by Jamel Cato
“Why? I’m innocent.”
She stared at me. “Have you ever looked in the mirror? You’re a six-foot-two black man. Innocence is the hashtag they will type in your memory on Twitter.”
My uncle and my cousin had told me the same thing.
“What a world.”
“Please tell me your hot date is not with Patricia Hollenbeck.”
Before I could tell her, my ex-wife Darlene stuck her head around the edge of the door. When she saw that I was well enough to sit up in bed, some of the palpable concern in her eyes dissipated.
I felt Eve transition away.
“Thank God,” Darlene said, approaching my bed. “I was so worried about you. They told me you had been injured by a car bomb. I took the next flight out.”
Even though we’ve been divorced for almost five years, Darlene is still my emergency contact everywhere I need an emergency contact.
She gently patted my torso, checking that all my parts were still there.
“Lower,” I said with a mischievous smile.
She stopped. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
She changed that by slapping me hard across the face. “You had me worried to death. When they said it was a bomb, I thought…” She turned away to hide her tears. “I thought…”
I rose from the bed and pulled her back toward me, wrapping my arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Darlene. I’m sorry I worried you. There really was a bomb and it really did detonate right below me.”
“Then how come you don’t have a scratch?” she sobbed.
I sighed and spent the next two hours telling her all the truths I knew.
Chapter 19
For security reasons, I started using Uber and Lyft to get around Charlotte instead of a rental car. I initially viewed this choice and its concomitant delays as an annoyance. But then I came to appreciate the multitasking I could engage in while someone else was doing the driving.
I was especially productive on the ride from my hotel to Vanessa’s house. I sent several emails, including a secure message to a certain computer espionage specialist requesting everything the Police knew about Tammy Balzano’s disappearance.
Then I made two phone calls.
Xavier Hill answered the other end of the line. “What’s good, Tree?”
“Making it do what it does. I need a favor.”
“Let me guess: You want me to introduce you to Riva’s sexy ass sister.”
“Hold up. She has a sister? And she’s fine like her?”
“A dime. She’ll have you giving foot rubs and stopping at the store to pick up feminine hygiene products with no noise.”
“Damn.”
“What do you need?”
Even though I was speaking to a shapeshifting descendant of Queen Nefertiti who was dating the daughter of a Hindu goddess, I still hesitated before making my request. “I need to speak with Gaia. In person.”
The line went silent for a few seconds before he said, “Let me get back to you.”
I ended that call then dialed a burner phone.
“Yo,” Marcus “Two G” Burrows answered succinctly.
Marcus was a twenty-seven-year old former drug dealer in Camden, New Jersey. He’d earned his nickname because of his penchant for carrying—and using—two guns. We’d met and befriended each other when I was retained by a certain catholic diocese to cleanup an exorcism that had gone horribly wrong. As a result of that experience, Marcus expressed an interest in pursuing ghost hunting as a fulltime career. I told him I would be glad to help make that happen as soon as he made a few positive life changes. He agreed, but escaping the quicksand of the streets is a monumental feat that few achieve. It would take time.
“Somebody tried to murk me,” I said.
“Word? You know who?”
“Yup.”
“You want me to go see him?”
“Yeah, but not like that.”
I explained what I needed him to do.
Vanessa lived in a tidy, middle class Charlotte neighborhood of single homes that were so close together I had no doubt I could change the volume on her neighbor’s TV with the remote control on her coffee table.
“You get points for showing up on time and smelling good,” she declared.
“No dap for the wine?”
“Almost everything I made has honey in it and that’s an American Riesling. Sweet doesn’t go with sweet.”
Some men, perhaps most, might be intimidated by a woman who was bourgeoisie enough to know that and bold enough to say it, but Preston Thelonious Tiptree is not one of those men.
I pulled out my phone and started tapping at the screen.
Twelve minutes later, an out-of-breath courier from a web delivery service rang Vanessa’s doorbell with an expensive bottle of French sauvignon blanc cradled in his arms.
I paid the hundred-dollar tip I had promised, then turned to Vanessa with the more appropriate spirit in my hand. “Can you hear me now?”
She smiled. “Let’s bless the food.”
After a satisfying evening of food, wine and conversation, including hilarious tales about the emotional and physical shortcomings of her previous suitors, Vanessa cut to the chase.
“How do you know my grandmother?”
I usually answer this question with an unverifiable claim about volunteering in a nursing home, but I decided that she had heard enough lies from the mouths of men.
“I’m not just an investigator, I’m a paranormal investigator. And I’m not just a paranormal investigator, I can talk to the dead.”
Vanessa studied me for a moment, then burst out laughing.
But I didn’t.
“Wait, you’re serious?”
“I am.”
She studied me more. “Is my Nana here now?”
“She is.”
Vanessa proceeded to ask me a series of questions that only her grandmother could answer correctly. When all the right answers came back, she said, “Tell Nana we need some privacy.”
