by Roy Johansen
Barry grinned. “Yet? So when, exactly, do you expect to find something?”
Joe sighed. They were eating this up. “I'll need another session.”
“That's what you said last time.” Kellner chuckled. He stood, and the rest of the team followed his lead. “Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Morrison. You've been blessed with a wonderful gift.”
Suzanne ruefully shook his hand. “It doesn't always feel like a gift.”
“It is a gift. Never forget that. We'll be in touch.”
Kellner, Earl, Barry, and Theresa filed out of the house, leaving Joe alone with Suzanne.
“That was amazing,” he said. “And I don't impress easily.”
“Can I wash my hand now?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you came in the door, your hands were covered in phosphorous powder. You shook my hand so that a good amount of it was transferred to my palm and fingertips. I assume your ultraviolet lantern showed that I didn't leave paw prints anywhere I shouldn't have.”
“Very observant.”
“Not necessarily. I just use the same techniques that you do.”
“Of course. In your never-ending quest to find someone else with your abilities.”
“And I assume your sonar unit didn't find any suspicious mass behind the floor or walls.”
“No.”
“You may have noticed that the floorboards creak in this house, upstairs and downstairs. It would be very difficult for anyone else to be in this house without you knowing about it.”
She was right. He'd already considered that. He thought he'd considered all the possibilities. No, not all of them. Otherwise, he'd know how she had levitated the couch. “I'd like to see you in the university testing lab,” he said. “I know that you've done a session for the spook squad there, but I'd like you to do one for me.”
“Anytime.” She stared at him. “You won't even admit the possibility that you've witnessed a paranormal experience?”
“No.”
“I think that's sad.”
“Sad?”
“Yes. Where's the magic and wonder?”
“There's plenty of magic and wonder in the world.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. It's there every time you look at a Monet painting, listen to the Beatles’ White Album, or watch Michelle Kwan skate to ‘Lyra Angelica.’”
“But is that enough?”
“It has to be.”
“No, it doesn't, Joe.”
His hand tightened on the handle of his spirit kit as he turned toward the door. “For me it does.”
It was just past sunset when Lyles heard the van arrive. He was at the deserted Chattahoochee River Nature Park in north Atlanta, sitting on a large rust-colored rock at the river's edge. It was a peaceful spot, thickly populated by pine trees, small hills, and hiking trails. There was no place else like it in Atlanta, he thought.
He heard the sound of the van doors opening and closing, then the crunching of large, clumsy footsteps on brittle pine straw. Two men stood on the embankment above him, their faces hidden in the shadows.
“Hello, Lyles. You are still calling yourself Lyles, aren't you?”
“Yes. And are you still calling yourselves Laurel and Hardy?”
They gave him a puzzled look.
“Oh, sorry. That's what I used to call you. Hello, Manning. Hello, Teague.”
Manning stepped lower on the embankment. The last tinges of sunlight bathed his plump face in a soft orange glow. “We need to talk.”
Lyles smiled. Manning and Teague were always so serious, so intense. So weak. “I think you need to talk,” he said. “All you want me to do is listen. But first, tell me how you found me here.”
Teague worked his way down the bank, struggling to keep his balance in his smooth-soled cowboy boots. He quoted softly, “‘There's nothing like the big rusty rock at the Chattahoochee Nature Park at sunset. The air gets colder, but heat still rises from the stone and massages the soul.’ Sound familiar?”
“You know I said that. Who told you?”
Neither man replied.
Lyles cursed under his breath. “The Vicar. What the hell happened to his vow of confidence?”
“It no longer applies once you've broken the seal. We've been out here every night this week. We heard you were back in town, and then, after we heard that you made contact with Jesse Randall, we had no choice but to find you. The Vicar is very displeased.”
Lyles stood up. “That's not my concern anymore.”
“It should be,” Teague said. “Come back to us.”
“Is this the Vicar talking, or you?”
“It's all of us.”
“That's pretty funny, considering that I was asked to leave the sect only a few months ago.”
Manning shrugged. “The Millennial Prophets recognize you as a leader among men. Come with us. We're here to take you for an audience with the Vicar.”
“I decline.”
“What?”
“I decline your invitation. Tell the Vicar I appreciate his interest.”
“You don't understand, Lyles.” Teague pulled aside his long jacket to reveal an electric riot-control baton.
Lyles laughed. “What I understand is that the two of you are creeping up on me in one of my favorite places on earth. You gentlemen are probably just confused. The Vicar asked you to bring me in, but I'm quite sure he didn't want you to try to do it by force.”
“You underestimate him,” Teague said.
“He knows that there is no way the two of you can bring me in against my will. Unless you guys have also fallen out of favor, and this is his way of having you fitted for body bags….”
In an instant, Manning grabbed the baton and leapt toward Lyles. Blue sparks arced from its tip as it whistled through the air.
Lyles jumped to his feet and spun around, flinging the contents of his water bottle at Manning. Water drenched Manning's forearm, hand, and sparking shaft of the baton. He screamed as the electrical current, conducted by the water, surged through him. Before he could recover, Lyles spun and rocket-kicked his lower back. Manning went down, unconscious.
