by Karl Tutt
Chapter 12
Billy arranged it, but he wasn’t real happy. I told him about our interview with Shasta, how it created more questions than answers. I don’t think he was impressed.
“Listen Spook, I’m expecting some sort of breakthrough with this shit. The press finds out I let a damned psychic, or maybe that’s psycho, in the house where a triple murder may have occurred, I am the proverbial toast. Not to mention your ass, which will burn right alongside mine.
”Oh, Billy . . . I love it when you talk dirty. Just get me in the damned house.”
“Cut the crap, asshole. And take Eleisha. You and I both know she’s the real brains in your outfit. Make it tonight, and keep your damned mouth shut about all this shit.”
I was trying to think of something clever to say when he hung up. I told the dark lady about my conversation with the fuzz, and told her to pack an overnight bag. She cut me a look that would have melted a glacier. Then she shrugged and went into the bedroom. My popularity quotient seemed to be at an all-time low, but what the hell. Hazards of the trade. Maybe in my next life I’d be one of Johnny Depp’s dogs.
We caught the two o’clock ferry and were inside the house by three. It didn’t look much different. If anything, a bit more doughty. I wondered why the Bridgetons, a family that was definitely loaded, wouldn’t take the time to fix things up, make it a little more luxurious, if not simply presentable. But as a blond designer I once cavorted with used to say, “There’s no accounting for taste . . . or the lack thereof.”
We opened all of the windows and let the southeast breeze cool things off, then went onto the porch to absorb some of the magnificence. I looked out toward the Brewster Islands, an ugly memory slithering into my consciousness. A healthy slug of red poison didn’t help much. I looked at Elesiha. The sun shimmered in her black silky mane. She slipped out of her sandals and the olive skin on her legs gleamed like fine polished furniture. Her eyes seemed even darker than usual. I knew she was feeling the same thing. The Bridgetons were dead. I had a sense that we were running out of time. This might be our last chance to connect with them. It needed to work. The salt air christened us with its own benign spirit, but it wasn’t enough.
We ordered in from Lobster Express. Fish tacos for her and a pizza topped with shrimp for me. We ate without speaking. We had decided to take the same bedrooms as before. Maybe Joshua James would return with some spiritual insight. It was probably too much to hope for . . . perhaps even a bit foolish. But I am that fool and I don’t apologize for it. After a couple of more tumblers of the red, we turned in.
I’m not sure I slept. My mind buzzed like a merry-go-round on steroids. Colors, forms, shapes that I couldn’t identify. I was almost nauseous when she appeared.
At first I thought it was a small child, but she began to take on a fleeting maturity. I knew. It had to be her, the young girl, barely a teenager. She wore a loose fitting top and denim jeans. Her hair flowed over her back. Her face was indistinct, the features blurred, but I sensed the innocence. Still, the budding sexuality buried in her was close to erupting. She reached toward me and I took her hand. It was cold, but I felt the fingertips clutch mine tightly. I looked to the bed and there was my sleeping form, motionless except for a slight rise and fall in the chest. It was me. My body was in the bed, but somehow I was also there with her. I shook my head, trying to feel the soles of my feet on the uneven floor, to achieve wakefulness, but I seemed to float and drift. I was trapped in a pale shroud --- hers, decidedly --- but I didn’t want it to be mine.
Her pale lips tried to make words, but there was no sound. She stepped back away from the bed tugging at my hand to join her. Then she pointed to a mirror on the old bureau that was pushed into the corner. The glass seemed to take on a hideous glow. It shook for a moment and a figure began to take shape. It was a woman. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face, but there was no face, just a pink mass of swirling flesh. The girl pointed at her and a garbled sound echoed in the room.
“You told me you loved me. Now this. Shame.”
There may have been more, but that was all I could make out. The silver image in the glass rippled, then faded, and vanished to nothingness. Now my hand was empty, cold and numb. I looked to the girl, but she was gone. I was back in the bed, maybe asleep, maybe not. I sat up. Suddenly Eleisha appeared in the doorway.
“You were moaning. Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure, but go back to sleep. The morning will be here soon. We’ll talk.”
The wind riffled the curtains with a light scratching sound.
Eleisha looked at me like I was more than slightly crazy, but it wasn’t the first time. She padded back down the hall and I lay back on the pillow, trying to reconstruct what may or may not have happened. The rest of the night remained, cold and gray. After hours that crept by like eons, the sunrise burst over the horizon.
That morning I wondered how much of the red wine I had actually drunk. My head was pounding like a jackhammer and my eyes burned and throbbed. Eleisha was dark radiance . . . nothing new or unusual. I told her about the vision, the girl . . . the image in the mirror.
“Blond hair,” she said, “just like Shasta.”
I nodded.
“But you told me you didn’t think she could do it,” she said.
“Yeah, well maybe I was wrong. I’ve made a connection. We need to follow up. Billy will howl . . . it’s not exactly evidence, but now we have some direction.”
I didn’t like Shasta much, but I still didn’t want to believe she was a murderer. She was young, smart, and beautiful. I’ve always been a sucker for that combination, but sometimes you have to put your prejudices aside. The bad guys can be pretty, too. Sometimes it’s an integral part of the deception. And besides, money does very ugly things to people who think they have to have it, not to mention, deserve it. Shasta hit on both accounts.