returned with it, Phoebe felt something glide past her, something brushing by like a breeze, sighing, murmuring softly, but she couldn’t make out any individual words.

  Whatever it was, it was causing a strong reaction in her. Tears started to trickle down her face. “You have something of his in there, don’t you?” she said.

  “Yes. Can you tell me which item it is?”

  He opened the old wooden box and showed her the contents. There were several pieces: a loose green gemstone that Phoebe guessed was an emerald, a gold signet ring, a mother of pearl staff pen, and a small oddly-shaped piece of china. Phoebe immediately pointed at the palm-sized blue and white porcelain dish.

  “Correct,” the Boss said. “Do you know what it is?”

  There were two indentations in the edge and a groove across the top. She had no idea what the item was. Phoebe shook her head.

  “Do you want to hold it?”

  She shook her head again and drew back slightly. She didn’t dare touch it, she thought it might make her faint.

  “It’s an 18th century inkwell with a reservoir for sand and a slot to hold quill pens.”

  Oh, that’s what the groove was for, she realized, to lay a goose quill on its side.

  He’d used that, whoever he was. Tears continued to roll silently down Phoebe’s face. It was embarrassing. She wiped her sleeve across her face, but couldn’t make it stop. She didn’t understand why, but there was something unutterably moving and tender about seeing an article that he’d actually touched. She felt such love for him, but she didn’t even know who he was. She’d never even heard of him until today.

  “The Rembrandt painting called Polish Rider is a picture of him,” the Boss said, “The items you have identified come from a place where he lived for a time.”

  “I feel like he’s important to me.”

  “He is. He is important to us all. He’s the highest initiate on earth, second only to the Christ. He is a great helper to mankind.”

  Phoebe swallowed, wiped her eyes, and tried to calm down.

  “It would be tremendously helpful if you could locate any of his possessions that may still be remaining in a building that is about to be remodeled. Would you like to do that?”

  “Oh sure!” Phoebe said. If the rest of this guy’s stuff carried a vibe as strong as this, she knew she might actually be able to find some things. The possibility of being able to help the monastery with an important task was thrilling.

  “We have reason to suspect that some irreplaceable esoteric writings exists from this man, our teacher, but they haven’t been seen in over 200 years. Either they were stolen, or they were well hidden and haven’t been found yet. We hope it’s the latter. We know most of the places he inhabited around the time the items went missing, so if you will examine these locations for us, you might be able to find anything he was forced to leave behind.

  “Here is what they might look like.” He flipped through the book and showed Phoebe photos of two wacky looking triangular objects. They looked like books that had been chopped in half diagonally. The caption said they were by Comte de Saint-Germain and were in the Manly Palmer Hall Collection at the Getty Research Library among the alchemical texts.

  The Boss handed Caterina the porcelain inkwell to use in Phoebe’s training and sent them away to work on her tracking skills

  Chapter 5.

  Her first test was a game called which hand is it in? Caterina held the inkwell behind her back and asked Phoebe if she could tell which hand it was in. She could—one hundred percent of the time.

  Then they played the lights out game. Caterina hid the inkwell in a room, then turned the lights off and invited Phoebe in to see if she could find it. When Phoebe proved equally adept at this, they expanded the test to include the entire house.

  Phoebe wouldn’t have been surprised to be given a doggie treat each time she proved she knew where the inkwell was.

  “You are a natural at this,” Caterina said. “A valuable asset. You are a bit of a diamond in the rough, but we can put a bit of polish on you.”

  Next they moved outside. Caterina used the inkwell the way hunters used a scent lure to train their dogs. She didn’t drag it through the woods though, since it was fragile, instead she carried it inside a protective case.

  Phoebe learned to follow the trail, closely at first, then at greater and greater distances. Gradually they attenuated the signal with regard to time as well. Could she follow the trail a week later? Yes she could.

  “Should I bark to indicate where I am and how strong the scent is?” she asked. Caterina smiled and hugged her. “You are amazingly good at this. The best I have ever seen.”

  “Am I ready?” Phoebe asked.

  “That is not for me to say. Le Seigneur will have to determine that. I do not have his level of discernment about the abilities of others.”

  * * *

  “I have prepared her as well as I can,” Caterina told the Boss. Phoebe visibly flinched when she heard her say it like that.

  Her employer smiled his sweet smile, looked over at Phoebe, and said, “Excellent.” He called for Arabella, then four of them were together in the sparsely furnished room, looking at each other, smiling. At least Phoebe was trying to smile. It was a strain, though, because she was nervous.

  The Boss was the kind of person you wanted to please. Phoebe had felt that way from their first meeting and the six months she’d spent with him since then had only reinforced her loyalty.

  “There is some urgency,” the Boss said, “so we have you leaving tomorrow morning. I hope that will be convenient.”

  “That’s fine,” Phoebe said.

