"Diagnosis fails," Mason went on, unperturbed, "to consider the severity of symptoms or reliable observations of their anomalous nature by the residential staff, the school nurse, and the school physician. At which point Dr. Tsosie sought me out. I then spent two days at the school, during which I reviewed the patient's medical records, observed him while full symptoms were presenting, and conducted interviews. After which I decided that a further referral was necessary. By serendipitous good fortune, my first choice for that referral was soon to be in the area for a speaking engagement at UNM." Mason shut his eyes, tipped his head, and for a long moment let the rich light play on his skin. "Which brings us to Sandia Ridge for a sumptuous sunset and the joint contemplation of a most unusual and dire neuropsychological phenomenon."
They had stopped at the end of the ridge path. Beyond stood a forest of ponderosa pines, now a shadowy cathedral shot through with shafts of light that cut the tree canopy into an intricate lattice. A few sightseers clung to the rail far behind them, snapping photos. On the lower path, just back of the crest, other visitors had begun returning to the tram station, chattering, clutching sweaters and windbreakers tightly around them.
"I still don't know anything about the boy's condition," Cree said. "From what you've told me so far, I can't see why you think I might be of any help. What—he claims he's seeing ghosts?"
"I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here," Dr. Tsosie interposed. He'd stayed quiet throughout their conversation, maintaining a reserve that he seemed to overcome only with difficulty. "Dr. Ambrose, you have an impressive reputation. But I'm here because I need some reassurance that we're doing the right thing. I don't know anything about Ms. Black and I'm skeptical of supernatural explanations. That we're up here talking to a . . . I don't even know what you call Ms. Black . . . a medium?"
"A parapsychologist," Mason said contentedly. "With a Ph.D. in clinical psychology."
"That we're talking about a supernatural origin for Tommy Keeday's problems, and consulting with a ghost buster—my God, Julieta, if the board hears about this—"
"I think the way to address both issues," Mason cut in, "is to begin with Cree telling you something about her theories and her process. That will allow me to explain precisely why I sought her out and will perhaps allay some of your concerns as well, Joseph."
Arms folded against the chill, Julieta nodded. Frustrated, Dr. Tsosie stooped to pick up several stones from the edge of the path. He pitched one hard at the low red sun and watched it disappear into the abyss before he grudgingly dipped his head. "Okay."
"Your skepticism is justified," Cree began. "Movies, horror novels, and urban legends usually portray paranormal events in ways that are sensational and wildly inaccurate. My colleagues and I take a scientific approach. We don't claim anything like an objective understanding of what consciousness is, or the spirit or the soul, or what happens after death. But we do apply a range of investigative techniques that include seeking physical evidence by technological means, historical research, medical testing of witnesses, and psychological analysis. I don't like the word 'supernatural,' because what we study is entirely natural—it's just a domain of complex phenomena that few people have made systematic attempts to explore. We founded Psi Research Associates in 1997 with the goal of researching paranormal phenomena, but people usually come to us only when they have a problem with something inexplicable and troubling, and want to get rid of it. So in that sense, the term 'ghost buster' is not inaccurate. We prefer to say we 'alleviate' or 'remediate' hauntings."
Tsosie grunted as he winged another stone far out into the air. The sun was setting fast now, flattening on the bottom as ifbeginning to liquefy. "If there's any real science to parapsychology, why hasn't it become accepted in the mainstream? We know the inner workings of the atom, we've mapped the human genome. Why don't we have reliable information about ghosts?"
"Why?" Cree snapped. "How about asking why belief in ghosts has existed in remarkably consistent form in every culture throughout the world and throughout history? And why people keep reporting encounters with them today, more than ever, despite skepticism and ridicule from family, community, scientists, religious authorities, news media—"
She stopped, regretting her tone. These people were coping with something deeply upsetting, she reminded herself, something that had challenged their beliefs and made them desperate enough to come here for this meeting. Her heart moved in her chest, and she reached out to touch Julieta's arm before going on.
