Outsiders

by Lynn Ames

  “Ms. Maupin?”

  “Hmm?” Renée reluctantly shifted her focus to the elderly woman with ostentatious jewelry and a pinched expression standing in front of her.

  “I do so admire your work.”

  “Thank you.” Renée offered a practiced smile and feigned interest.

  “I wonder, do you ever work on commission? My husband and I are planning a trip to Kenya next month, and neither one of us is any good at taking pictures.”

  Renée’s back stiffened. “I don’t—”

  The woman prattled on, “We’d pay your way, of course, and you could take whatever photos you deemed best. It would be so wonderful to have mementos of our trip.”

  She tried to count to ten, really she did, but Renée only got to three before her head exploded. “If you want vacation pictures, I suggest you hire a photography major from NYU, or perhaps you could hand a disposable camera to one of the chimps you’re sure to see over there.”

  The woman recoiled. “Well,” she huffed, “I’m sorry I asked.” She pivoted on her heel and stalked away.

  “Do you have any idea who that was?” Sabrina was at Renée’s elbow again, her fingernails digging in.

  “That was impressive,” Renée said. “It only took you three point two seconds to get over here. I figured the way you were panting after that pretty little thing, it would take you at least a full minute.”

  “You think this is funny?” Sabrina’s voice rose an octave. “That woman you just insulted is filthy rich. Her husband owns half of Manhattan. They are my best customers. Or should I say were my best customers.”

  When Renée merely shrugged, Sabrina’s pupils darkened dangerously. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. You ought to take a good, long look in the mirror, sweetheart. You’re all you’ve got. I hope you enjoy your own company. You may be the most talented photographer I’ve ever known, and God knows I’ll miss making money off you, but after this show is over, we’re through. You can find yourself another gallery whose customers you can chase away.”

  Renée watched Sabrina’s purposeful stride as she crossed the room and disappeared into her office. Renée couldn’t remember ever seeing her that angry. She pursed her lips. Underneath that veneer of anger lurked real pain.

  “You’re an ass, Maupin,” Renée mumbled to herself. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Time to go before you cause any more trouble.”

  ***

  When she arrived home, Renée stripped out of her clothes and flopped naked onto the unmade bed. She propped her hand behind her head and stared at the ceiling.

  “Shit.” Although it wasn’t the most eloquent word she could’ve used, it neatly summed up the way she felt. She had no doubt that Sabrina meant what she said—Renée would no longer be a welcome fixture in her gallery. Not only that, but the friendship, tenuous as it had become, likely was ruined as well.

  At least the show was a success. Most of the pieces already had been sold, and it was only opening night. Renée felt her eyelids grow heavy, and she started to drift.

  The alley was dark and dank, the ground littered with crushed beer cans and broken glass. In the corner, back by the dumpster, a young boy’s body lay still, his legs bent at unnatural angles, his eyes open wide and staring. A shadowy figure loomed over the child, his face covered with a sheen of sweat, his lips pulled back in a sinister smile.

  Renée whimpered and thrashed, her hands bunched in the covers. She struggled to push up from the murky depths, but the weight of the vision dragged her down. Finally, with much effort, she broke free and bolted upright. She fought to orient herself. Her chest was heaving, her breath coming in gasps. Sweat pooled between her breasts. Her eyes searched wildly around the room until they lighted on a photograph of Horseshoe Bend, the sun sparkling off the waters of the Colorado river.

  Even though she was staring at the comfort of the bucolic scene, it was several moments before Renée felt her familiar control slip back into place. She scrubbed her face with her hands and kicked her legs over the side of the bed until her feet touched the floor.

  “Been a long time since you had one of those,” she mumbled. Briefly, she considered calling the police. “What would you tell them? Start looking in every alley in Manhattan, in one of them you’ll find a dead boy? Look for the man with the creepy smile?” She blew out a disgusted breath. They’d send the men in white coats.

  Experience told her it would be hours before she could close her eyes again. Who knew what the next vision would be? Renée walked over and switched on the Mac. At moments like these, she would try her best to immerse herself in the familiar—images of nature—and the peace only they could bring her.

  If only she’d shut herself down instead of giving in to her instincts earlier in the evening, she might’ve been able to keep the visions at bay. Her mind flashed on the face of the woman at the gallery. She wanted to be angry at her—to blame her for prying open a door Renée had struggled for years to keep closed. But it was no use. The woman’s energy had been so pure, so light—no, this wasn’t her doing.

  Renée rubbed her eyes. As always after an episode, she was exhausted. With a heavy sigh, she focused on the screen.

  ***

  A car horn sounded on the street below and Yazhi groaned. How anyone could sleep in this city was beyond her. She was in the process of turning on her side, again, when she felt it. Without warning, her heart began to race in a rhythm not her own. Before she could pinpoint the cause, her breathing quickened.

  Yazhi rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, quieting her mind so that she might listen and discover the source of her agitation. Automatically, she ran through the steps to protect herself—mentally bringing golden light in through her crown chakra and allowing it to fill her being, while anchoring her feet and root chakra to Mother Earth. Then she called upon her spirit guides to enlighten her. It was a process as familiar to her as brushing her teeth, and took about the same amount of time to complete.