  “I have found the perfect partner for you in this endeavor. You will go pick him up at his home and then go to your jobsite together.”

  Phoebe took a deep breath and nodded. Her mission was a go.

  * * *

  Arabella sent Phoebe to the communal closet to pick out enough clothes for a few days and the luggage to contain them. It was late December, so Phoebe went for winter attire. There was plenty to choose from, all made from the best fabrics and cut in classic elegant styles. The gigantic closet, containing clothing in a wide range of sizes for both genders, existed courtesy of Christophe, a gorgeous monk who was a muse to several courtier houses.

  She couldn’t look at the beautiful clothes and luggage without missing him. He’d been assigned to help her on her previous task for the monastery. He was an amazing specimen. Not only was he smart and fearless, but also his astonishing physical beauty entranced everyone who clapped eyes on him. D
esigners and shopkeepers fell all over themselves to give him anything they thought he could possibly want. Since he never wanted anything for himself, he made certain the rest of them were well attired.

  He had no vanity at all and wore only Levi’s, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Priestly robes, turbans, saris, and the like weren’t good for blending in, though, so he used his boundless charisma to fill a room with high-end camouflage for everyone else who worked at the monastery. The last thing any of them wanted when on a mission was to stand out.

  Phoebe searched through the racks for her current size, she’d been losing weight since she got the new job. They ran around a lot when they were on a mission. Literally. She’d never run so much in her life as she had since coming here. Losing weight seemed like a plus when you were plus-sized.

  Phoebe assumed it would be cold where she was going, but then she realized she had no idea where she was going, not even which hemisphere. Maybe she was going to Australia and it would be hot. She summoned the courage to ask Arabella if it would be hot or cold where she was going and the maddeningly vague reply was, “A bit of both.”

  Okay, so the Boss wanted to send her off on her first official mission with even less information than he’d given her the first time. He assured her the less said the better, to keep her objective. “We do not wish to provide a basis for any flights of fancy. Trust me, it is the best way. Go without any preconceived ideas.”

  Phoebe sighed. She’d have to wait and be surprised.

  If she’d only known.

  She was going to get some surprises alright. The first one would be her new partner and the next would be the location of the search.

  * * *

  “God bless you and watch over you,” Caterina said, hugging Phoebe goodbye. “You should be proud. You have a special affinity for Christian Rosy Cross. It is well known in certain circles that he has his people and they know who they are.”

  “What’s in the book I’m looking for?” Phoebe asked.

  “It is a textbook of spiritual guidance.”

  No pressure, Phoebe thought to herself, then asked, “Are you worried that the people who find it might want to sell it?”

  “That is certainly a possibility, but if they did, I’m sure Le Seigneur could persuade a well-heeled friend to purchase it for us.

  “No, what we are more concerned about in this situation is that the book will fall into the wrong hands and never been seen again. Deep six I think you Americans say. That would be a disaster. Even worse would be the twisted use that could be made of it by the dark brotherhoods. That would be a tragedy indeed.”

  “What’s in it?” Phoebe asked, again.

  “We are not quite sure exactly what is in this book. The contents have never been described, so it is extremely important that we get to it first, and maintain control of it. For all our sakes. And we are relying on you to find it and bring it to us.”

  Phoebe’s mouth went dry. She tried to swallow and ended up gulping audibly.

  “Do not worry my dear. I am certain you can do it. I would not recommend you and Le Seigneur would not send you unless we honestly believed you were more than equal to the task.”

  Phoebe tried to smile, but failed. This was the big time. It was scary. They were counting on her for a gift that many people thought was at best imaginary, or at worst delusional. People had been locked up in mental institutions for less.

  “If you know your Bible,” Caterina said, “you know that our Lord sent his disciples out to work in pairs. There is a very strong reason for this policy of using teams of two or more rather than individuals.

  “I understand Le Seigneur sent Christophe with you last time. You liked him, did you not?” Caterina said, wiggling her eyebrows meaningfully.

  Who wouldn’t? Six feet two of glorious lean muscle, the face of a serious and determined angel, and thick straight silky white blond hair to his waist. Christophe made Fabio look like an insecure teenager.

  “Is he coming this time, too?” Phoebe asked, hoping he was.

  “I am afraid not. He is off in one of the stans right now, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, or maybe Kyrgyzstan. I can never keep them straight. This time you get to work with another of our best-loved members. You will meet him tomorrow. Arabella is making the arrangements.”

  “Who is it?” asked Phoebe.

  “Jean-Jacques de Blackmere, a Professor of French Literature He is quite handsome and very charming.”

  * * *

  Arabella, as usual, was a model of efficiency and no-nonsense British decorum. “Professor de Blackmere resides in Hawaii,” she said. “I have you travelling commercial this time. Here are your membership cards for the various airport clubs so you will have access to their private facilities. I upgraded your cabin to first class whenever that was possible.”

