Speak of the Devil

by Shari Shattuck

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but when he answered, R.J. seemed to have made up his mind. “Sure. I’d love some pleasant company. It’s been kind of a tough afternoon.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say. I could be there in about ten minutes. Is that too soon?”

  “White or red?”

  “Excuse me?” Greer asked, confused.

  “Wine. Do you feel like white or red?”

  “Oh, on a day this hot, definitely white, and if it’s not sacrilegious, over ice.”

  “Fortunately,” R.J. said with serious humor in his voice, “I’m a naturalist. My religion includes ice.”

  Greer pulled up outside R.J.’s and got her first look at his home in the daylight. The thing that struck her most was not that the house was stylish, or that the yard was beautifully landscaped—both pleasing to the eye—but that it was all so very harmonious, not just one with the other, but with the very area, with the mountains behind it. Nothing stood out, but everything was exceptional.

  She already knew that R.J. was a man of great style, talent, and taste, but now she was beginning to sense a personality that understood the flow of living with the world around him. It was a consummation that she strived for in her own surroundings, and it was not without a twinge of jealousy that she realized she didn’t pull it off nearly so well.

  She opened the glove box and took out a neatly folded hiking map of the area that she knew Joshua had left there. She slipped it into her purse.

  He met her at the door before she knocked and handed her a large crystal goblet filled with ice and what he mockingly announced was “an amusing little pinot grigio.” They went through to the back garden and sat down in comfortably upholstered chairs with thick armrests near the studio doors, which were standing wide-open. The yard, probably a quarter acre, looked much bigger without all the guests and caterers from the night of the party.

  After they’d chatted for a few moments, Greer felt that she would only be dishonest if she didn’t come to the point of her visit.

  “I was wondering,” Greer said, “how you choose the locations that you paint.”

  The brows above the stunning black eyes went up in amusement. “That’s an unusual question. Most people just assume it’s because I think they are pretty.”

  Greer took a breath and plunged in. “I have a reason for asking you.” She paused to try and read his reaction, to guess his level of skepticism. He said nothing, just regarded her with something that was almost, but not quite, wariness. She explained, as succinctly as she could, about her visions and the fact that both of the fires had taken place in areas painted by him.

  His expression did not change, nor did he interrupt her as she spoke. When she finished, he leaned forward very slowly, setting his own glass down on the stone table between them, and looked intently at her.

  “Now, isn’t that interesting,” he said, as though he honestly thought so but was not committing to anything. “Although,” he continued, “not too terribly coincidental since I’ve been painting the area, almost all of it, for over twenty years.”

  “And beautifully,” Greer said, noting that he hadn’t commented at all on the fact that she had basically just told him she was psychic.

  “I suppose the next question is, why have you come to me about it?” He was still leaning toward her, both elbows on his knees now, back straight, elegant and poised as ever.

  “Because,” Greer spoke softly, “I have reason to think it may happen again. What I didn’t tell you was that both of the fires happened after I saw them in your paintings. My sight is pretty much always future.”

  “I see. And you’ve seen another fire in a different painting?”

  “No, not exactly.” Greer felt suddenly very uncomfortable with R.J.’s intense scrutiny of her face, and she turned away with the pretense of noticing some flowers. “Tell me, does the image of a key, the old-fashioned kind, mean anything to you?”

  He did not answer immediately, and when Greer turned to see if there was a reason, he seemed to be considering the question. Finally he shook his head slightly and said, “No. Why?”

  “Because I’ve seen the image of one, and it seems to be connected to the fires somehow, but maybe not. I don’t know.” Greer felt dense and frustrated. She realized how insane this must all sound. So the next time R.J. spoke, his words surprised her.

  “It represents something, I suppose,” he murmured. “It’s symbolic. But it’s not Native American. An old-fashioned key is more European, or at least has to do with something that can be kept locked up, like a secret.” He smiled at Greer wryly. “We redskins didn’t have much use for keys, or ownership for that matter, which, of course, turned out to be a big problem.” He sighed and then stood as though to shake off whatever thought process that had started.