After her grandmother shifted away, she said, “I’m not sleeping with you. I can’t go there this soon.”
“I understand,” I said.
Later that night, after we had slept together, she rolled over in bed. “Are you up?”
“Yes,” I said, staring at the ceiling.
“Why? You’re making me doubt my skills.”
“Girl, the neighbors know your name,” I said, reassuring her.
“I appreciate your restraint.”
“About what?”
“Not asking me a single question about Bobby or his business all night.”
I said nothing. It had been a struggle, but I had so enjoyed our time together that I didn’t want to jeopardize the chance of enjoying it again.
“I know that’s not why you’re here,” she said. “But I also know why you came to our office. Are you really working for Pat?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a draft copy of the divorce complaint that Bobby wrote up. All that stuff about Pat suffering a psychological breakdown because she thought the house was haunted made me think she needed a double dose of Prozac, but now…”
“She hasn’t suffered a breakdown. Everything she said is true. I saw proof with my own eyes.”
“Oh.”
“I know why Bobby hasn’t pushed the divorce forward, but I can’t figure out what Pat is waiting for. And I don’t know why she won’t just move.”
“It’s the separation agreement,” Vanessa said.
“You saw that too?”
“I see every piece of paper that comes through that office, business or personal. They pay me like a receptionist but work me like a paralegal. And I speak español.”
“They’re taking advantage of you.”
“They’re doing what I allow them to do. Pat won’t leave that house because she gets nothing if she does. Their prenup is airtight. But as long as she stays in the house, Bobby will pay the bills and she can keep buying Birki
n bags and taking Ronnie to that expensive clinic at Duke.”
“Why would Bobby do that?”
“Because he knows it’ll be next to impossible to find another HOA or developer to allow testing of that EnviroTech machine after the lawsuits and allegations made by those two women in California.”
“You mean Dina Clovin and Julia Minton?”
“I don’t remember their names off the top of my head.”
“That explains a lot. I’m surprised Pat would agree to an airtight prenup. She seems too smart for that.”
“Bobby took advantage of her. She signed it at what I assume was a low point. She was represented by a half-ass tort lawyer that Bobby recommended to her. If they get divorced, all she’ll get is a slap on the ass and ten percent of his Roth IRA.”
“Why do you think she was at a low point?”
“Even though he makes more money than God, Bobby hates being a slip and fall lawyer. He knows he doesn’t have the pedigree or the contacts to run a corporate practice, so he’s been spending every extra dime trying to turn himself into a bootleg venture capitalists. He met Pat at some investor conference in Arizona. She was a quote unquote hostess. Knowing what I do now, I’m pretty sure Pat was there looking for a sugar daddy to pay for Ronnie’s treatment. I see the bills from the clinic. There’s no way a single mom without a good job could afford that. That prenup could have required her to plant sunflowers on the dark side of the moon and she would’ve signed it.”
“Everything was gravy until the house became haunted,” I speculated.
“Basically,” she confirmed. “When that happened, Bobby started looking closer at those clinic bills. And the booth babes at those tech expos he’s always going to. Some of those airheads send him love notes through the public email address on the firm’s website, which all get forwarded to me.”
“How did Bobby get tied in with EnviroTech? I’ve met the founders. I’m surprised they would take funding from a small time angel investor in North Carolina.”
“The CEO is married to the niece of the HOA lady from Bobby and Pat’s development.”
“Christine Riles?”
“That’s her. You should see the finder’s fee she’ll get if the device passes testing.”
“You just saved me a month of work.”
“Good. Now tell me why you’re really still up.”
I exhaled deeply. “I’m having nightmares, which never happens.”
“About the car bombing?”
I snapped my head toward her. “You know about that?”
“I googled the hell out of you before you came over. I don’t just let anybody come in my house, cameras or no cameras. Pictures of you on the ground at that parking lot were all over social media. I was waiting for you to call and cancel dinner.”
“I thought I was cool, but every time I close my eyes I see the faces of the people I couldn’t help asking ‘Why Preston, Why?’”
“Answer them.”
“What?”
“A dream is your subconscious talking to you. A nightmare is a shout.”
“I don’t know the answers.”
“Tell them. Tell yourself.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Where have you been my whole life?”
She rolled back over. “I’ve given you good food, good lovin’, good information and good advice. There’s nothing else ‘Nessa can do for you tonight. Go to sleep before you make me miss my hair appointment in the morning.”
Chapter 19
I stepped down into the cool basement of Napoleon’s illegal dwelling in North Philadelphia. He and Marianna did not use air conditioners for political and environmental reasons, so they often spent the warm months hunkered underground.
Napoleon ushered me into an empty chair in front of the triple monitor computer workstation he shared with his common law wife, who rose from her seat to kiss me on both cheeks.