"There are many reasons why the phenomena I study aren't well understood. Not the least of them is that there's a powerful stigma attached to reporting them. A moment ago, when you mentioned your concern about how your board would react? That's a good example of how information about paranormal events gets repressed. People keep a lid on what they experience. As a result, we don't communicate data, we don't collect and correlate it. We tend to ignore what we see because it doesn't fit in with expectations, or will cause us problems. Scientists dealing with inexplicable anomalies fear for their reputations if they talk about them. In the old days, religious orthodoxy repressed data. You could be burned at the stake if you showed interest in whatever was deemed 'supernatural' at the time—much of which, I should point out, we now call 'science.' Nowadays, scientific orthodoxy just kills careers, but it's a powerful disincentive. So witnesses of ghosts often do a lot of self-censoring."
Of course, that was just the tip of the iceberg. But a full explanation of her theories of psychology and the ways of the universe wasn't something you could unload on people you'd just met.
Frustrated, Cree found her anger at Mason's manipulations growing. "Look, I'd be happy to skip all the explanations and justifications. Just tell me how any of this relates to your Tommy Whatshisname. I can't see that—"
"What is a ghost?" Julieta McCarty asked. Though she tried hard to control it, her jaw was trembling, teeth beginning to chatter from the cold. Her question seemed as much a challenge as an inquiry.
Cree took a breath to reclaim her patience. " 'Ghost' is a lousy word for a whole set of phenomena we don't understand. There are many kinds of noncorporeal entities. Most of the ones I deal with are fragments of a once-living human personality that somehow keep manifesting in the absence of a physical body. We have several theories as to how this can occur. The most common ghosts or revenants are what we call 'perseverating fragmentaries'—not so much whole beings as disconnected mental and emotional matrixes that replay independently of a corporeal self. Usually, ghosts are compulsively reliving important experiences, often the moment of their deaths—the perimortem experience—or crucial memories of their lives." She paused to gauge their reactions. "Look, I know this sounds like gobbledygook to you. It's impossible to—"
"How do you 'alleviate' ghosts?" Julieta asked.
Cree was getting increasingly impatient with the whole exercise, with Julieta's probing, Tsosie's skepticism, Mason's veiled amusement. Might as well give them the whole banana, she thought. And if they don't buy it, maybe I can get my butt off this freezing mountain and go home. "It goes back to theory," she said. "Ghosts don't appear to just anyone. There's always a link of some kind between the ghost and those who experience it. It might be a direct link—a relationship from the past, say—or a purely psychological one, a state of emotional vulnerability that primes the witness's mind for perceiving the ghost. Edgar Mayfield, my partner, thinks the link sensitizes the witness's central nervous system to the electromagnetic emanations of the ghost. I have a somewhat different theory, but in any case, that link is the reason most ghosts are perceived by only one or at best a very few people. Ghosts can be manifestations of any strong emotion or yearning, positive or negative, but they're almost always feelings that are unresolved. What I do is try to find that connection between ghost and witness, try to understand the issues that they have in common, what's unresolved for both of them. One of my clients called me a psychotherapist for ghosts, and that's not far wrong—except
that I do it for the witnesses as well because ghost and witnesses need to progress in parallel toward resolution. Dr. Mayfield looks for physical evidence of ghosts and uses various technologies to try to identify the mechanisms of their manifestation. Our assistant, Joyce Wu, supports our work with historical research and forensic investigation. I use psychology and a special set of. . . sensitivities that Mason calls a variant of projective identification. I just call it empathy. All it means is that I intuitively mesh with people's feelings. I take on their states of mind, which helps me to see and understand the ghost they've seen. And helps me find the link between them."
To Cree's surprise, the whole banana didn't prompt another skeptical comment or semirhetorical question. On the contrary: Tsosie turned back from the cliff, his eyes seeking Julieta's, and Julieta faced him with a guarded expression that seemed to caution him to silence.
Half the sun's disk was below the distant mountains now, and the lovely light on the near rocks and trees dimmed as if absorbing darkness from the growing shadows. Far below, another tramcar was sliding up its invisible wire.
