Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  She came out and tossed him a towel. “Dry your hair. Would you like some decaf?”

  “That would be great.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, and they made small talk while she brewed a pot. They sat at her table, and she warmed her hands on the mug. “What brings you here?”

  He looked down into his coffee. “I guess I didn't want to go home, and I felt like talking. I remembered that we did that pretty well.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I'm sorry you had to see me like that this morning. I went a little crazy. When I couldn't figure out how you did it, I guess it brought back the frustration I've been feeling over Jesse Randall and Nelson's murder. If I'd been able to figure out how Jesse does his tricks, he might not have been abducted.”

  “You can't blame yourself.”

  “Sure I can. And if what happened to Vince and Nikki had anything to do with this case, I—”

  “Don't beat yourself up, Joe.”

  He shook his head. “A little boy has been kidnapped and one of my best friends is dead because I haven't been able to do my job. I think that's pretty good cause for beating myself up.”

  “You'll do your job.”

  “It's this goddamned helpless feeling. I haven't felt this helpless since—”

  “Since your wife died?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you come here tonight to talk to her?”

  He stared at her in shock. “No,” he said sharply. “I told you—”

  “I'm sorry. Forget I mentioned it. I guess I misread you.”

  Some of the tension left him. “I may be acting crazy, but I'm not about to go off that particular deep end.”

  “Joe, what do you think happens to us when we die?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Just like that? We cease to exist?”

  “Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”

  “Yes. I've shown it to you.”

  “We won't get into that right now. I've seen nothing that convinces me that human existence continues when our bodies fail.”

  “Even if it wasn't for Daphne, I could never believe that. You think that all of our thoughts, emotions, dreams, and desires are just … biology?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about all those people with near-death experiences and the tunnel of light they see?”

  “First of all, only a small percentage actually report that. And there's a lot of evidence to suggest that it's just the effect of overstimulated neurons in the brain. A few G's in a flight simulator will give you the same effect.”

  “More biology.”

  “That's the way it looks.”

  She studied him. “Feeling the way you do … it must have been especially horrible to lose your wife.”

  “It would have been horrible no matter what.”

  “A lot of people take comfort in the thought of a hereafter, Joe.”

  “A lot of people get taken advantage of.”

  “You would never let that happen to yourself.”

  “Damn right.”

  She smiled. “You're not investigating me in your capacity as a police detective, are you?”

  “No. Purely as a consultant to the Landwyn parapsychology department. Roland Ness may get a little upset that all the money he's sunk into the program still hasn't produced any results, but what the hell. He's a billionaire.”

  Joe took a sip of his coffee. “So, if you'd care to enlighten me as to how you pull off your séances, there will be no legal repercussions.”

  She laughed, a full-bodied laugh he found enormously appealing. “Thank you, but no. Even if there was something to tell, you didn't come here for that.”

  “What did I come here for?”

  “Hmm. Aside from the obvious, I think that tonight, after losing your friend and being reminded of your wife, you wanted to be with the one person who might make you believe that there could be an afterlife.”

  He stood up. “That's ridiculous.”

  “I don't make you feel that way? Not even one-hundredth of one percent?”

  “No.”

  She stood and moved toward him. “I think you're lying. To me and to yourself.”

  “Think what you want. And what did you mean by ‘aside from the obvious’?”

  “The obvious. You show up at my door after midnight on a rainy night….”

  “I had no intention of—”

  She placed two fingers over his lips, silencing him. “You're lying to yourself again.”

  She was right, he realized. At least about this.

  He slowly, carefully drew her close. God, she felt good, filling the emptiness, banishing the loneliness…. “Is this okay with you?”

  She slid her arms around him and pulled him closer. “It's more than okay.”

  He kissed her, oblivious of everything but her smooth, warm lips and the sound of the pounding rain outside.

  Michael Kahn's eyes bulged and his tears and snot ran onto the duct tape plastered over his mouth.

  Lyles had been working on him for twenty minutes, even though he suspected that Kahn had been willing to talk after five. By laying the groundwork with twenty minutes of excruciating pain, Kahn would be all the more cooperative and less likely to want to return to his agony. They were in a densely wooded area in Cherokee County, not unlike the area where he'd laid that television reporter to rest. That seemed like a lifetime ago, Lyles thought.

  He had been performing a variety of techniques on Kahn, ranging from pressure-point manipulation to simple slugs across the jaw. Different people responded to different stimuli, so there was no telling what would work best with Kahn.

  Lyles peeled the tape off Kahn's mouth. “It was you who flew away with Jesse Randall.”

  Kahn wiped his sore mouth on his shirtsleeve. “What the hell do you want, friend?”

  “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not your friend. I was on that helicopter ride too.”

  Kahn's eyes widened. “You're him?”

  Lyles nodded. “You could have killed the boy that night.”

  “No way. I knew what I was doing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “How the hell should I know? I was strictly a pilot for hire.”

  “You'll have to do better than that.”