  “Come on,” he said, extending a hand to Greer. “I suppose we’d better go have a look at some other canvases.”

  “So you believe me?” Greer asked hesitantly.

  He looked honestly taken aback. “Of course,” he said. And then at Greer’s incredulous look, he added as though divulging a sworn secret, “Whitney. She hinted, and I tortured her until she talked.”

  “Ah,” breathed Greer.

  For a moment R.J. looked at her with an infinite wonder in his eyes; then he said softly, “We will always be grateful.”

  Greer had forgotten that as Whitney’s friend, Joy would have been a part of R.J.’s life too. But before she could think of any appropriate response, tell him that it had been more Joshua’s doing that had saved Joy’s life, R.J. was pulling her into his studio.

  When they came to the painting on which Greer had seen the flames the night before, she pulled out the hiking map, and they found and marked the spot where it had happened, the site of the development. The new roads that had been, or were being, cut into that previously untouched land were not marked on the map. They did the same thing for the site of the Oak Springs fire. Then Greer took her time examining canvas after canvas that R.J. produced. She saw several more of them with fires, but only two with the key image, and they marked the map at those locations as well.

  All the while R.J. watched Greer with fascinated interest, and never a hint of doubt or skepticism, for which she was grateful. Whitney, who had grown up with a medicine man for a father, had reacted the same way. Greer found herself thinking that their Native American background had prepared them to believe because they had grown up with a healthy awareness of the interconnectedness of everything, especially in nature, and that was exactly what Greer thought her talent was: just the unusual ability to see a connection, a dotted line invisible to others, between two things, between then and now, between energy and human.

  There was one group of canvases stacked against the wall that R.J. did not take out. Greer asked him why and he pulled one out and showed it to her. “My First American symbolism period.” He smiled. “Fun to do, but didn’t sell real well.”

  The painting was beautiful. It was not a landscape but a conglomeration of animals, all of them seemingly embraced in the wings of an owl, but the head of the owl was that of an old, gray-haired woman who smiled lovingly down at all the creatures she seemed to protect.

  “Grandmother owl,” R.J. said, “protector of the forest creatures and considered to be one of the wisest of all medicine energies. It’s interesting, because the owl image appears in Greek and Roman mythology as well. It’s the companion of Athena, goddess of wisdom.”

  “It’s lovely,” Greer told him. Suddenly she remembered Joshua telling her about seeing the figure of the owl over the deer; she smiled slightly. Perhaps the owl was there as their protector, just as people could have others from their past to watch over them. She would have to tell him about this.

  “Well, thank you, R.J. I don’t know if any of this will help very much. I mean, there isn’t really anything I can do unless I have some kind of clear idea about who’s starting these fires and why. Which I do not.” She laughe
d a little, just to ease the frustration.

  He walked her to the door and they said good-bye. As he closed it behind her, she heard a soft clinking and turned automatically toward the noise.

  Next to the wooden door, hanging from one of the rafters, was a wind chime. The air from the motion of the door had sent it gently swaying. Lost in her worries about the premonitions, she noted only in an absent-minded way that it was the kind of thing that R.J. would have, an artistic piece that looked as though it had been made from found items—an ornate spoon, an old metal bell, and various handmade metal items. Having identified the source of the noise without thinking more about it, she turned away.

  Then something snagged her interest. She’d missed something, yet it had been there.

  Turning back to scrutinize the mobile, she saw the very center piece of the wind chime, the one hanging lower than the rest so that it would set the others in motion when inspired by the wind. There, rotating slowly in midair, blackened by rust and age, was a heavy, metal, old-fashioned key.

  Chapter 30

  Greer walked through the door and went straight into Sterling’s strong, comforting embrace. She wrapped her arms around his waist and felt the protective strength of his presence, taking in long, deep breaths of his scent.

