Crystal Clear

by Jane Heller

  “For instance?” Terry asked.

  Laverne laughed. “Take your pick. Sedona’s full of people who talk to Him on a regular basis—or think they do.”

  “I was hoping you’d be that person,” said Terry.

  “Spirit tells me to sing, cookie,” she said. “He doesn’t tell me to meddle in murder. Now I’ve gotta go back to work, huh?” She winked at me as she took a final swig from the beer bottle, then rose from the table, stuffing her matches and pack of cigarettes into the front pocket of her black leather jacket. “Maybe it’ll cheer you lovebirds up if I sing you a special number.”

  Before we could respond, she waddled over to the stage, had a few words with her band members, and stepped up to the microphone for a bluesy rendition of Peter Gabriel’s rock ballad, “Don’t Give Up.”

  “Let’s not,” Terry said as Laverne crooned. “Give up, I mean.”

  “Are we still talking about Will?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Among other things.”

  And so we didn’t give up. We got back into the Jeep, drove the forty-five minutes or so to Sedona, and headed up the ultra-windy, not-for-the-faint-of-heart Schnebly Hill Road, the alternate “historic” route north to Flagstaff. With much of it unpaved as well as terrifyingly steep, Schnebly Hill Road provides some of the best lookout points for tourists wanting to view Sedona’s incredible red rock formations. As the saying goes, if your car makes it up and back, you’ll get some great photographs.

  According to Terry, Schnebly Hill Road is also a popular camping ground, albeit an illegal one, for those among Sedona’s New Age residents who love communing with nature and hate paying real estate taxes. As a result, the flatter, more wooded spots are dotted with tents and sleeping bags.

  “They’re relatively safe up here, because the cops have no desire to patrol the area, especially at night,” he said as we made our way uphill. “The road is rough enough during the day, when you can actually see all the potholes.”

  “Is there someone in particular we’re looking for?” I asked, wondering if anybody could top Buddy and Laverne.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought we’d try a guy named Keith. I’ve never met him, but he’s supposed to have a pipeline to ‘Spirit.’”

  “Really? How does he accomplish that?” I said.

  “He channels Spirit,” said Terry. “Or so he claims on his business card. He channels Him through an entity he calls Sergei.”

  “Ah, a Russian entity. How global.”

  “Very. Sergei is said to be an ancient cossack warrior who speaks for Spirit through Keith.”

  “Sort of like a conference call. Does Sergei have a last name?”

  “Not that I can pronounce.”

  “How about Keith? Does he have a last name?”

  “It’s Love. Keith Love. He changed it when he moved to Sedona from Buffalo. It used to be Lutz, I hear.”

  “Smart career move. So we’re hoping Keith will communicate with Sergei, who will communicate with Spirit, and that one of them will communicate with us about what really happened to Amanda.”

  “Exactly.”

  I shook my head. And people think communicating with the IRS is convoluted.

  We reached Keith’s tent just before sundown. How did we know it was Keith’s tent, since all tents look pretty much alike? Keith’s had a sign in front of his. It read: “Spirit by Sergei” and it reminded me of the beauty salon I went to in New York, which was called “Styling by Suzanne.”

  Encouraged that Keith was home, since his car was parked next to the tent, we got out of the Jeep and proceeded toward the campsite.

  “How do we make our presence known?” I asked. “Tents don’t have doorbells. Or even doors.”

  “Like this,” said Terry, who lifted the front flap of the tent, stuck his head inside, and called out Keith’s name.

  “Come on in,” a voice answered. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “A Soviet entity that speaks Spanish?” I giggled as Terry pulled me into the tent, a rather modest dwelling furnished mostly with air mattresses.

  Terry introduced himself and me to Keith, who was a tall, thin, jeans-clad man with wire-rimmed glasses, a dark beard and mustache, and a Jewish Afro, also known as a Jew’fro. He looked like a seventies version of a psychotherapist from Manhattan’s Upper West Side.

