by Arjay Lewis
“I brought you that research you asked for,” I said.
One of McGee’s eyebrows went up. “That’s great. Join me in the back, and we’ll take a look.”
I followed McGee dutifully, and he took me to the conference room, where he poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
“You want some?” he offered.
“No, thanks. I prefer my stomach lining intact. I have the most recent papers from Associated Insurance.”
“Renting yourself out as a messenger?” he quipped, as he sat heavily across from me and took the envelope I held out. “I’d advise a bicycle, or at least a golf cart.”
“I want to maintain my amateur status,” I said.
He opened the envelope, took out the papers, and read them quickly.
He grunted. “John Gingold? He’s one of the people who formed the corporation. I wonder why he didn’t turn up in my database?”
“According to one of those papers, he’s a citizen of the Bahamas,” I pointed out.
“Which is like having money in Switzerland. It’s there, but no one can trace it to you,” he said as he went through the pages. “Neat little scam. This guy could be an American, but if he transferred his passport—it might be hard to track him down.”
“His lawyer was at Mrs. Baine’s office,” I said. “And he fits the description of the man I saw at Mishan’s—and today at the funeral.”
“You sure you saw this guy, or was he just in your head, like the fire?”
“It was a vision when I saw him at Mishan’s. But at the memorial park, he was quite real.”
“So, he’s an arsonist who can vanish into thin air. Good skill set.”
“He didn’t disappear at the insurance office. I saw him walk away.”
“Same guy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Might be a lead,” McGee said as he read the affidavit. “This lawyer, he’s Hallman?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I might have news when it comes to firebugs. I think we’ve located Lonny the Match.”
“Really?”
“Paramus police spotted him and should be picking him up within the hour.”
“How do you suppose he’s involved in all this?”
“I dunno. Maybe that invention of his. You said you had a vision where he met with Mishan…”
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “What happened with Hoefler?”
Bill shrugged his massive shoulders. “He’s weird, even for a lawyer. I began asking questions about Wendy Wallace, and he claims that he was her lawyer. So any discussions were privileged.”
“Convenient,” I said, “considering the only one who can verify that claim is dead.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t getting anywhere. So, I asked him about the death of his wife’s parents…”
“And he had nothing to say?”
“No, get this! He says, ‘I had nothing to do with that.’ Now, that got my attention. I ask him if their deaths were not an accident, and he just says ‘It was an accident, you can check with the police in Mendham,’ stuff like that.”
“So why say he had nothing to do with it?” I mused. “Odd choice of words.”
“He wasn’t sure how much I knew. But he backpedaled after that, trying to tell me he didn’t mean anything. But I say the hell with that! I caught him off-guard and glimpsed a moment of truth. He knows something about their deaths.”
“Can you reopen the case?” I suggested.
“I’ll exhume the bodies if I have to. But I think I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Hoefler next.”
“Think she’ll be forthcoming?”
“She won’t be as practiced a liar, after all, she doesn’t do it for a living. She can’t testify against her husband, but maybe she might point me in a new direction.”
“And maybe she knows something about Wendy’s boyfriend.”
“Provided it isn’t her own husband. I still didn’t get the answer to that.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “When I saw him at the funeral, I didn’t get any kind of insight about him. I think if he was the man who killed her, alarms would have gone off in my head.”
“You only get those for our guy in black.”
“Which makes me want to find out who he is.”
“I thought you said he was the Nova lawyer, Jack Hallman.”
I shrugged. “What if there is someone hiding under all of this that doesn’t want to be found? I mean, people living abroad, a corporation with no officers? It all points to someone trying to stay in the shadows.”
“I’ll go to this lawyer, Hallman and try to get some answers.”
“What do you think the big picture is?” I asked.
McGee shrugged. “Arson for hire, hidden money, insurance fraud? Len, I just don’t know.” A broad grin spread on his face. “Isn’t that why I brought you in?”
“I guess,” I said. “So, am I helping without exceeding any boundaries?”
“You’re a help. But, please, stay away from any more fires or anyone who dies.”
“I’ll try,” I said, thinking of Jenny’s visit from the man in black and how uncomfortable it made me feel.
. . .
I wandered back to the Baines’s house and found myself bored. I looked around and discovered an ancient stained copy of The Joy of Cooking. I decided to attempt another simple dinner from what I found in the refrigerator and cabinets. On Jenny’s arrival home, I received a grateful hug for the cooked meal, and it made me melt.
I was still worried about her, wondered if there was any way that the man in black could get to her, and it bothered me that it kept coming into my mind repeatedly.
The next day, I got up very early, put on my usual tweed jacket, and asked Jon for a ride to the university to use their computers. He readily agreed, drove me to GSU, and after he said “Good morning” to his assistant, Trisha, he put me in the same computer room I used before.