After pleasantries, Napoleon started scrolling through post processed digital photographs from my first night at Pat’s house.
“Guessing this is what you’re looking for,” he said, pointing to an artificially highlighted poltergeist stalking a corner of Pat’s living room while I slept.
“That’s a big one,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve never seen one that large,” Marianna agreed. “The infant it rose from must have been very young.”
We scrolled through more photographs until we came to one that displayed Naaru and his retinue.
“Who are these guys?” Napoleon asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them. They seem intelligent.”
“They are,” I confirmed. “They’re called the Wru. They’re from another dimension.”
“No kidding?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Who told you that?” Marianna asked politely but insistently.
I turned to her. “A source.”
“Well if that’s true, then I take it this is their portal or gate or whatever,” Napoleon said, pulling up a new photo that showed a glowing Seshen gateway glyph covering half the wall that separated Pat’s living room from Bobby’s home office.
I leaned in toward the screen. “Did you add that glow effect?”
“I made it visible on the screen,” he said. “But the undulating properties are natural. It took a really long time to do. Normally I show all the weird stuff by reverse polarizing the wavelengths of Astral energy, but that didn’t work for this. I’m not sure what this is made of.”
I suspected it was made of photon particles from the sun in Naaru’s dimension, but I kept that to myself.
“This is great,” I said. “Can you put these on a flash drive for me?”
“Sure thing,” he said, spinning toward a pullout drawer.
I turned to Marianna. “Do you have anything for me?”
“Not yet, but you should have an email within forty-eight hours.”
“Sounds good,” I said, rising to leave.
Margouix Crawford, Napoleon’s deceased mother, was waiting for me just outside her son’s door.
“Hey,” I said, surprised to see her so close to the house.
“I’m worried about Naaru,” she said with no preamble.
“Where’s Ro?” I asked, realizing I had never seen them apart.
“I told him I was going out to study some white history he would find of no interest.”
That was an evasion of my question. “This doesn’t look like a library.”
“This is important, Preston. I think Naaru may be in danger.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His entire set of servants has been replaced and the last time we spoke it seemed he was not able to speak freely. It often sounded like he was reciting propaganda.”
“When was this?”
“A week ago, or maybe three days. Time passes differently in the physical world and I tend to lose track,” she said in frustration.
“How can I help?”
“Have you seen him recently? Did he seem different?”
“No,” I said.
“No you haven’t seen him or no he did not seem different?”
“No, I haven’t seen him.”
I could tell she wasn’t buying what I was selling. That made two of us.
“If he is in some sort of trouble, I’m concerned it may be my fault.”
“In what way?”
“He may have disclosed too much information to me about the Wru. I thought we were laying the groundwork for a successful cross species communication event, but now I’m worried I made a mistake by personally leading this effort. It would have been more advisable to leave this to someone still in the physical world.”
“The last time we talked you said Naaru did not trust you. Now you’re saying he trusts you so much he’s put himself in danger. When did the two of you go from one extreme to the other?”
She stumbled with this unexpected fastball of a
question. “I did not mean to imply…well…He and I have developed a rapport.”
“In a week?”
“As I said, time flows differently in the physical world. I am not certain how long it has been. Are you willing to help him?”
“What do you propose?”
“I would like you to attempt to convince him to cease his efforts at closing the North Carolina gate.”
“How would that help him?”
“It would allow more time for someone qualified from the physical world to detect what EnviroTech is doing and initiate peaceful contact with the Wru.”
“I thought you had already done that on our behalf?”
“It needs to be someone that all of the Wru can see and hear, not just Naaru.”
I thought back to what Kulara had said. “Wait, Naaru is a Talker?”
“Yes. I recently became aware of that fact.”
“From him?”
Her well of patience had run dry. “This mini Inquisition is wasting valuable time that Naaru may not have. Will you help or not?”
“I don’t know of a way to contact him besides waiting near the gate and I won’t be back in North Carolina for two days.”
She pressed something into my palm. It was a piece of wood the size and shape of a poker chip with a symbol carved into it.
“Transmute to the Astral Plane and focus on that.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” she said before shifting away.
I craned my neck to look up at the exterior wall that the artistic ghost named Devarra used as a canvas. The sunlit tropical forest I was certain had been painted there when I arrived had been replaced by a bleak montage of dead vegetation.
There was no Sun in the sky.
I found the artwork slightly less unsettling than a ghost with no mass pressing a physical object into my hand.
Chapter 20
I deactivated the security alarm and the magical wards protecting my home.
I live in a glass walled and roofed penthouse condominium that sits atop a skyscraper in downtown Philadelphia. I have panoramic views of the City and the sky, which is a star-filled sight to behold at night. The condo is a vestige of my former wealth and one of the few such possessions that Darlene’s tenacious divorce lawyer allowed me to retain. And even that victory was due to my ex-wife’s distaste for the noise, crowds and high parking fees of city life.