  He held her firmly and rocked slightly from side to side. “You okay?” he whispered into her auburn hair.

  “I will be. I’ll explain it all later. Right now I’m starving—I haven’t eaten all day. What’s the plan?” She looked up at him, reassured by his substantial solidity; she felt better already. He kissed her first, meeting her full mouth with his own, and enjoying the eagerness he found there.

  After a moment or two, they parted just enough for him to smile contentedly and say, “Rib eyes have been marinating all day, Joy’s been baking bread, and the smell has been delectably torturous.”

  “So I heard. Whitney threatened to go on a scissoring spree if she couldn’t start spreading butter by seven thirty.”

  Sterling laughed his rich, molasses laugh, and Greer could feel the timbre of it in her own chest, which was still pressed against his. It excited her physically and calmed her emotionally. Which, she thought, is exactly what a good man should do.

  “And I think that Whitney has veggies ready to go on the grill as well,” he said.

  “Let’s get ’em and fire up,” Greer said as the phone rang. Releasing Sterling reluctantly, she crossed to the counter and read the number of the incoming call. It was Leah.

  “Hi. Are you bringing him over?” Greer said into the receiver.

  There was a moment’s clicking quiet, and then Leah asked, “How did you know it was me?”

  Greer laughed. “That neat piece of psychic detection was assisted by caller ID and you telling me earlier you were going to ask him.”

  “Oh.” Leah sounded like she didn’t really believe it was all that simple. “Yes, if it’s okay. We’re actually on our way up toward you right now.”

  She sounds delighted, Greer thought happily. “Come on by. We’ll probably be on the porch. You’ll be able to recognize me by the large glass of white wine over ice I’ll be holding in my right hand.”

  “What will your left hand be holding?” Leah asked, and Greer could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Depends how long it takes you to get here,” Greer said suggestively, making eye contact with Sterling as he crossed the kitchen. “But I’m pretty sure it will be something meaty.”

  Sterling paused at the doorway through which he was about to exit with a bag of charcoal and raised his eyebrows.

  Greer hung up the phone and said, “Yes, I was talking about you.”

  Weston was introduced around to Luke, Whitney, Greer, and Sterling, each of them offering Leah different variations on an approving glance. Joshua was busy watching Joy for signs of infatuation, but he could detect nothing other than a slight increase of self-consciousness when she nodded her hello. Leah’s new haircut was a big hit, especially with her friends who understood that it represented so much more than a new style; it was an outward illustration of a loosening up much more important going on inside.

  “How did the meeting go?” Whitney asked Leah. “I wanted to come, and then again, I didn’t, if you know what I mean. It’s just so friggin’ frustrating.”

  “Very intuitive of you. The citizens were slaughtered. The head of the grievance committee didn’t even show, a Mr. Farrad, and without him, they were flying without a pilot.”

  “I know him,” Joshua said. “Armenian guy, owns a little store near the high school. He’s always got a petition for something going on the counter, and lots of political posters in the window. You know, ‘Keep Home Depot out of Shadow Hills!’ ‘Save our Schools,’ that kind of thing.”

  “Nice guy,” threw in Luke. “R.J. and he are cronies. They’re always having some heated discussion or another, but they’re usually on the same side. Come to think of it, I’m kind of surprised he wasn’t at R.J.’s last night.”

  “He’s a friend of R.J.’s?” Greer asked quickly.

  “More like cohorts in political disruption,” Luke told her. “Those two are always up to something. I can’t say I disagree with them, but after a while, it seems like you’d get tired of ramming your head against a wall. Was there a handsome Indian there? About fifty, long, shiny hair?”

  “Yes,” said Leah, sitting up straighter. “He was one of the most outspoken. He pretty much accused Wendy Sostein of taking bribes.”

  Luke was shaking his head. “I’ll bet she loved that.” Greer was following all this with intense interest. She turned to Luke. “Is R.J. pretty radical?” she asked, and took a sip to cover her reaction.