My first action was to e-mail Doctor Kohl:
Fritz,
Need any and all info about pyrokinesis and any possible protection or suggestion as to how to confront it.
Doing field research.
Len
I then put the word “pyrokinesis” in the search engine, but only got several sites littered with characters in role playing games who possessed pyrokinetic “power” which was worth a certain number of points. These points allowed you to defeat an enemy through additions and subtractions that bordered on numerology and were all but incoherent to me, despite my PhD.
Upon deeper study of the web selections, I also found a Japanese movie released on video bearing the same name, with a plot that turned and twisted around a lead character with pyrotechnic powers. I didn’t feel a need to know more about it or purchase it.
I was busy living it.
After about an hour, I was ready to give up. Just in case, I checked my e-mail again and was pleased to find a response from Dr. Kohl.
Leonard,
A surprising request. Research in the field, you say? A very esoteric choice.
Might I suggest you consider cryokinesis if you are after a counter-effect? This is the ability to slow molecules down. You are familiar with the effects of it. Cryokinesis is what causes hauntings to be cold. Encountering paranormal phenomena slows down the air molecules, and the atmosphere in the room becomes colder.
Remember how cold it became in Scudder House? Same effect. There is a correlation between haunting and telekinetic experiences—cryokinesis being the most common.
There is information out there, but I’ll keep it simple. Recall our candle exercises. That might be a good place to start.
Your friend,
Fritz
Yes, I could remember how cold it was in Scudder House. The one evening we
did research, one machine registered a change of forty degrees in the room when I acted as a medium.
Odd, it’s the one place where I did my best work, and yet the presence I felt there made me want to blot it out of my mind, as I try to do with the memory of the night Cathy died.
I’m attracted and repelled by it at the same time. I would have to think about the Scudder House because there might be something I learned that could help me. What I remember most is the feeling that I only touched the surface, that there was a presence there—another personality—that was strong and hungry.
Fritz was right; I distinctly remembered how cold I’d felt, chilled to the bone by whatever was there. If I could think of a way to do the same thing—create frigid temperatures—I could use it as a weapon against a pyrokinetic.
I shut down the computer in disgust. Yes, there were measurable temperature changes at the Scudder House. But I had no idea how to do it unless I could find a helpful ghost willing to follow me around and chill the room on command like a trained puppy.
I pushed myself up with my cane and walked back to Jon’s office, where Trisha Heywood looked up from some paperwork she was filling out.
“I’m taking off, Trisha. Thank Jon for me.”
“That’s fine, Doctor,” she said, smiling in her unassuming way. “Did you find what you were after?”
“No,” I said. “There doesn’t seem to be anyplace on the Internet to look up metaphysical studies.”
“Oh? I imagine not. Most universities don’t have programs for that.”
“That would be something I would be happy to change,” I said. “I’m telling you, parapsychology departments at major universities would make a huge difference in available information. Personally, I think there is a tremendous interest nowadays.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think so?”
“When I began my course of study, the only place I could go at all was to Southern California University of Health Sciences to work with Doctor Kohl. It’s the only school of higher learning in the country with a parapsychology program. And there’s a waiting list to get into the program.”
“That’s really very interesting.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t help my research. I’m going to the campus library. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”
“All right, Doctor. See you later,” she said and gave me a little wave.
I tapped my way out of College Hall and headed towards the huge Templeton Library building, only a few dozen yards away. But, in spite of the enormous collection on hand, after an hour of research I found less than on the Internet. All I located under ‘pyrokenesis’ was an old scary novel and the Encyclopedia of The Occult that listed the ability as a variation on PK—psychokinesis—and telepathy.
Finally, a little before noon, I decided a lunch with Jenny would be a better choice. I quickly extracted her card and tapped the number into my phone.
“Jennifer Baines,” she said, picking up.
“Leonard Wise,” I said. “I didn’t know Jenny was short for Jennifer.”
“Lenny, just stick to Jenn or Jenny. I only use my full name for business,” she said.
“I wanted to see if you were free for lunch.”
“I thought you were busy doing research.”
“It’s not panning out. Are you free?”
“Sure. You’ll be walking—can you be here by twelve-thirty?”
“On my way,” I said and hung up.
It was another beautiful day. The chill from Tuesday had given way to a sunny Wednesday with temperatures in the sixties. I still needed my tweed jacket, but I was comfortable, and the air was filled with the fresh scent of life as it renewed itself from the New Jersey winter.
It was a pleasure to breathe through my nose, and it invigorated me. There was also a feeling of belonging, like I was home. I grew up experiencing shifting seasons. In California, the perpetual warm weather and the desert shrubbery and palm trees never quite looked right. Here, as I walked along streets lined with maples, oaks, and pines, I was in my environment, the one from my childhood. Suburbia and small towns, spring in the air, it was—comfortable.
I wandered back to the Associated Insurance building, and after filling out the book and getting my badge from security, made it up to the tenth floor.
