by Lisa Gardner
The inside of Lightfoot’s home was as impressive as the outside. The floor was covered in a gray-green slate. Lush plants softened load-bearing columns. Pale sofas and low-backed chairs formed distinct sitting areas. Mostly, however, one admired a wall of four yawning windows that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
The windows were open this morning, overhead fans circulating tangy ocean air and rustling the palm fronds. D.D. could hear seagulls in the distance and smell the salt of the sea. Nice life if you could get it, she thought. She wondered just how exactly a spiritual healer could get it.
Lightfoot reappeared, carrying a bamboo tray piled high with croissants, three mugs, and a French press filled to the brim. He placed the tray on the coffee table closest to the grand piano so D.D. and Alex moved over there. Lightfoot spotted his dog in Alex’s arms and smiled ruefully.
“You know, I’m still in the room,” he told his fickle pet. She raised her head at the sound of his voice and yawned. He chuckled. “Tibbie is an excellent judge of character,” he informed Alex. “I find canines to be much more open and perceptive of energy fields. Hence, their effectiveness as therapy dogs. If we would only open up our minds as much as they do, we would all be better helpers in the world.”
D.D. accepted a cup of coffee and a warm croissant. She took a seat next to Alex. Lightfoot positioned himself on the chair directly across from them, one leg crossed casually over the other. He still appeared relaxed, the congenial host warmly showing off his home. Interesting demeanor for a man whose client had just been brutally murdered.
“Do you know why we’re here?” D.D. asked.
Lightfoot steepled his fingers, shook his head. “I have faith, however, you will tell me when you are ready.”
This surprised D.D. She shot a glance at Alex, who appeared equally startled. Quickly, they schooled their features.
“Watch much TV?” D.D. fished.
“Don’t own a single set,” Lightfoot replied easily.
“You’re not interested in the news? Too earthly for you?”
Lightfoot smiled. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to the Internet as a source of information. And, yes, I read plenty of news. But the past few days I have been ‘off the grid,’ as they say. I just wrapped up a particularly demanding case and needed some time with just the sound of the wind and the waves.”
“Case?” Alex asked, still petting the dog.
“Ever hear of Jo Rhodes?” Lightfoot queried.
D.D. and Alex shook their heads.
“She was a famous burlesque dancer who was brutally murdered in the twenties. Her body was found mutilated and hanged in a hotel room, the killer never caught. I happened to encounter her soul on the spiritual interplanes. Angry, angry presence. No tolerance for men, as you might imagine. Originally, I blocked her out. But then I began to wonder. It seemed such a tragedy, first murdered, now trapped by her own hate. I decided to offer my help.”
“You interviewed a ghost to identify her killer?” D.D. asked in confusion.
Lightfoot smiled at her. “No, I helped Jo let go of her rage. Her killer died twenty years ago. It was her own negativity that was holding her back. It took a few sessions, but she rediscovered the light inside of herself. Then she journeyed on. A satisfying experience, but a very draining one.”
D.D. didn’t know what to say. She set down her coffee. “Mr. Lightfoot—”
“Andrew.”
“Mr. Lightfoot,” she repeated. “What exactly do you do?”
“In colloquial terms, I am an expert in woo-woo.”
“ ‘Woo-woo’?”
“Woo-woo. You know, sixth sense, spiritual powers, other planes of being. It’s been my experience that cops are also adept at woo-woo—you just don’t call it such. Detective’s instinct, gut feel. It’s that little extra that helps get the job done.”
D.D. regarded him skeptically. “So you sell … woo-woo, and”—she gestured around the airy living room—“that earns you all this?”
“Before woo-woo,” Lightfoot provided easily, “I was an investment banker. A very good investment banker. I drove a Porsche, fucked women based on their cup size, and screwed over my rivals. I amassed tens of millions of dollars in materialistic wealth. And achieved total spiritual depletion. Money is not happiness, though I’ll be the first to say it was fun trying for a bit.”
“So you just walked away?”
“One day on my way to work, I passed a fortune-teller. She grabbed my arm and demanded to know why I was wasting my talents. I should be healing lost souls, not working Wall Street, she said. Naturally, I shook her off. Crazy old bat. But a week later, I had dinner with a college buddy who’d just been diagnosed with skin cancer. On a lark, I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. I felt searing heat. Like my hand was on fire, then my arm, my chest, my face, my hair. By the time I managed to let go, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I staggered out of the restaurant, drank eight glasses of water, and went to bed.
“Next day, my friend called. He’d gone to his doctor to discuss treatment options, and the growth on his back was gone. They tested four other places on his body. No cancer cells. All gone. I quit my job the next day.”
D.D. arched a brow. “So you traded in your crass, materialistic life in order to selflessly share your gift with mankind. All right. How does mankind find you?”
“Word of mouth. The Internet.”
“You have a website?”
He smiled. “AndrewLightfoot.com. You might enjoy signing up for the online meditation. I link together thousands of consciousnesses via the Internet and channel all of their energies toward a common goal. Powerful, powerful stuff.”
“What’s the common goal?”
“Enhancing the light. Defeating the dark.”
“ ‘The dark’?”