  The first image that popped into her mind was of the photographer and, despite her surprise, Yazhi struggled not to open her eyes or break concentration. As quickly as the face had appeared, it was gone, replaced by the gruesome sight of a small boy in a cramped alley, a man standing over him.

  “Oh, no!” This time she couldn’t help herself. Yazhi shot up and leaned her back against the headboard, panting for air and fighting to make sense of what she had seen. Was Renée in trouble? Did the boy belong to her? Yazhi flung off the covers and reached into the suitcase beside the bed, fumbling for a pair of pants. She had one leg in before she stopped herself.

  “You didn’t even bring her address with you.” Yazhi exhaled and sat back against the wall once more. This time, when she closed her eyes and summoned the golden light, she envisioned each of her chakras spinning in turn, beginning with the root. This heightened her awareness and she focused on allowing the information to flow freely.

  No, Renée’s heart rate had returned to normal, and the vision of the boy was gone. Slowly, Yazhi opened her eyes and became aware of her surroundings. She looked down and ruefully shook her head. Her pants were bunched around her knees.

  “And just where did you think you were going, anyway? It’s the middle of the night in a city known for crime, and you were going to…what? Run out blindly and try to find a woman who likely doesn’t need or want your help?”

  Yazhi removed her pants, folded them neatly, and returned them to the suitcase. She lay back down and folded her hands atop her chest. Renée certainly hadn’t struck Yazhi as the damsel in distress type, despite the circumstances under which they’d met initially.

  Still, tomorrow she would go back to the gallery and check on her. Just to be sure.

  Chapter Three

  Renée sprinted the last fifty yards and bent over double to catch her breath. She leaned against a light pole and stretched first her calves and Achilles, and then her hamstrings. As always, the run had helped to clear her head.

&nb
sp; There was no question that she owed Sabrina an apology. Antagonizing a major client was a cardinal sin, regardless of the cluelessness of the customer. Although she wouldn’t have taken any less umbrage, Renée had to admit that she might have handled the woman more diplomatically.

  She would go home, shower, dress, and head back to the gallery bearing a peace offering. Renée doubted it would be enough to save their friendship, but perhaps it would help salvage her lucrative business with Sabrina. After all, her two or three shows a year did provide Sabrina substantial income, and Sabrina was nothing if not a savvy businesswoman.

  ***

  Yazhi was just rounding the corner when she saw the photographer duck into the gallery carrying a large object wrapped in brown paper. She was dressed in a pair of low-slung jeans, worn boots, and a form-fitting v-neck sweater. Yazhi wondered if she had any idea how attractive she was.

  For a split second, Yazhi hesitated, wondering whether it was wise to put herself in proximity to a woman against whom her normal defenses seemed wholly ineffectual. Then she remembered the image of the crumpled boy. She shook her head, as if doing so would wipe away the disturbing picture, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  Whatever it was about this woman, the spirit guides had put her in Yazhi’s path for a reason. If the aim had been only for Yazhi to save her life, the connection would not still be this strong. Yazhi squared her shoulders and moved forward. She would see this through until it became clear what role this woman was meant to play in her journey. To do anything different would be to place her out of harmony with the Universe, and that was something that Yazhi would never allow.

  ***

  “Damn it, I’m apologizing to you. What more do you want from me?”

  “Right now, I want you out of my sight.”

  Renée threw up her hands in exasperation. “Look, Sabrina, I know you’re pissed. I get that. I insulted one of your best clients. I get that too. That bloated windbag was important to your bottom line. Mea culpa. I can’t change what happened, but I’m making an effort here.”

  “A lot too little, a lot too late, Renée. I meant what I said last night. I’m through with you. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding some other gallery owner who’ll put up with your surliness in exchange for profits. Heck, all you have to do is take that perfect ass and wave it in some poor unsuspecting slob’s direction, and you’ll have a new conquest in no time at all.”

  Renée felt the color rise from her neck to her cheeks. “As I recall, you were the one who came on to me, cupcake. So don’t lay that at my doorstep.”

  “I obviously should have been more…selective. Clearly, it was a mistake.”

  “Clearly,” Renée agreed. “You know where to send the check when the show’s over. I hope it makes you a bundle, Sabrina. It’s been real.”

  Renée grabbed the still-wrapped package, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the back office. She was almost to the door when she plowed into something solid.

  “Oof.”

  Renée looked down into startled, liquid-chocolate-brown eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She reached the door, shoved it open, and set off down the sidewalk. It was a mistake to try to set things right with Sabrina. She had obviously miscalculated the extent of the damage she had done the night before. “Idiot.”

  “Excuse me. Pardon me. I wonder if I might have a word.”

  It took several seconds for Renée to realize that the voice was addressing her. She stopped abruptly and looked to her right to find the same woman she had nearly run over in the gallery. She frowned. “What?” She over-enunciated the “t.”

  “I understand that now might not be the best time, but I wanted to tell you how much I admire your work.”

  “Thanks,” Renée said shortly, resuming her pace and expecting the woman to fall back. Instead, she matched Renée’s stride. “Look, you’re right, now is not a good time. But I appreciate the compliment.” Still, the woman would not go away.