The same receptionist sat at the desk, wearing a pink outfit that bordered on the ridiculous. I approached carefully, not wanting to be blinded by the neon shade of her attire.
“Leonard Wise to see Jenny Baines,” I said.
“She’s with—a client,” she said, her voice interrupted by muffled shouts down the hall.
Danger…
“What is that?” I asked as I felt the buzz far in advance of a raised voice in an office.
“That might be the man who came by to see her. He was very agitated,” she said. As she rose from her chair, her hand went to her hair, primping it unconsciously.
I faced her. “The man from yesterday, all in black—with sunglasses?”
“Yes, but I…” she said, uneasily, as the loud voice spoke again.
“Where are they?” I demanded, already in motion down the hall.
“Third room on the right,” she said.
I moved down the hall and could see other people as they stood within their cubicles. They were also alarmed at the loud voice in the usually quiet domain.
The hall was decorated in wood stained a reddish color, and I passed two solid doors with long rectangular windows in them, which gave me a quick view of the offices behind them.
The third door also contained a glass section, and in it, I could easily see Jenny as she stood and confronted a tall, dark shape.
I pushed the door open and stepped noisily into the room. Apparently, Jenny was speaking, but she didn’t shout. My entrance into the room stopped her and left her agape, her mouth open and slack.
The man turned to face me. Still wearing black, but this time a very well-tailored black suit. He wore a maroon shirt so dark that it was only a little lighter than the suit itself; a black tie finished the ensemble. He carried on his arm the black leather coat I remembered from the funeral—and wore the same sunglasses, reflective and angular, giving his eyes the look of a bug.
But worse was the feeling like a hundred alarm bells going off in the back of my head. I’ve had buzzes by the score, and I’ve undergone visions, hunches, and even the occasional out-of-body experience. But this was like someone set off a dozen small firecrackers at the end of my spinal cord, and they were each popping and sending explosive energy up into my brain.
I was not only aware that this was the man, but that my sudden entrance may have been the worst possible choice.
It was my turn to gape.
“L-Lenny,” Jenny stammered.
“You know him?” the man said, his expression stony. He wobbled a little bit on his feet—could he be as affected by my presence as I was by his? He gathered himself and stood up straighter.
“I should have known,” he said. “So, this is why my personal business is of such interest to the police. You are conspiring together.”
He wasn’t yelling this time, but his words were tinged with an anger that I felt as well as heard.
“Nonsense, Mr. Hallman!” Jenny said, trying to regain her own composure. “The police are involved because it was a suspicious fire. You do want people to find out how Mr. Mishan died, don’t you?”
Clever, I thought. She’s turned it around, made it so that it was in his best interest to have the police involved.
I started to recover and put up my imaginary walls to seal myself off from him.
“I heard yelling…” I said, as best an explanation for my arrival as I could come up with.
“Yes, Mr. Hallman was getting a bit loud,” Jenny replied.
“My office was overrun with
police!” he said, forcefully, but without raising his voice. I’d left the door open on my entrance, and that helped him maintain his composure.
“They are investigating a possible murder,” Jenny said.
“Murder! How ridiculous! This is all an attempt by your company to avoid paying on our insurance. After all, the store burns down—there are no bombs—no spilled fuel—and no evidence of a murder. It was probably faulty wiring!”
“Hard to tell now that the building is a blackened hole,” I blurted out.
His face turned toward me, and I could feel his gaze through the lenses. I wondered if the glasses were removed, would I see a pair of flaming red eyes?
A small smile played on his lips, and he spoke quietly, even politely. “Which proves my point. If it were bad wiring, that’s what caused the fire to start again and destroyed the property.”
“I cannot release funds during a police investigation,” Jenny said. “It’s the company’s position, and you can read it in your policy. As a lawyer, I’m sure you know how to read fine print.”
He turned back to Jenny and jabbed his first finger in the air. “This isn’t over.”
“It is until there is a final determination by the coroner as well as our own investigators. You must be patient.”
“I’m very patient. But it is wearing thin,” he slid toward the door and stopped next to me. “Our paths keep crossing.”
“It seems that way,” I said.
“I do hope you carry insurance, Mister…?” he said, one eyebrow raised above the glasses.
“Doctor,” I said, a little louder than necessary. “Doctor Leonard Wise. I’m glad we could meet face to face.”
The smile returned. He enjoyed mocking me, and he had a high opinion of himself—smug, condescending. “I think you would prefer to avoid me in the future.”
“Or I’ll end up like Wendy Wallace?”
The smile became broader.
“I only knew her in passing. A tragedy—her death,” he gave one last look to Jenny. “Probably faulty wiring as well.”
“Or things she was connected to?” I snapped.
His mouth became a hard line. “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Baines.” He sashayed out the door and down the hall toward the elevator.