“Energies work both ways. For every positive, there is a negative. Common sense can agree on that much.” He paused, eyed them expectantly.
“I’ll grant that much,” D.D. concurred. Beside her, Alex nodded. He was munching his second croissant with the dog still nestled on his lap.
“Can you also agree that each of us radiates our own energy, some more strongly than others? Perhaps you think of it as force of personality, or natural charisma. We choose friends because their mere presence makes us joyful or relaxed. We avoid others because being around them is hurtful to us or ‘brings us down.’ We consider them negative—whether angry, or fretful, or generally hateful. Everyone emits energy, and on one level or another, we respond to that.”
D.D. shrugged, “Positive energies and negative energies equals positive people and negative people. What do you bring to the table, Mr. Lightfoot?”
“I have a variety of skills,” he offered.
“Dazzle me.”
“I am a fifth-generation healer, passed down through my paternal line.”
“Lightfoot?” She glanced dubiously at his sun-bleached hair. Not exactly a walking advertisement for Native American.
“I returned to using my great-great-grandfather’s Indian name,” he explained. “Seemed more appropriate for this line of work. Sadly, I can’t do much about my fair features, a gift from my Irish mother.”
“How do you heal people?”
“It’s a matter of becoming receptive to the energies. I put myself in a higher state, then I open myself up to the negativity. Illness or disease feels to me like slivers of ice, as if a glacier has taken root inside someone’s center. I draw upon all the positive energy inside of me and from around me, and I channel it to my hands. Then I place my palms upon the person, and let the positive energy burn the negativity away. People tell me they can feel it. An intense warmth, starting at one point, then radiating throughout their body. Of course, I work with my clients to build their own positive energy as well. To shield themselves from negativity. To embrace the light all around them. Everyone, to a certain extent, can learn to heal themselves and keep themselves healthy. Some of us are simply more naturally adept
.”
“You put your hands on a person,” D.D. said slowly, “then declare him healed?”
“Told you you weren’t the woo-woo type,” he said, smiling. Lightfoot tilted his head, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. “Let me guess. You’re an accomplished detective. A work-hard, play-hard type of gal. You pride yourself on being tough, you always get your man. You would be the first to admit that you’re in touch with your inner bitch.”
D.D. blinked, didn’t say a word.
Lightfoot leaned forward, spoke in that same low, hypnotic tone. “Maybe it’s not about finding your inner bitch, Sergeant Warren. Maybe the key to happiness is finding your inner angel instead.”
He sat back and D.D. kept her eyes locked on his face, even as her hands clenched into fists. Nurse Danielle had been right. Arrogant son of a bitch. And yet … And yet.
“Would it surprise you to know that my father was in law enforcement?” Lightfoot offered abruptly. “Not a big-city detective like you. Small-town cop. I, of course, was the ambitious son who couldn’t wait to escape to the bright lights and big city. After my encounter with the fortune-teller, I called my father. He confirmed my shaman bloodlines, but was unwilling to give our heritage too much credit. So he had an instinctive ability to read people’s true nature. He knew when someone was lying. He knew which men hit their wives and which women abused their children. And he knew when something bad was going to happen. He could feel it, the negativity building in the air like an electrical charge. He’d round up the usual suspects, in case that would make a difference.
“I don’t think my father believed in his skills, as much as he puzzled over them. Because we lived in a peaceful community, did that mean he had few healing instincts? Or did we live in a peaceful community because he had such great healing instincts? Welcome to the nature of woo-woo.”
“Work much with kids?” D.D. asked abruptly.
“I work with all ages.”
“Let’s talk kids,” D.D. insisted.
He spread his hands expansively. “What would you like to know, Sergeant?”
“Does your healing extend beyond the physical to include mental illness? You know, troubled kids and all that?”
“I have worked with a number of kids others might classify as emotionally disturbed.”
“How would you classify them?”
“As old souls, as incredibly wise and sensitive beings who are being viciously attacked by other, more powerful negative forces. These negative energies are drawn to the light, particularly to old souls, and will stop at nothing to destroy them.”
D.D. had to think about this. “We’re back to the battle again? The war between light and dark? Kind of Star Warsy, don’t you think?”
“Maybe Lord of the Rings,” Lightfoot said, then grinned again. “You’re an old soul,” he said abruptly.
“It’s the humidity.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Not for a second. Though I find it interesting that when someone like me meets someone like you, we’re always someone important. An old soul. The former Queen of Sheba. The fortune-teller never says anyone was a peasant a thousand years ago, though most folks were. And apparently, a shaman never says you’re just a flicker in the cosmos of life, though again, most folks are.”
“You must find the truth inside yourself.”
“As the saying goes, no shit, Sherlock.”
Lightfoot laughed, appearing delighted. D.D. glanced down at her half-filled coffee cup, fidgeted with her napkin. She could feel Alex watching her, seeing more than she wanted.
“Young kids, old souls,” she snapped. “What are we talking about here?”
Lightfoot steepled his fingers again, back in lecture mode.
