Dana and the professor shook their heads and eyed Tristan with wariness, and Dana scooted a few inches backward. “And now you’ve bumped into him again. Something tells me this isn’t a chance encounter.”
“That’s true, Dana. It’s not.”
Tristan didn’t continue so Brandon asked the obvious follow-up question. “Then at what point are you going to explain why you’re stalking me?”
“Not just you, Brandon, all three of you. And Reece as well. And to a lesser extent, Doug.” Tristan smiled as he said it but no one else joined him.
Marcus pressed his glasses closer to his face and frowned. “Since you’ve been forthcoming with your behavior perhaps you would be so kind as to describe your intent.”
“Simple.” Tristan glanced at his friends. “To help you.”
“And if we don’t want your help?” Dana said.
Tristan winked, the look in his eyes playful, as if he were answering a child. “We’ve taken enough of your time. It’s good to meet all of you.” Tristan and the other two men stood in unison. “Maybe we’ll run into you again someday.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe not,” Brandon said.
The three strolled out of the park as if they were on a tour of the Seattle Art Museum. As soon as they were out of earshot Dana said, “Demons? Angels? Christians? Overeager fans? New Agers? Something else?”
Brandon scoffed. “Not thinking those three are angels, and I didn’t get anything remotely demonic. Maybe they’re just spiritually attuned wackos.”
“I didn’t get anything either.” Dana continued to watch the three walk away. “But they were pretty obvious even if they didn’t feel demonic.”
“Meaning?” Marcus asked.
“These guys should have Monkey Wrench stamped on their foreheads because that’s what I’m thinking they’re going to throw at us.”
“Agreed,” Marcus said.
Brandon got to his feet and took a step toward the parking lot. “Then are you two thinking what I’m thinking?”
Dana stood and brushed off her shorts. “Follow them.”
“Exactly. I want to know what we’re dealing with.” He glanced at the professor. “Well?”
The three of them jogged to the sidewalk just beyond the parking lot and glanced left and right. “There!” Marcus pointed north. Tristan’s head bobbed along the sidewalk seventy yards in front of them, Jotham and Orson on either side.
Marcus lunged forward and picked up speed with each stride, but Dana caught up to him and shoved an arm across his chest. “Let’s not be spotted, okay? A discreet distance, don’t you think?”
As they slowed down and followed the three, Dana asked the exact question spinning in Brandon’s mind. “So if they’re human, then what are they all about?”
Marcus pulled out his cell phone and stabbed his thumbs at the screen like a miniature jackhammer. “There’s three possibilities. First, they are evil and our discernment of this is being hindered somehow. Second, we’re out of touch with the Spirit and the signals are there, but our reading ability has waned. Third, the Spirit is blocking us.”
“What about what I just said? Just ordinary wackos who we will need to avoid?” Brandon said.
“That certainly seems incongruous with their behavior and even a cursory examination of the evidence. First, there is no neutral zone for us these days. I doubt you would postulate this being a chance encounter. I believe it is either for evil or for good. Second, do you really think people asking those kinds of questions are ordinary people? And third—”
“Do you always have to lay out our options like a professor?” Brandon snapped his fingers.
Marcus’s face turned red. “But I am a—”
“It’s a joke, Prof. Relax.”
“I am relaxed.” Marcus slid his phone back into his pocket and pushed his glasses back up on his nose.
“Uh-huh. You’re melted white chocolate, you’re so silky smooth.”
Up ahead, the man who called himself Orson crossed the street, leaving Jotham and Tristan on the other side. Another block up, Jotham crossed the street as well.
“Do we want to split up?” Dana asked.
“No, let’s stay on Tristan.”
Thirty seconds later Tristan stopped next to a gold Pontiac Grand Am and reached into his pocket.
“You think he can see us?” Brandon said.
“Unlikely at this distance and angle,” Marcus replied.
Tristan opened the door of his car, then turned and waved at them before getting in.
“I think he spotted us,” Dana said.
“How’d he know we were following?”
“First, we are not as skilled in subterfuge as we would like to believe we are. Second, we were—” Marcus stopped, pointed at Brandon, and laughed. “I’m going to stop doing that sometime in the next ten years, I assure you.”
“I hope not.” Brandon grinned and watched Tristan pull away.
“Of course.” Marcus smiled, then looked skyward, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Why the strange look, Marcus?”
“Two items for contemplation.”
“Spill it.”
“First, the three of us didn’t talk about Reece.” The professor rubbed his temple. “But it appears the Spirit had another agenda in mind.”
“True, and the second?”
“Your stalker reminds me of someone who might be stalking me. And I have the sensation he’s getting ready for a second visit very soon.”
SIXTEEN
MARCUS WRAPPED THINGS UP IN HIS OFFICE AT FOUR fifteen on Thursday afternoon, which meant the chance to get in a workout at his gym before heading home but he never got there.
He decided to walk through Red Square to break up his normal routine when heading for his car. It would take a few more minutes but that was fine. It would give him a little more thinking time—to continue to wrestle with the idea that he truly had switched into another reality on the Ave, at Kat’s bakery, and in his den two nights ago.