"Look, I can't package the whole thing in twenty-five words or less," Cree said, "any more than you could explain education or medicine. If you're not going to believe me, and you're not going to tell me anything about this boy, we should get back to the station. Is that the last car for the night? It's getting cold."
"Just one more question, Lucretia, please," Mason said. "Where do ghosts occur? Why do they appear in a given place?"
Cree glared at him but went along with it one last time. "We're not entirely sure. They often appear in the place where they died, or in a place that figured importantly in their lives. Some are very limited, able to manifest only in a single house or even just a single room or patch of ground. My partner believes they manifest where local electromagnetic or gravitational conditions are favorable. He has shown a correlation between cycles of manifestation and fluctuations in geomagnetic fields, such as those caused by tidal forces. The living human brain and nervous system is an electrically mediated organ and creates electromagnetic fields—that's what we measure when we take an electroencephalogram. I have a more complex view of it, but Ed believes that the strong emotions of the dying create fields that imprint on local geomagnetic fields, like tape recordings that play back when conditions are right."
"So these favorable conditions," Mason said, "according to Dr. Mayfield, they're electromagnetic fields that support or reinforce the energies of the ghost? Functionally, ghosts come into being when conditions exist that amplify or . . . host the ghost's feeble or latent fields?"
"Exactly."
Mason's face, bilious orange in the dying light, smiled hugely. "And, of course, it makes sense that another human brain and nervous system—a living one—would create just the right fields, correct? Would make the perfect amplifier? The perfect host? Isn't that concept entirely congruent with Edgar's thinking? Doesn't it jibe also with your own belief that ghosts manifest when they encounter a supportive neuropsychological or psychosocial environment?"
Oh my, Cree thought, seeing it at last.
They all watched her expectantly as she sorted through it. Of course. The history of it went back forever and ever, through every tradition of psychology and spirituality and medicine from the dawn of time. It was just too horrible to contemplate.
She was speechless for a moment before she tried the word. "You mean . . . possession. You think this boy is—"
Mason nodded minutely. Julieta and Dr. Tsosie, their faces in shadow now, just watched her.
Possession: The word seemed to linger in the air, a pollutant that hung like smoke between them. Whatever skepticism they'd felt had given way to ambivalence, and in only a few moments the dynamic had changed. It struck Cree that they were sincerely looking to her for answers, for help. Now she understood what their terse questioning really was. The effect of an intense paranormal experience was much like dealing with the death of a loved one: Witnesses went through a predictable sequence of denial, negotiation, anger, and resignation. People who came to a parapsychologist demanding "Prove it!" were actually people who'd already had a deeply convincing experience and were seeking assurance that there was some rational foundation for what they'd already been forced to deal with at an emotional level. That these two were already in the negotiating phase meant they'd had a tough time of it.
The sun had dwindled to a blob of molten magma at the horizon. Nearer now, the tramcar turned on its interior lights, and in the twilight the row of disembodied bright windows flew upward toward the station. Cree was freezing.
Possession: a being that lived inside you, laid its energies along your nerves, invaded the circuits of your brain, and took up residence in your thoughts. Reports of such occurrences stretched from oral traditions come down from prehistory to the Bible to well-documented cases in the present day. Of course, she and Ed had talked about it, but in ten years of paranormal research, Cree had avoided the concept, hoping it was just another example of sensational folklore or Hollywood horror hoopla, like zombies, werewolves, and witches on broomsticks.
But Mason was right, the local field of a human nervous system would create the perfect home for an errant, bodiless being. As would the proximity of a human personality going through parallel psychological processes. Possession was the ultimate affirmation of what Cree had always believed: that it was people who were haunted as much as places.
"Yes, that's what I was thinking, Cree," Mason said gleefully. "This boy is, in conventional parlance, possessed. And if I were you, I'd call your colleagues tonight. Tell them you've got what you've always wanted—a paranormal entity in a bottle, just waiting to be studied."