“Contrary to your statement, I don’t believe in past lives. I believe all things are happening now, but on a limitless number of planes. Your soul visits this plane to experience this set of experiences. Joy, hurt, love, hate, etc., etc. Sometimes old souls come to this plane, but inside a baby’s body. These old souls, which have so much power they emote across a multitude of planes, attract dark energies. All actions require a reaction. All positives call upon a negative.
“Unfortunately, young children don’t have the coping skills necessary to protect themselves against negative forces. Their oversensitivity means they’re picking up on everything, from their mother’s stress over not having enough money for groceries to the neighborhood kids’ fear of being targeted by a bully. They’re constantly battered by all of these conflicting energies, especially at night, when the negative forces gain power. These children appear fractured, impulsive, overstimulated. One day, Johnny is incredibly loving and charming, a personality ten times his or her size. The next day, Johnny is a monster, attacking everyone he sees, including his baby sister.
“Physically, these children run hot. They constantly shed clothing, coats, hats, mittens, shoes, and socks. Intellectually, they’re bright, brilliant minds trapped inside a chaotic corporal cage. Emotionally, they operate at the nth degree of everything. They do not just love, they love. They do not just hate, they hate. Everything is more for these kids and nothing soothes them. Not therapy, not drugs, not the other five dozen things their parents have desperately tried before coming to me. The issue is not just physical, intellectual, or emotional. It is spiritual, and that’s one plane today’s experts deliberately overlook.”
“Are you talking exorcisms?” D.D. asked incredulously.
“Sergeant, I don’t believe in God. Therefore, I can’t believe in the Devil.”
“But you believe in light and dark.”
“Absolutely. That’s where I begin with parents. I start each family with basic rituals and skills. We work on meditation, spiritual cleansing, and protection exercises.”
“Exercises?”
“Would you like a handout?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
“I will get you one before you leave. Or again, you can find the information at AndrewLightfoot.com.…”
“You post the exercises? You give them away for free?”
“Remember, gifts are meant to be shared.”
“Right. But not negative energy.”
“Now you’re getting it. These exercises are basic chants. I’ve written sample words for each exercise, as I find most traditional-minded people need help to get started. So I meet with the family in person, preferably in their home so I can get a sense of the energies present—”
“In the whole house?”
“Yes. These homes feel like an icebox. The negativity is everywhere. No wonder an old soul feels as if it’s going insane.”
“So you’re in the house …”
“I’ll conduct a guided meditation, getting each family member to focus his or her light as much as possible. Once I have focused the group’s love, I might attempt a protection exercise. I might also attempt a cleansing of select individuals, starting with the mother. A child’s bonds with his or her mother are extremely powerful, so any negativity in the mother is being communicated to the child. As many physicians will tell you, mother the mother, mother the child.”
D.D. had heard that one before. “So, you’re doing chants, burning a feather, arranging crystals, what?”
He grinned. “No burning feathers. I like crystals, but mostly because other people like crystals. Having a talisman gets them started. Me, I talk. I try to educate the families about energies and help them understand how their child is experiencing the world. I teach them to let go of their rage toward their child, to find tolerance and love once more. I try to help them feel the positive and resist the negative inside of themselves. If they can find their inner truth, then they can be effective parents again.
“These families are fractured. Marriages are strained. Parenting bonds are twisted. Sibling bonds are corrupted. The whole family requires healing, not just the ‘problem child.’ Another weakness, of course, of the modern medical system that studies only the w
eak link, but never the entire chain.”
“What about their doctors?” Alex interjected. “Surely they have opinions about your work with their patients?”
Lightfoot shook his head. “Very few. In my mind, the spiritual, physical, and mental are not mutually exclusive. All should be tended. My expertise is spiritual. I leave the doctors and therapists to the rest.”
“You just told us you help people choose not to be sick,” D.D. countered. “That sounds like doctoring to me.”
“But these kiddos do not have a disease,” Lightfoot retorted. “They suffer from an onslaught of negativity that requires spiritual bolstering.”
“Or pharmaceuticals.”
“Most of the children I see have been prescribed plenty of those already.”
“Meaning you don’t think they work.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you tell the families that?”
“If they ask.”
“I’m gonna guess doctors don’t take that well.”
“I’m gonna guess you’re right.”
D.D. studied him. “What else do you recommend? Beyond ‘spiritual exercises’?”
“Detox. You’re a detective; it might interest you to know that a study of prison inmates found they had significantly higher levels of heavy metals in their blood than the national average. High levels of mercury, in particular, have been known to exacerbate moodiness and increase rage. So I recommend a seven-day healthy-eating program to lower heavy metals and reduce inflammation. Feed the body, feed the soul.”
“Feed the body, feed the soul,” D.D. repeated. “You’re good with the one-liners.”
“I teach workshops, as well,” he replied without blinking. “Again, AndrewLightfoot.com …”
D.D. glanced over at Alex. The dog was still asleep in his arms, but Alex had adopted the blank expression of a detective thinking many things at once.
“And the Harringtons,” D.D. asked finally, looking for a reaction on Lightfoot’s face. “What did you prescribe for them?”
“No,” Lightfoot said firmly. He didn’t appear distressed or anxious. Just firm.
“No what?” D.D. asked carefully.