  Phoebe looked at her typed itinerary and flipped through the tickets. She was leaving Knoxville, Tennessee, at 5:30 in the morning and flying to Dallas, Los Angeles, Honolulu, Maui’s Kahului Airport, taking a boat to the island of Lanai, then returning to the continental U.S. through Newark, which mercifully eliminated two stops, and continuing on to a final destination of Paris.

  Okay! This was the way things went in her new super-amazing life. She took a deep breath, conveyed her thanks, and tried to smile at Arabella. She was not entirely successful.

  * * *

  The whole situation had Phoebe so discombobulated that it didn’t occur to her until she got to Los Angeles to wonder what particular talents her new teammate would be bringing to the mix. She assumed from his name and his job that he spoke French fluently. Maybe that was all there was to it. He would be her translator. Phoebe’s French was limited to maybe fifty words max, almost all of which concerned items of food or locating the nearest restroom.

  Despite her newness at The School for Mysteries, she had enough experience with the Boss & Company to suspect there would be more to the Professor’s skill set than speaking French. But judging purely by her own previous six months of training she figured she’d never in a million years be able to predict what his particular talents would be.

  She tried to imagine what he would look like—a French professor who lived in Hawaii. She pictured a short, delicate, prissy man with an aristocratic blade of a nose, a haughty demeanor, a French accent, and a great tan. In her mind’s eye the man was holding a ruler that he used to rap the knuckles of his students if they made the tiniest mistake. She pictured Poirot in an Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.

  Chapter 6.

  The boat bounced across the waves as it tore through the Pacific Ocean, heading for a little island that was a nothing more than a blue-gray smudge on the horizon west of Maui and south of Molokai. The salt spray that misted Phoebe’s face after every bone-jarring jolt was a welcome relief from the hot, bright sun that glinted off the water in a million merciless and blinding silver flashes.

  The engine noise made it hard to carry on a conversation, but as they crossed the open sea between the islands, the boat pilot pointed out porpoises at play. Unfortunately Phoebe wasn’t in a position to slow down and enjoy the creatures’ charming show. She wasn’t here on vacation. This was work.

  Phoebe looked toward the indistinct lump jutting out of the sea in the distance. She’d used her smart phone to read about Lani and knew it was the smallest publicly accessible inhabited island in the chain. It was nicknamed The Pineapple Island. She shouted to ask the boat captain what it was like and he hollered back, “Not much there, not even a traffic light.”

  Historically the island of Lanai wasn’t very appealing. It had a bad reputation, to say the least. Originally it was considered unlivable on account of being haunted by man-eating spirits, so it stood uninhabited for ages. But a desperate Polynesian prince was forced to live there after he was banished from all the islands that weren’t haunted.

  Years later there’d been a genocide carried out on the tiny dot of land, so if it hadn’t been haunted before, it probably was
after that. Mormons lived there for a while, then it was a ranch. Then, in the 1930s, the pile of dirt was repurposed as the world’s largest pineapple plantation.

  Even on a good day working with pineapple was brutal, what with the heat, unrelenting sun, prickly rind, and sharp saw-tooth edges on the leaves. It wasn’t as bad as man-eating spirits or genocide, but Phoebe suspected it was body and soul destroying labor.

  Gradually transportation and standards of living improved to the point that the island was turned in a super-luxurious resort that featured two high-end hotels. The Four Seasons ran both the Resort at Manele Bay and a Lodge at Koele. In 2012 computer magnate, Larry Ellison of Oracle, bought ninety-eight percent of the island for hundreds of million of dollars and spent more hundreds of millions spiffing it up. Apparently it was a really nice place now. Bill Gates chose the Lodge for his wedding.

  Phoebe wasn’t going to either of the 5-star hotels, however. She’d be staying at the Hotel Lanai, the first and only hotel on the island until 1990. It was an eleven-room B & B built to house the Dole executives when they came out to check on their pineapples.

  Phoebe was still thinking of pineapples when the captain pulled up to a small dock and helped Phoebe and her luggage off the boat. A white Jeep Wrangler was sitting in the otherwise empty parking lot adjacent to the dock. She got in and found the keys under the mat as promised. A map of the island was on the passenger seat. She gave a thumbs up to the boat pilot, he smiled and waved, then turned around and headed back to Maui.

  Phoebe unfolded the map and studied it. There were just a handful of roads on the island. Only a few were paved, thus the need for a four-wheel drive vehicle. She figured out where she was, located the boarding house, and set off up a steep road toward the center of the island. She was at the hotel in less than five minutes.

  The rooms were simple, clean, airy, and decorated in a modest homey style with distinctive Hawaiian quilts on the beds. It had been an exhausting day of travel, fourteen hours counting the layovers. She’d been in a car, three airplanes, two airport trams, two shuttle buses, a boat, and a Jeep.