  “Look, I don't know who hired me, why they wanted him, or where they took him. It was none of my business, and I just plain didn't care.”

  “You'd better start caring … friend.” Lyles pressed his thumb into the base of Kahn's throat. When Kahn began to turn a pale shade of blue, Lyles pulled away.

  Kahn coughed a good thirty seconds before speaking. “Look, man. I only talked to three guys. The guys I was supposed to pick up in the chopper. I got a phone number for one of them. It went to a voice-mail system. Maybe that'll help you.”

  “Anyone can hire a voice-mail service anonymously.”

  “It's all I got.”

  Lyles thought about it. “Okay. It may be enough.”

  “If you kill me, you're gonna have a price on your head so big that every contract killer from Boston to Miami will come looking for you.”

  Lyles smiled. “You think a lot of yourself, don't you?”

  “Some very powerful people depend on my services.”

  “You're going to call that number, and I'm going to tell you exactly what to say.”

  The shadows had stolen his breath.

  Jesse was underground again, trying to kick and claw his way to the surface, but he wasn't moving. The shadows were swirling around him, laughing, taunting, teasing….

  They had his breath, and they weren't giving it back.

  He was suffocating.

  Jesse … Jesse … Jesse …

  This voice sounded different.

  Jesse …

  His eyes snapped open.

  Myrna was leaning over him. “Jesse … honey, are you okay?”

  It took him a moment to realize where he was. The room's lighting had been dimmed
, as it always was when he was expected to sleep.

  “Hard to breathe,” he wheezed.

  “You've just been having a bad dream. Sit up and have some water.”

  Jesse pulled himself up and took the plastic cup from her. He gulped the water but coughed it up before he could finish. “I'm sorry.”

  She wiped the water off her gauze blouse. “Are you okay?”

  He leaned against the wall. “Still hard to breathe. I think I need my inhaler.”

  “You use an inhaler?”

  “My mama makes me use it.”

  Myrna quickly glanced at the observation window. “What kind? What's it called?”

  Jesse took a few quick breaths and swallowed hard. “It's a prescription my doctor gives me. My mama has to go to the drugstore to get it. I think it's called a Turbuhaler.”

  The door swung open. It would be Charles lumbering into the room, angry because he'd been stirred from a sound sleep.

  But it wasn't Charles.

  Myrna's eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing here?”

  Jesse couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was the hotshot lawyer who'd come to his house.

  Jesse sat up as hope surged through him. “Did you come to take me home?”

  “I'm afraid not, Jesse,” Stewart Dunning said.

  As Joe lay in Suzanne's bed, listening to the gentle rain outside, he tried to understand how it had happened.

  He never would have imagined his day could end this way. Lying nude with Suzanne, holding her close. Smelling her thick, shiny hair.

  There had been no one since Angela. Until just seconds before he kissed Suzanne, he couldn't have even considered himself with anyone else. Least of all with a spiritualist he was supposed to debunk.

  He checked his watch: 2:15.

  “Regrets?” Suzanne asked.

  “No.”

  “Give it a few hours.” She smiled.

  “I don't suppose you were so incredibly overwhelmed with my technique that you're now willing to explain to me how you perform your séances.”

  She laughed. “So that's how the Spirit Basher gets results.”

  “If I depended on that, I'd be reading parking meters by now.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  He leaned closer. “You realize that I will find out how you do those things.”

  “You're wasting your time, but everybody's entitled to a hobby.”

  “You've just been lucky. I've been distracted.”

  “I know.” She stroked the hair on his chest. “You probably didn't notice that I was attracted to you the first minute we met.”

  “No, but when it comes to that kind of thing, I've always had the worst radar in the world.” He paused. “I liked you too.”

  “I thought so. My radar is pretty accurate.”

  He smiled. “And Nikki's crazy about you. She would have loved to see your concert.”

  “There will be others. Hopefully.” Her tone suddenly sobered. “Anything on Jesse Randall?”

  “No. I have a feeling my department is getting squeezed out of the investigation. The FBI is all over it, and they're not known for being the most cooperative bunch.”

  “That's too bad.”

  “I can't do anything about it. My assignment is to concentrate on Nelson's murder.”

  She picked up a sketch pad from her night table.

  He smiled. “You're going to draw my picture?”

  “Only if you want to see yourself as a stick figure. I've been sketching some ideas about the levitation effects at Nelson's house before he died.”

  “I have some ideas about that too.”

  “Me first. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.”

  She showed Joe her drawings. “I've never actually been to his place, but almost all the shadow storm activity took place on the first floor, right?”

  “Right. How did you know?”

  “Nelson's girlfriend has been talking about it on every TV news show in town, and one of the newspapers printed pictures of the kitchen. I'm surprised you'd let journalists traipse through a crime scene.”

  “We didn't. Those shots were taken last year, when Nelson hosted a fund-raising dinner.”

  “Well, this morning, when I saw that you'd knocked out all the ceiling panels in the parapsychology testing lab, it gave me an idea.”