  “Good to meet you both,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  Terry and I sat together on one of the mattresses.

  “Want some nacho chips?” Keith asked. “I’ve got salsa, too. Extra spicy.”

  We passed on the chips and salsa, explaining that we’d had a big lunch.

  “So. What can I do for you folks?” he said. “Or is it Sergei you’re looking for?”

  Gosh, I thought. How do we answer that without hurting one of their feelings?

  “We have questions to ask Spirit,” Terry said, not committing us either way. “Very important questions. Spirit’s answers could save someone’s life.” I wasn’t sure if he meant Will’s or Amanda’s, but I felt he handled the matter brilliantly.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” said Keith. “I book by the hour and the half-hour. It’s $65.00 for the hour, $32.50 for the half-hour. And, if you don’t mind, I like people to fill out this Comments Card after their first session. You can mail it to my P.O. box.”

  Keith handed Terry a little postcard that asked a series of questions, like: Where did you hear about “Spirit by Sergei?” Advertisement? Friend or relative? Travel agent? I tried to squelch a laugh and couldn’t. Keith asked me what was so funny. I said it was just a nervous laugh. He told me there was nothing to be nervous about because Sergei was a very nice guy, for a cossack warrior.

  “We’ll take the half-hour,” Terry told Keith.

  “Cool,” said our host, glancing at his watch so he could time our session. “Before we begin, I’ll turn on the music.” He walked over to the boom box in the corner of the tent and pushed the “Play” button on the tape deck. I assumed that he had selected the sort of mellow, nondescript, New Age music you hear all over Sedona, but on came a sudden crash of drums and cymbals and horns.

  “Russian marching music,” Keith explained. “Sergei likes it.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, compelled to say something.

  Keith sat down on a nearby mattress, adjusting his position until he was comfortable. “It’ll be just a minute while I tune in to Sergei,” he said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

  I grabbed Terry’s hand. I had never been in the company of a channeler, unless you counted my father, the channel surfer.

  “Greetings! Greetings! Greetings!” boomed a voice I hadn’t heard before, a voice that came from Keith but didn’t sound like Keith. It was low, a deep baritone, and its accent was heavy on the Slavic. Think: Boris Badenov from Rocky and Bullwinkle. “I am Entity Sergei,” said the voice, “and I speak to you through Keith Love.”

  Boy, I thought. Channeling is a lot like ventriloquism. Or multiple personality disorder.

  “Before you ask your questions of Spirit,” Sergei went on, speaking loudly in order to compete with the clanging and banging of all the percussive instruments in the background, “I wish to bring several issues to your attention.”

  “By all means,” said Terry.

  “I am here to tell you that there is a dimensional shift in the energies of human bodies,” said Sergei. “Your residual self resides inside this dimensional shift and your frequency must be measured and corrected so that your souls will be ready to make the trip. Be the light that you are and become aware of your DNA molecules.”

  Sergei paused, so I took the opportunity to lean over and whisper to Terry, “Okay. So the guy’s a kook. He was worth a try, wasn’t he?”

  Terry looked terribly discouraged.

  “Conjecture regarding the overlap projection of souls originates from the energy fields that crop up in the universe,” said Sergei, resuming his nonsensical pronouncements, “and if th
ere is spatial displacement, there will be chaos in the cosmos.”

  Chaos in the cosmos. The perfect title for Amanda Reid’s book, I thought, wondering if she’d live to write it.

  “And now, peaceful travelers,” said warrior Sergei. “What is it you wish to know from Spirit?”

  “What do you think?” I asked Terry. “Should we bother?”

  “We’re here,” he said resignedly.

  “You go first,” I said.

  He nodded. “Entity Sergei,” he began. “A woman visiting Sedona from New York asked my friend Will to take her on a Vision Quest.”

  “This woman is Amanda Reid,” said Sergei. Obviously, Keith had read the newspaper.

  “Yeah,” said Terry. “The police think Will murdered her. I know that isn’t true.”