  Renée stopped again and spun to face the annoyance. “If you’re interested in purchasing something, go back to the gallery. I’m sure the owner would be happy to help you.”

  The woman’s penetrating gaze made Renée uncomfortable. She broke eye contact and began walking again. The woman touched her on the sleeve.

  “I said—”

  “Who was the young boy in the alley?” the woman blurted.

  Renée staggered backward as the impact of the question hit her squarely in the gut. She sucked in a quick breath and regained her equilibrium. This time, when she moved forward, she quickened her stride.

  “Who was he?” The woman asked again, seeming to keep up effortlessly despite her significantly shorter legs.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Renée stared straight ahead, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

  “I know you do. He was in trouble. Is he related to you?”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not, and you know that.”

  Damn, this woman was stubborn. Renée clenched her jaw and soldiered onward.

  “Please.” The woman wrapped her fingers around Renée’s arm. The touch was at once soothing and electric. “I mean you no harm.”

  “That’s good to know.” As always when she was frightened, Renée resorted to sarcasm. She was almost to her apartment. If she could just get inside…

  “I’m glad your injuries have healed.”

  Renée whipped her head around. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, I’m glad you’ve recovered so well. I’m also happy that your work was saved.”

  Renée’s head began to buzz. Who was this woman? She reminded herself that anyone could have read about her mishap in the canyon. Obviously, this woman was some sort of stalker. A nut job.

  “I’ve never seen anyone who could capture the majesty of the rocks with such loving detail. I thought I was the only one who could see it.”

  Renée’s eyes narrowed, but she kept moving.

  “I’m sorry about your tripod and camera. They couldn’t be saved.”

  Renée stopped so quickly a man ran into her from behind. “Who the hell are you?” She looked closely at the woman for the first time, a dim recognition playing at the back of her mind.

  “My name is Yazhi. Yazhi Begay.” The woman straightened her shoulders and jutted out her chin.

  “How did you know…Wait, it’s you. You’re the one from the hospital room. And you were at the opening last night.” The same woman Sabrina was panting after.

  “Is there someplace we can talk?” Yazhi motioned to the foot traffic bustling all around them.

  Renée bit her lip, considering her options. Alarm bells were ringing loud and clear in her head, but her curiosity was piqued. So much of that time remained a blur, and so much that she had experienced since defied explanation. This woman—Yazhi—could fill in the blanks. Besides, her aura was bright enough to light up Time Square.

  There it is again, damn it. That’s the third or fourth time since the accident you’ve seen someone’s aura. As quickly as the thought crossed her mind, Renée shut it down. She shrugged. “Okay. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.”

  “Thank you.” The woman’s smile was dazzling.

  ***

  Yazhi took advantage of the opportunity to study Renée as she sipped her espresso. The telltale signs of discomfort were present, although Yazhi doubted Renée was aware of that. Her hands were steady, as one would have expected of a world-class photographer, but her eyes darted around the café and her left leg bobbed up and down to an unheard staccato beat.

  “About the little boy,” Yazhi began, and watched with interest as Renée’s pupils dilated and she sucked in a quick breath. She’s afraid.

  “So, how is it you came to be in my hospital room? I don’t remember ever seeing you before that.”

  Yazhi noted the evasion and reached under the table to squeeze her hand around Renée’s knee to still its motion
. Renée went stock still and stiffened under the touch. Yazhi released her grip. “I told you,” she said quietly, “I mean you no harm. I’m worried by what I saw, that is all.”

  Renée opened her mouth, closed it again, then cleared her throat. Yazhi watched a series of emotions flit across her expressive face. It’s more than fear.

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” Yazhi bit her lip. She would not get anywhere as long as Renée was intent on shutting her out. Time to switch gears. Put her back in her comfort zone. “What is in the package?”

  “The package?”

  “Yes.” Yazhi gestured to the wrapped object leaning against Renée’s chair.

  “Oh. That’s nothing. Just another piece I was taking to the gallery, for all the good it did me.” Renée mumbled the last bit.

  “May I see?” When it appeared that Renée would balk, Yazhi added, “Please?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Renée unwrapped the brown paper.

  Yazhi was fascinated by the care she took. It was in sharp contrast to the attitude of indifference Renée was attempting to project.

  “The lighting in here is horrendous, but…” Renée held up a framed 24 by 28 inch photograph.

  Yazhi gasped in delighted surprise. It was Upper Antelope Canyon just at the one moment a day when the sunlight streamed like a spotlight, illuminating the canyon floor and bringing the texture of the walls into sharp relief. She had seen literally hundreds of photographs of that same tableau, but none captured the majesty the way this one did.

  “It’s breathtaking,” Yazhi said.

  “Thanks.”

  Yazhi was surprised to note the subtle blush on Renée’s cheeks. “I didn’t see that in the show last night. I’m sure I would have noticed. Might I enquire how much you’re asking for it?” Never before had Yazhi been moved to purchase a static image of something she saw every day and considered a living, breathing entity, but she was drawn to the work in a way even she couldn’t explain.