5
CREE PACED the carpet of her hotel room, waiting for the phone to be picked up in New Orleans. From her fifth-floor window, she looked down at the lights of the cars oozing along Central Avenue, the downtown artery better known to visitors as Route 66. Resonances of James Dean and Bob Dylan were few and far between now, but Cree had found them—not so much in the restored Historic 66 sections with their retro restaurants and clubs, but the dingy strip of older motels and greasy spoon diners. Somehow she felt more comfortable there; the restaurant where she'd grabbed a burger on the way back from the mountain was just the kind of place Pop used to like. Once a daughter of a working stiff, she thought, always.
Paul Fitzpatrick didn't pick up, but she got his answering machine. "Hi, it's me," she said, feeling awkward about the message she needed to leave. "I'm in Albuquerque. At the Hotel Blue—I don't know why it's named that. My talk went really well. I ran into my old mentor, Mason Ambrose." Pause. "Well, I didn't run into him, he showed up and kidnapped me. He sandbagged me completely. Brought a woman to meet me? A client? I kind of agreed to look into a problem at this school she runs over near the Navajo reservation." Kind of was inaccurate: She'd already canceled her flight back to Seattle and arranged to ride with Julieta McCarty to the school tomorrow. "She was desperate, and it looks like it could be a really important case. There's this kid who . . . Well, I shouldn't really talk about it. But I won't be showing up this week after all. I'm hoping we can reschedule my visit, maybe put it off. . . oh, three weeks? Can you get some time free then?" With all her hesitations, this was becoming a lengthy message, and it was all wrong anyway, no emotional weight. Hurrying, she tried again: "I'm really disappointed. I was really looking forward to seeing you sooner. I miss you. I hope you've had a fabulous day. Call me, okay?"
Bleep.
Relationships in the technological era! she cursed.
She put down the phone and got a can of Coors from the minibar. Back at the window, she popped it and took a cold swig. If only she'd taken an immediate dislike to Julieta McCarty. If only Mason hadn't piqued her curiosity despite her fury at him. If only it didn't involve a kid whose life really did seem to be on the line.
Down on Central, a police car sparked as it swerved through slower traffic, turned onto a side st
reet, and finally disappeared into the maze of neighborhood streets. A moment later, an ambulance sped from the other direction and turned onto the same street. Some desperate human situation out there in the sprawling city. It was a lonesome view.
She put down the beer to dial Deirdre's number. Nine o'clock on a Thursday night—no, eight in Seattle—they wouldn't be in bed yet at her sister's house.
One of the twins answered. Hard to tell which on the basis of one word.
"Hi," Cree said tentatively.
"No, this is Zoe."
"I didn't mean 'Hy' as in Hyacinth, I meant 'Hi' as in 'hello.'" This was ritual vaudeville they went through whenever Cree got Zoe. When she got Hyacinth, the stock response was, "How did you know it was me?"
In the background, Cree heard the cacophony of some TV show. She could picture Deirdre and Don and the two girls, sitting in their snug Craftsman home, the lights warm on the nice fabrics Dee had done their living room in. A low-key Thursday night, some family time. Probably watching the Discovery Channel—it was something about crocodiles—and munching microwave popcorn. The image offered an unsettling contrast to the blank, black hotel room window and the naked urban sky.
"Are you still in New Mexico?" Zoe asked.
"Yeah. Actually, the reason I called was to tell you guys I won't be able to make your birthday party on Tuesday."
"Just a minute," Zoe ordered. "Can you guys turn it down?" Back to Cree: "What did you say?"
"I said I've got to stay on here for a few days, maybe longer. Kind of an emergency. I won't be able to get there for your birthday party."
"Oh, man. Mom's going to be p—. . . um, peeved." Zoe muffled the receiver, but Cree could still hear the scowl in her voice as she called out to her family, "Great! Aunt Cree isn't coming to the party!"
"I'm really sorry, Zoe. I've got some presents for you girls, though. I miss you like crazy. Hey, you should have seen where I went today—this tram ride that went up the mountain here? Like being in an airplane. Zoe, seriously, you'd have loved it."
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