  “Because you trust your friend,” said Sergei.

  “That’s right,” said Terry. “I believe in his innocence and I’d like you to help me prove his innocence. I’d like you to contact Spirit and ask Him what really happened to Amanda Reid, where she is now, whether she’s dead or alive.”

  “Entity Sergei has processed your request,” said Sergei. “Now, if you will give me a moment or two?”

  While we waited, the Russian marching song crescendoed with a tumultuous crash of a cymbal, which made my eardrums throb.

  “Spirit has three things to say to you, peaceful travelers,” Sergei said eventually. “The first is: Amanda Reid is alive.”

  Terry and I clasped hands. Who cared if Keith was a wacko? At least somebody was going on record that Will wasn’t a killer.

  “What’s the second thing Spirit wants to tell us?” I asked Entity Sergei.

  “That Amanda Reid is very close by, yet somehow hidden from view,” he said.

  “If she’s hidden from view, how are we supposed to find her?” I asked.

  “That is the third thing Spirit has to say to you,” reported Sergei, as Keith smiled and wagged his finger at me. “You, peaceful traveler, hold the key to finding her.”

  “I do?” I said. “I’m an accountant, not a detective.”

  “Spirit is very clear about this,” he said. “You hold the key to finding Amanda right there on that…on that…on that…”

  “On that what?” I urged.

  “Sorry. I am losing my connection with Spirit,” Sergei said apologetically. “I cannot seem to—”

  “Look, our half-hour isn’t up yet,” I interrupted. “So try again, would you, Sergei? You were saying that I hold the key to finding Amanda right there on what?”

  “Right there on that…that…piece of paper you have,” he said, blinking rapidly.

  “What piece of paper?” I demanded.

  “Spirit is not giving me…He is only indicating…Da. Da. Good. He is telling me that there is a piece of paper in your possession. A piece of paper that has writing on it, important writing, in connection with Amanda Reid’s disappearance. A piece of paper that will point you in her direction, that will lead you straight to her door.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “Do you have any idea how many pieces of paper I have in my possession?” I told Sergei. “Can’t Spirit be a little more specific?”

  “It’s okay, Crystal,” Terry said, trying to calm me down. “Maybe we should go now.”

  “Maybe we should,” I said, not knowing what to believe about Keith Love, in particular, and channelers, in general.

  Terry helped me up from the mattress. “I think we’re all set, Entity Sergei,” he said. “You can bring Keith back now.”

  Keith closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Before we knew it, he had returned. “How’d everything go?” he asked us. “Did you folks get what you came for?”

  Terry reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out exactly $32.50, and handed the bills and quarters to Keith. “We’re not sure,” he said. “But thanks for your time, just the same.”

  “No problem,” said Keith, “Stop by whenever.”

  Terry and I were on our way out of the tent when we heard Keith speak in Sergei’s voice.

  “How about offering me some of those nacho chips and salsa,” he said. “I haven’t eaten since the czars were in power.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was dark by the time Terry and I made it back down Schnebly Hill Road, and while neither of us was especially hungry, we agreed that we could both use a drink.

  “The Hideaway’s close to my house,” he said, his voice weary. “It’s an Italian restaurant right on the Creek. We could start with a bottle of wine and go from there.”

  “You’re the tour guide,” I said. “The Hideaway it is.”

  The restaurant, a cozy, rustic, red-and-white-checked tablecloth kind of place, was crowded when we got there, but we cajoled the hostess into seating us on the patio, which was set high above the banks of Oak Creek—yet another of Sedona’s many atmospheric spots.

  Terry ordered us a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  “Well, what should we drink to?” I said, holding up my glass after the waiter had poured the wine.

  “To your last night before old what’s-his-name rides into town,” Terry replied with a wry smile.

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  “You looking forward to seeing him?” he asked.