Sparks flew from the baton and ignited the dry pine straw. Lyles turned toward Teague as the fire spread.
“This really isn't your specialty, Teague.”
Teague picked up the baton and held it like a batter at the plate. He nervously licked his lips. “Don't come near me.”
Lyles shrugged. “Here are the options. Scenario one: You help me put this fire out, you pick up what's left of your buddy, and you live to tell the Vicar not to bother me anymore. Scenario two … well, do I really have to go into that?”
The fire was burning blue, fueled by long-dormant underground gases. The blaze crackled and popped.
Teague gripped the baton harder. “You're one sick son of a bitch, you know that?”
“So I've been told.” Lyles motioned toward the burning pine straw. “This fire's not getting any smaller.”
Teague slowly lowered the baton.
In the next instant, Lyles bloodied Teague's face with an elbow to the nose, crippled him with a sweep across the knees, and suffocated him with a blow to the windpipe.
As Teague lay twitching on the embankment, Lyles picked up the baton and pushed the pronged tip deep into his mouth.
“Good-bye, Teague.”
Lyles squeezed the baton's power trigger.
You have visitors,” the squad room receptionist, Karen, whispered to Joe. She leaned over his desk, an excited expression on her face.
He lifted his brows. “What's the matter?”
“It's him.”
“Who him?”
“Him.”
Joe peered over the green and black partition. Jesse and Latisha were standing near the reception desk.
Joe smiled. “He's not going to hurt you, Karen.”
“Maybe not while he's awake.”
“Not while he's asleep either. The o
nly one around here who'll be dreaming about you is Sergeant Ratczek.”
She grimaced. “I think I'd rather take my chances with the kid.”
Joe stood and walked over to Jesse and Latisha. “Good morning. This is a surprise. Is everything all right?”
Latisha pushed her son closer to Joe. “Jesse has something to say to you, Detective.”
“Yes?”
Jesse looked at the floor. “I'm sorry for how I talked to you the other day.”
“In my job, I hear a lot worse.”
“It was still wrong,” Latisha said.
Joe smiled. “Thank you, Jesse. I know it took a lot for you to come here today, even if your mom did make you do it.”
Still staring at the floor, Jesse nodded.
Joe glanced around the squad room and noticed that much of the activity had stopped. Almost everyone's eyes were on Jesse. Joe nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let's go for a walk.”
They took the elevator downstairs and started down Decatur Street. “I'm glad you came to see me,” Joe said. “I know you had to brave the gauntlet of reporters outside your house.”
“It's gotten worse,” Latisha said. “Ever since that reporter lady went missing, everyone's convinced it's Jesse's fault.”
“I'm not convinced.”
“You're alone, then.”
“Are you still having nightmares, Jesse?”
He gave him a wary glance. “Yeah.”
“Was Darlene Farrell in any of your nightmares?”
“No.”
“What about me? Was I in any of them?”
Jesse didn't answer.
Latisha spoke quickly. “Lots of people he meets are in his dreams. It doesn't mean anything.”
Joe nodded. “Jesse, do you want to talk to me about your nightmares?”
“There's nothing to talk about,” Latisha said.
“Ms. Randall, I'm on his side. I don't think he hurt anybody. But, like I told you, I can't help him if he doesn't help me.”
“It may be time for a lawyer. I think—”
“You were one of the shadows,” Jesse said.
“I was?” Joe asked.
Jesse nodded. “You were one of the shadows in the ground. I could see your eyes and hear your voice. I kicked you until you left me alone.”
“When did you have this dream?”
“I had it a few times.”
“When did you have it last?”
“Saturday or Sunday.”
“He'd just seen you,” Latisha said. “He was upset. That's not unusual, is it?”
“When did you go to sleep Saturday night?”
“I get to stay up until ten on weekends.”
Joe nodded. The library bookshelf incident had occurred at about 10:30.
“Have you told anyone about the dreams you've been having?”
“I told Mama.”
Joe looked at Latisha. “Have you told anyone?”
“No.”
“Ms. Randall, I wonder if you'd let me and Jesse talk on our own for a few minutes.”
“I don't know,” she said doubtfully.
“I'm not going to try to trap him. You have my word on that. I don't believe your son has hurt anybody, consciously or unconsciously.”
She looked at her son. “Jesse?”
He stared at Joe and then slowly nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “I have some business to tend to at the bank. When I come out, I'll be sitting on the bench in front.” She reminded Joe, “I have your word.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She gave Jesse one more glance before disappearing into the Bank of America building a few yards away.
“Does your mother let you eat churros?” Joe asked.
“Cheerios?”
“No, churros. It's kind of a thin, ridged Mexican pastry.” He led him to a snack vendor parked on the edge of the street. “This guy sells the best ones in the city. I'll split one with you.” Joe bought a churro, pulled it apart, and gave half to Jesse. He watched Jesse take his first bite.
“Well?”
“It's good. Kind of like a sugar doughnut.”