It couldn’t have truly transpired. But that’s what he would have said about all the things Doug and Reece had shown them over the past year.
The campus smelled of summer trying to make itself known in the midst of the perpetual dampness of a Seattle spring. A few students wore shorts as if they could hasten its arrival. Others wore jackets, unconvinced of the power of the descending sun poking through thick white clouds.
Marcus strolled by a man he’d long ago dubbed Jeremiah and watched him speak to ten or eleven students in his soft, husky voice about how to experience heaven on earth. As he passed by, Marcus winked at him and Jeremiah returned the gesture. They’d chatted once or twice a month about life and even about a few of his experiences with the Warriors. Jeremiah always ended their conversations by saying, “Go with it, I’ll pray for you,” and Marcus believed the man did.
In the far corner some spray-paint artists created images for the freshmen who stared at their works in fascination. The painters would be kicked off campus soon enough, but not before three or ten students “donated” thirty bucks to their art fund in exchange for a custom painting.
Directly in his path, in the far left corner of the square, a crowd of thirty, maybe thirty-five people stood in a semicircle around a man dressed in black. Marcus took three more strides toward him, then stopped as if he’d slammed into an iron door.
It was him. The man on the street corner who had tried to get cozy six days back. His prediction had come true. They were seeing each other again. At least Marcus was seeing him. He eased up to the back of the crowd and avoided the man’s line of sight.
He was dressed the same as the other day: black jeans and a dark red shirt. The man darted back and forth from one side of the crowd to the other, shoulders slightly stooped, not from old age but because they followed his head and neck that were thrust forward as if he were a large bird looking for seeds among his audience.
Finally he stopped on the side of the group opp
osite Marcus and swept his gaze over the crowd. “Students of this university and students of life, you are about to see a miracle.”
He made a quarter bow as if the miracle had already taken place, then stood straight with a broad grin washing across his face. The man turned to a short brunette and offered his empty right hand as if it held something. “You, take it, please.” He turned over his hand in the air above hers. “Don’t drop it, thank you. Now, take the deck and lift it up for everyone to see.”
“I’m not holding—”
“It’s invisible.” He said it in a mock whisper, then leaned forward and winked at her. “You must believe.”
She offered a droopy grin, raised her hand palm up, and the magician pointed at the invisible deck on top of it.
“If you would do me the favor of choosing a color: red or black.”
“Red.”
“Splendid. Please give the deck to the person to your right.”
She pretended to hand the deck to a student who looked like Alfred Hitchcock must have looked like when he was young. “The color red offers us two choices: diamonds or hearts.” The man glanced in Marcus’s direction, then back to the student. “Please choose either, my young director.”
Marcus squinted at the magician and took a few steps closer to the front. How did the man know Marcus was thinking the student looked like Hitchcock? It was either a disconcerting coincidence or an impressive bit of mind reading—and he didn’t believe in the latter.
“Do you have it? You’ve chosen a suit, yes?” He rubbed his teeth across his lower lip.
“Diamonds,” the student answered.
“Do you want to change your mind?” The magician shuffled one step to his left.
“No.”
He shuffled back. “So you’re saying you’re happy with the mind you have?”
Mild laughter fluttered through the crowd.
“Yes. I’m quite satisfied with the mind I have.” Young Hitchcock smiled.
“I’m sure you are. Now hand the deck to the person next to you.”
After the student mimed the transfer, the magician spoke to the young bohemian-looking woman who now held the deck. “Please choose lower cards, middle cards, or upper cards.”
“Upper.”
“Wonderful. Splendid. Superb.”
To the next holder of the invisible pack of cards he asked, “Will you give us the name of a card in the upper diamonds?”
“Jack.”
“The jack of diamonds?”
“Yes.”
He spun in a 360, arms out to the crowd. “Amazing. Truly astounding.” The magician closed his eyes and gave little shakes of his head—a thin smile on his face. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and beamed at the crowd.
“The card we arrived at was completely random. It was completely unknown to any of us until this moment. The choice of card was utterly and undeniably free. Yes?”
He glanced at the crowd who murmured their agreement.
“And yet last night I had a dream of strange portents.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he looked up and opened them, he looked ready to explode. “I dreamt of a card, in a dream so vivid that when I woke I immediately grabbed a deck of cards, found that card I’d dreamed of, and reversed it in the pack. I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know why I was compelled to reverse the card. I simply knew it had to be done.”
The magician reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red deck of cards by the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He set it on the palm of his hand and stared at it.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
He pulled the deck from the case and spread it between his hands. “Look. All these cards are faceup. Aces and eights and kings and fours and every other card.” He spread them farther. “All of them.”
Marcus squinted to see and pushed to the front of the crowd.
“All except one.” Toward the end of the spread a reversed card slid into view, its red back in stark contrast to the other cards. “Fifty-one faceup cards. One card facedown.”