  “To tell you the truth, I forgot he was coming,” I admitted. “I spent fifty percent of the drive back from our session with Keith taking a mental inventory of all the pieces of paper in my possession, wondering which of them could possibly lead us to Amanda.”

  “And the other fifty percent?”

  “I spent that trying to decide if it was worth taking a mental inventory of all the pieces of paper in my possession. I mean, we’re assuming that Keith is a fraud, but what if he really has special powers? What if these special powers somehow give him an instinct or intuition or perception about where Amanda is and that he’s right—I do have a clue written down on a piece of paper? I guess the question I’m asking is: Should we discount what he told us or not?”

  Terry shrugged. “Will maintains that there are spiritualists around here who are genuinely gifted, totally on the level. He says that even the most talented sometimes resort to wearing crazy costumes and speaking in foreign tongues and making outrageous statements, mostly because people expect them to. He says that the tourists want a little theatre with their channeling, that they want to feel they’re getting their money’s worth, that they want to be able to go back to Ohio or Oregon—or New York, for that matter—with amusing cocktail party material. Now, whether Keith Love falls into this category, who knows? My suggestion is that when we’re finished with dinner, we go back to my house, you take a quick look through the papers you’ve got in your suitcase or handbag, and if a clue screams out at us, we run with it. If not, we chalk Keith up to an entertaining afternoon.”

  “As I said the other day, I don’t remember you being so sensible.”

  He reached across the table and stroked my cheek. “And as I said the other day, I don’t remember you being so beautiful.”

  I flushed from the compliment, as much as from the slow, sensual way the tips of his fingers were caressing my face.

  “I have another suggestion,” he said after pulling his hand away to take another sip of wine. “I think we ought to shelve all talk of Amanda Reid, Will Singleton, Steven Moth—”

  “Roth.”

  “Steven Roth, and everybody else. I propose that, for the duration of this evening, we talk exclusively about you.”

  “Me? Please. My life is hopelessly dull compared to yours, Terry. Everybody you know is either a blues singer or a blackjack dealer.”

  “Not everybody. Take Cynthia, the woman Annie’s staying with tonight. She’s a soccer mom.”

  I laughed. “I thought she was a musician.”

  “No, she just plays a few instruments in her spare time. She’s divorced, devoted to her kids, and a very nice person—someone you’d enjoy meeting. But we were talking about you, Crystal. Stop chan
ging the subject.”

  “Fine. What do you want to talk about? Or, should I say, what about me do you want to talk about?”

  “How about your work? You’re a partner at Duboff Spector. What’s that like?”

  I sighed. “You really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

  I sighed again. “It stinks. I hate it. That’s what it’s like.” I drank some wine. “Surprised?”

  “Sure. I thought your career was going great, that it meant everything to you.”

  “It did. That’s what stinks. It meant everything to me and now it’s over.”

  “Over? Come on, Crystal.”

  “All right. So it’s not over, exactly. The story is, I’ve worked my ass off at Duboff Spector and now, all of a sudden, they want to make the firm leaner and meaner, which means eliminating a partner or two, one of whom is me. I’m not out on the street yet or anything—they haven’t even started to negotiate a contract settlement with me—but I’m history at Duboff Spector, there’s no doubt about it. They’re into hiring younger people who’ll work for less money. It’s a very upsetting situation, believe me.”

  “I believe you. But were you ever happy at Duboff Spector? Before this recent trouble?”

  “Happy? Who’s happy? Life isn’t about happiness anymore. It’s about finding a half-hour in the day to read a magazine or call a friend or just put your feet up and do absolutely nothing. I’m so busy being busy, so consumed with getting everything done and crossing everything off the list, that I don’t have time to be happy. I’m too tired to be happy.”

  Terry shook his head. “If you haven’t been happy at Duboff Spector, why haven’t you left? You’re a good accountant. Be a good accountant somewhere else.”

  “Ha! You act as if it’s a snap to leave a job and get another one.”

  “That’s because it is. There are plenty of jobs. I ought to know. I’ve had three-quarters of them.”