  Joe smiled. “Other than the possibility that I'd lost my mind?”

  “Yes. Nelson had a suspended ceiling on the first floor. Is it possible that there's framing above the panels strong enough to support someone's weight?”

  “Not only possible, but definite. I've seen it.”

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  “There's a space of about twenty inches before you hit the true ceiling. More than enough room for someone to crawl.”

  Suzanne noted the height on her sketch pad. “The newspaper wasn't clear on this, but by any chance were all the levitating objects on high shelves, within a few feet of the ceiling?”

  “Every single one. They were either on upper shelves or, in the case of the pots and pans, hanging on a ceiling-mounted rack.”

  “What about access?”

  “There's an entrance in the laundry room just off the kitchen. It could have been possible to gain entry from there and move through the ceiling to the kitchen and den. The only barrier is a load-bearing wall on the far side of the den.”

  “Ten'll get you twenty the phenomenon didn't go beyond that wall.”

  “You got it. And Nelson and his girlfriend never actually saw the objects rise off the shelves. They came flying out of rooms. Whoever was in the ceiling could have reached down, picked up the objects, and tossed them. By the time Nelson went into the room to check things out, the ceiling panel could have been replaced and the person would be safely out of sight.”

  “What about the pots and pans? Didn't they actually see them swaying back and forth, clattering into each other?”

  “My guess would be fishing line. A length could have been tied to the handle of just one pan, then pulled from the ceiling, around the edge of a panel. If it was tied to a pan in the middle, the line would've been tough to spot. As the pan swayed back and forth, it would create a domino effect. Pretty soon all the pans would be moving and clanging.”

  She let the sketchbook fall into her lap. “Dammit, and I hoped I'd be telling you something.”

  “I actually got some help from Vince. Nikki showed me some sketches he'd made last night, just before …” Joe looked away.

  “Vince really admired you.”

  “I admired him. He'd really pulled his life together.” Joe sighed. “If you really want to help me, come up with an explanation for Nelson's murder.”

  “That was upstairs. I haven't figured it out yet.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Suzanne shot him a sideways glance. “How are you so sure / didn't do it? I knew Nelson, and I have a pretty good idea how to do this stuff.”

  “You have an alibi. Members of the spook squad observed you doing two back-to-back séances that night.”

  “You checked me out?”

  “Howe did. We checked out all of Nelson's so-called discoveries who might have had the skill to pull this off.”

  She pulled away slightly. “I don't know how I feel about that.”

  “If you were in our position, wouldn't you do the same thing?”

  She thought about it. “You're right. You'd have to eliminate all of us from consideration.”

  “Which we have. Believe me, I wouldn't be here tonight if I thought there was any chance you did it, Suzanne.”

  She snuggled closer. “Well, as long as you don't think I'm a killer, I guess it's okay that you think I'm a fraud.”

  Stewart Dunning sat on the padded floor beside Jesse. “How are you feeling? Better?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled his blankets around him. Myrna had given him a hot, salty liquid to drink, and it no longer hurt to breathe.

 
; “Good. We'll see about getting you that inhaler. You should have asked for it before. We want you to be comfortable.”

  Jesse scowled. “It's your fault that I'm here.”

  “It's not just me. And it's for your own protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “From everyone and everything that could hurt you. There's only so much we can do for you out there. People fear what they don't understand. We were content to watch you from afar until Dr. Nelson's death brought you so much attention. We can't risk losing you.”

  “You and who else? Myrna and Charles?”

  “There are thousands of us all over the world. We're the Millennial Prophets, Jesse. You're one of us, even if you don't realize it.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “We wish we could let you go home, but that's impossible right now.”

  “I want to see my mama.”

  “I'm sorry. Maybe later.”

  Jesse felt a surge of anger. “Don't you make me mad.”

  Dunning wasn't fazed. “You frighten Myrna and Charles, but you don't scare me, Jesse. Nelson's death was a good example of what you're capable of, but you were asleep at the time. You can't consciously produce phenomena of that magnitude yet. Otherwise you would have broken Charles in two by now, and this room would no longer be standing.”

  “How do you know? Maybe I was holding back.”

  “For what reason? You'd do anything to get out of here, wouldn't you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Dunning smiled faintly. “Then I guess I'm taking my life into my hands. It's worth the risk to help ensure your place in the world. We want only what's best for you, Jesse.”

  “Going home would be best for me.”

  “Not now.”

  “When?”

  “When the Vicar says you can.”

  “The Vicar?”

  “The leader of our sect. You're important to him too. He's been watching you here, and he'll chart your course.”

  The door swung open, and another man entered the room. He had gray hair and a white beard, and he looked familiar. Jesse remembered seeing him on TV.

  “Here he is,” Dunning said. “He's been very eager to meet you.”

  The man, smiling uneasily, leaned over and extended his right hand. “Hello, Jesse. My name is Roland Ness.”