The magician grinned, slid it out of the pack, and held it up for the crowd to gawk at. Marcus knew what had to be coming next but it still surprised him. The magician turned the card around and held the jack of diamonds high in the air as he slowly waved it back and forth.
“You were amazing.” He pointed at each of the people who had helped choose the card. “Well done. If you’d chosen any other color, any other suit, the lower or middle cards or any other high card, well”—he motioned toward a brown leather bag with green bills overflowing from it—“I fear the others among you wouldn’t be as kind with their donations as I’m hoping they will now be.” He picked up the bag—the money still sticking over the edges—and passed it through the crowd.
As the bag circulated, the magician squatted and stared at the ground as if trying to figure out what to do next. When he sprang back to his feet, he grinned at the sky, then turned to Marcus. His slate-gray eyes seemed to bore into Marcus’s brain and shout, “I told you we’d meet again today, of course I couldn’t have it any other way.” He spun in a slow circle on his heel, eyes closed, thumbs hooked over the front of his jeans.
When he opened them, he addressed the crowd but his gaze locked onto Marcus. “We’re about to do an experiment. Not a magic trick, not some manipulation of your senses to force you to choose in the way I want you to, but a true experiment that might or might not work. Simply put, I’m going to read your mind.” He nodded at the crowd as if he’d just offered all of them a winning lottery ticket they couldn’t refuse.
“But before we begin I should warn you this experiment will change at least one of your lives in a significant way.” He bowed his head and opened his palms. “So if you suspect it might be you and are wondering what to do . . . if you’d like to remain in the cocoon you call your life, I suggest you leave now and give no chance to stir up strife.”
The sensation that the magician was talking specifically about him surged through Marcus’s brain like a rogue ocean wave, but he shrugged it off. Apparently not everyone could do so as about a quarter of the crowd shuffled away.
After the sound of their echoing steps off the red bricks of the square faded, the man lifted his head and sighed with seeming contentment. “Ah yes. The faithful remain.” He rubbed his hands together. “Good, I think we’re ready.”
The street magician glanced at each of the remaining people as if evaluating pieces of machinery. When he’d finished he looked up and to his left, then blinked three times at half speed. Then he turned and smiled at Marcus. “Would you like to help?”
“With what?”
“The experiment of course.” He sauntered toward Marcus and stopped with three feet between them. “Are you ready to get on this pony and take a little jaunt together?”
“You’re going to read my mind?”
“Yes. But without anything being written down as so many of my brethren must do and without asking you a single question. As I already said, this experiment is real. No smoke, no mirrors, no cheap trick thrill.”
He glanced at the rest of the crowd, an expectant look on their faces.
“No thanks.”
“No worries.” He turned to Marcus’s left. “Then let’s do something else. Would anyone like to help me prove the existence of alternate realities and explain why a woman would wear the same outfit to her job at a bakery two days in a row?”
Marcus blinked. “What did you say?”
The magician spun back to him. “I don’t believe your hearing failed you.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Now, can I try to read your mind? I promise to be ever so kind.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Do you want to help?”
“How did you know?”
He leaned toward Marcus and spoke in a stage whisper. “Are you sure we should have that conversation right now in front of students who will likely report on the details of what we talk about to others at
this university, or should we arrange for a more appropriate time to chat?”
Marcus didn’t answer. He wanted to grab the magician around the neck and shove him up against a wall until he told Marcus what he knew about Kat. All this guy needed was a gold coin to flip to convince him it was Zennon.
After a few minutes of pretending he was finding something in the battered leather briefcase at his feet, the magician asked once more, “Will you help?” His eyes said the only acceptable answer was yes. Marcus nodded.
“Splendid.” He turned to the crowd and opened his arms wide. “Let us begin.” He paced three steps to the right and then three back to the left, stroking his chin as if he were playing a vaudeville stage back in the 1920s.
“Please think of a photograph you own. Any will do. Concentrate on it. Form a picture of it in your head. Now attach an emotion to the picture. Anger, fear, happiness, regret—anything you like.” He stopped pacing and stared at Marcus. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
“You’re thinking of a photograph of the Enchantments. Your arm is around a good friend and the emotion you’re feeling is . . . regret.”
Marcus stepped out from the crowd and turned to face them. “Show’s over. My new friend and I are going to have a chat. Right now.”
“Was he right?” a young man asked.
“Yes, he was right.” Marcus stared at the magician and motioned him toward Drumheller Fountain at the south end of campus.
Marcus stood next to the fountain, arms crossed, his gaze drilling the magician. “What’s your name?”
“Simon.”
“Last name?”
Simon waved his hand. “Simon is enough.”
“Fine. I suppose I don’t have to tell you mine then.”
“No, you don’t. I picked that up while reading your mind.” The man grinned.
“I don’t believe that.”
“You’re right, it was much easier to find it online in the U-Dub faculty directory.”
Marcus glanced to his left and right. No one near. Good. “Are you Zennon? Or some other demon?”
Memory's Door (A Well Spring Novel) Page 10