Joe smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is. And just as bad for the waistline.” Joe took a bite. “Jesse, do you remember a red-haired man at your sessions?”
“Yeah, he was there a lot.”
“Who was he?”
“I don't know. I thought he was another scientist or a friend of Dr. Nelson's.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
“A couple of times. He never said much. Once he asked me how I liked the tests. Is this why you wanted to talk to me away from Mama?”
“Not really. I want to talk to you about the things you do. Your tricks.”
“What about ‘em?”
“What do you think people would do if they found out your powers weren't real?”
“But they are real.”
“Okay, let's just pretend. Everyone suddenly believes that you were fooling them, that you don't have these powers. What would happen?”
Jesse shrugged. “People would be mad at me.”
“Who?”
“My mama, all the people at the college … everybody.”
“It really wouldn't matter to the people who care about you, Jesse. They just want what's best for you.”
The boy shrugged.
“What else do you think would happen?”
“The kids at school would make fun of me.”
“Why?”
“They'd call me a faker.”
“I don't know about that. If I was your age, and I was able to fool all those scientists, reporters, and teachers, the other kids would probably think I was a hero. Especially if I showed ‘em how I made monkeys out of all those people.”
Jesse took another bite of the churro.
“What I'm trying to say is, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to happen,” he said gently.
Jesse took off his glasses and wiped them with his shirt. He stopped in front of a No Littering sign, where someone had taped a bright green flyer advertising a local rock band. Jesse lowered his head and stared at it.
It was the stare.
The paper started flapping.
Slowly at first, then faster. And faster.
Joe squinted at the flyer. How in the hell was this happening?
Jesse's head tilted to the left. His stare grew more intense. The flyer flapped even harder. It was as if a heavy gust of wind were blowing against it, but the air around them was still.
Was Jesse blowing on it? Joe studied his face. The boy's mouth was closed and his nostrils were pointing down to his chest. Joe slowly raised the back of his hand so that it was only inches from Jesse's nose and mouth. No air.
Holy shit.
The flyer strained against the tiny sliver of tape holding it to the sign pole. Jesse's head tilted to the other side. The sign finally jerked free of the tape. It floated to the ground.
Joe snatched it up and looked at both sides. Clean. He ran his hands over the signpost. Nothing.
Jesse backed away. “I don't want to talk anymore.”
“How?” Joe whispered.
“Mama's waiting for me.” Jesse turned and waved to his mother, who had just come out of the bank. “I have to go home now.”
“How?” Joe whispered again.
Jesse was already walking toward his mother.
All the way back to his office, Joe tried to comprehend what he'd seen. Advance preparation wasn't a possibility. He, not Jesse, had chosen to walk outside, and the boy had had no idea they'd be walking past that sign together.
Between this and Suzanne Morrison's séance, it had been a thoroughly mind-blowing couple of days. Two amazing demonstrations in a little more than twenty-four hours of each other.
He still hadn't recovered from the experience, when he stepped off the elevator to find a billionaire waiting for him.
“Detective Bailey, I'm Roland Ness.”
Sure you are,
Joe almost said. He was glad he didn't. He'd never met Ness in the years he spent debunking the parapsychology team's findings, but he was sure that the state's second-wealthiest citizen was aware of his work.
Joe smiled ruefully. What next? First an eight-year-old boy stumped him, now Roland Ness was hanging around in the squad room, waiting for him.
Ness extended his hand. He was a tall, robust man in his late sixties, with strong features, gray hair and beard, and bushy white eyebrows. His eyes glistened with what most people might call a childlike twinkle, but they reminded Joe of someone who had just been peeling onions.
“Hello, Mr. Ness. What brings you here?”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure. If you'll walk this way—”
“If you don't mind, I have someplace that may be more private.”
“What do you mean?”
“My truck is outside.”
“Excuse me?”
“Detective, for a man in my position, privacy is a precious, even vital, commodity. Will you indulge me?”
Ness was obviously used to getting his way, but there was nothing arrogant or insistent about his manner.
Joe turned around, and for the second time in the space of an hour, all eyes in the squad room were on him. He motioned toward the door. “Lead the way.”
The “truck” was a thirty-foot RV that could have been driven by his aunt Susie and uncle Thomas on their frequent trips to Branson. The interior, however, reflected a sleek European sensibility, accented by low-key lighting and dark, plush furniture. As soon as Ness closed the door behind them, the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Joe glanced at the spike-haired woman behind the wheel.
“She's my driver,” Ness said. “Call me sexist, but I think women make much better drivers than men. By and large, they're calmer, and the highway isn't a video game to them. They're more concerned about getting me where I'm going and less concerned about getting back at the bastard who cut us off five miles back.”
Joe sat across from Ness. “What can I do for you?”
Ness smiled. “As I'm sure you know, I have an interest in the supernatural.”
“I hear it's more of an obsession.”
“Obsession … that's a strong word. I prefer ‘fascination.’”
“Whatever you call it, I know the Landwyn University parapsychology program appreciates your interest.”