  “On the edge,” Luke said. “On the edge, but I’ve never known him to cross it. He must have been pissed that Armen didn’t show.”

  “That’s a shame,” Whitney said. “It wasn’t fair to have the meeting without him.”

  “You can say that again. It was like Henry the Fifth on St. Crispin’s Day. Forty thousand French-slash-local citizens versus fifteen thousand English-slash-developers.

  Should have been a bloodbath with the French-citizens victorious; instead the British-developer minority crushed the overwhelming opposition. It was surreal. That Susan Hughs is chillingly good.”

  Greer had been only half listening, lost deep in her own reflections of what the new information about R.J. might mean, but at the mention of Susan’s name, she jumped in. “I gave her a treatment today. Do you know her?”

  “Well, yes. I put the loan deal together. That’s why I was there.”

  “Can I get you two something to drink?” Greer asked.

  “White wine looks really good,” Leah said.

  “Weston?”

  “Anything carbonated and nonalcoholic. I’m flying tomorrow.” He smiled at Leah, revealing his deeply set dimples, and beside her, Greer could hear Whitney’s soft swooning sigh.

  “Leah, could you help me?” Greer asked, eager to get her alone for a minute.

  Inside, Greer poured the drinks and then leaned against the counter, swirling the ice in her own wineglass. “You know, Susan has something going on. I don’t know what, but something really dangerous is in store for her. I saw it the first time I met her.”

  Leah’s eyes narrowed. Of Greer’s new friends, she was the most linear and the least comfortable with Greer’s premonitions. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Don’t know,” Greer confessed. “I saw it like a dark, jagged mass. In the past that has meant danger, but I usually see it outside a person, trying to get at them. This is already inside her. That’s why I think either it’s a pending illness or maybe she’s headed for an emotional meltdown, something like that. I sense that she’s desperately unfulfilled. . . .” She trailed off, completely unsure of what it could be.

  “Well,” Leah said dryly, sipping her glass and picking up Weston’s soda, “if she’s unfulfilled, she’s either the best actress I’ve ever met or comp
letely oblivious to it. I’ve never seen anyone who is so focused on getting what she wants and so certain of what that is. If Susan Hughs is unhappy, she’s convinced herself, and everybody else, that she’s happy being unhappy.”

  In spite of her efforts not to, Greer smiled at her friend and said gently, “Remind you of anyone?”

  Leah’s hazel eyes went suddenly soft and wide. “Yes,” she whispered, “and that scares the shit out of me. I was in the meeting today and I found myself thinking, ‘Susan Hughs is everything I ever aspired to be,’ and then I realized suddenly that she is also everything I’m afraid I’ll become.” Leah looked pleadingly up at Greer, as though she was silently begging for some kind of contradiction.

  But Greer was nodding. And then she said slowly, “And the fact that you realize that changes everything.”

  “Even me?” Leah asked uncertainly.

  “Especially you.” Greer nodded. “And Susan Hughs could use a little of your newfound awareness, and she could really use a friend.”

  Leah’s eyes glazed over for a moment. Then she spoke softly. “If it’s true that she’s like me, or like I was, then I don’t think she’ll be able to hear what anyone else has to say, in spite of their best intentions. Something will have to happen to open her eyes.”

  Greer knew that this was not only a truth for Susan but also a truth for Leah, which her friend was realizing even as she spoke. Leah looked through the kitchen window at Weston, who was facing them and conversing easily with the others. Greer followed her look.

  “What do you think of him?” Leah asked, and tried to look as if it were a girlfriend question, but Greer could see from the intensity of her expression that it was much more, and it didn’t surprise her at all that Leah would be soliciting her opinion. When they had first met, Greer had had an instant negative reaction to Leah’s ex.

  Watching him through the glass, Greer could see nothing around him but clear energy with a slight golden tint, which might even have been a trick of the early evening light. But she sighed and shook her head at her friend.