Snakes and Ladders

by Matty Dalrymple

  “That makes sense.”

  “The concept seems obvious, but the tricky part is what one considers a virtue and what one considers a vice. You see your ability as a vice, but I believe it could be a virtue. If you’re willing to use it to help people who can’t help themselves, and to deal with people who are using their own powers for evil, then it’s a ladder, not a snake.”

  Her eyes still fixed on the painting, she sank into one of the chairs. He sat down opposite her, and leaned toward her over the table.

  “I want you to think about the people who crossed you. Your mother obviously doesn’t fall into that category. She became a victim of your power because you and your parents didn’t realize at first what was causing her strokes. The woman on the train was an unintended victim, and I would never argue that someone should die just because they’re acting like a jerk.”

  Tears began to pool in the corners of Lizzy’s eyes.

  “But the people who truly meant to cause you pain—Anton Rossi and Gerard Bonnay—the world is better off without them.”

  “I guess I believe that,” she said uncertainly, “but what am I supposed to do based on that?”

  Philip leaned back. “Let’s talk about that at our next session.”

  26

  The next day, Philip stood under the hacienda-style porch in front of his office, the Session in Progress - Please Stop Back Later sign already turned out, and watched with some trepidation as Owen McNally climbed out of his SUV. The man was a mountain.

  Lizzy had called Philip the previous evening, after their third session. She had returned home to a godfather who had discovered her deception and who was none too pleased about his goddaughter visiting a psychic counselor behind his back. He had demanded a meeting with Philip.

  Philip hoped that Lizzy had been right when she said that McNally just wanted to talk to him. He was greeting McNally outside in case his intent was different than Lizzy believed—it would be easier for Philip to deal with a physical altercation outside than in the confines of the office.

  But as he watched Owen McNally settle a Panama hat on his head, Philip’s concerns lessened. He didn’t look dangerous. Instead, he managed to look simultaneously resolute and apologetic.

  As McNally stepped onto the porch, Philip put out his hand. “Dr. McNally, pleased to meet you. I’m Philip Castillo.”

  McNally did his best to glower as he shook Philip’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he growled.

  Philip pushed the door open. “Please come in.” He stepped aside—far aside—to let his visitor pass. “Have a seat.” Philip gestured toward the bench in the waiting room.

  McNally removed his hat and looked around the room. “You met with my goddaughter here?”

  “Here, and at a shopping center nearby.”

  McNally looked hawkishly at Philip. “You met in your waiting room?”

  Philip sighed inwardly. He had hoped McNally wouldn’t press for the exact location of their sessions: a room that was sure to strike McNally not as a comfortable sanctuary for clients, but as a small, dark, windowless space away from prying eyes. “No, the times we met here, we met in my consulting room.” He held back the curtain for McNally’s inspection.

  McNally stepped to the doorway, peered in, and grimaced. Lizzy had prepped Philip that not only might her godfather not appreciate the idea of her being in the back room with Philip, but that neither of the chairs there would accommodate him.

  “Interesting,” said McNally. He glanced back toward the bench that Philip had originally offered. “Perhaps we should talk out here. The furniture seems a bit more adequate.” He lowered himself onto the bench.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” asked Philip. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  Owen pulled a water bottle out of his pocket and put it down on the bench next to him. “No, thanks. I brought some water.”

  Philip took a seat in one of the chairs.

  “So,” said McNally, “you are a ‘psychic counselor.’ ‘Psychic’ as in telepathy? Clairvoyance?”

  “No. ‘Psychic’ as in ‘of the soul or mind.’”

  “Ah,” said McNally. It was unclear whether or not he found this clarification reassuring. “And why did you find it necessary to keep your meetings with my goddaughter secret?”

  “It wasn’t my choice, it was Lizzy’s choice.”

  “And why do you think she made that choice?”

  “You should ask her that.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  After a pause, McNally replied, “She said she didn’t think I would approve.”

  “Did she tell you why she thought you wouldn’t approve?”

  “This is supposed to be my opportunity to ask you questions,” said McNally sternly.

  Philip nodded. “Certainly.”

  The pause was longer this time, then McNally said, “She thought I would be skeptical of your approach.”

  “And are you—“ Philip stopped. “Sorry. I get used to asking my clients questions. It’s a hard habit to break.”

  Owen waved away the apology. “I must admit I am skeptical of anyone labeling themselves ‘psychic’ in this area. Although your clarification of your use of the term is helpful.” He cocked an eye at Philip. “Do your clients interpret ‘psychic’ differently than you describe?”

  Philip sat back. “I did choose the term ‘psychic counselor’ with an eye to its different meanings. There are certainly people who come to Sedona looking for telepaths or clairvoyants, and the term is appealing to them.”

  “And do you disabuse them of their misconception?” McNally was still managing, just barely, to maintain his scowl, but the tone of the conversation had changed. It was clear that inquiry, and not interrogation, was his natural approach.

  Philip shrugged. “No. But I believe that there’s a fine line between mind-reading and helping someone understand and work through the issues they’re facing.”

  McNally considered. Finally he said, “Yes, I can see how that might be true.” He glanced around the waiting room. “Did you have any sort of formal training for this type of work?”

  “I studied at Williams.”

  “An accredited institution?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Owen looked expectantly at him, then evidently decided not to pursue that line of questioning. “So, what exactly has Lizzy told you?”

  “Did you ask Lizzy that?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  For a moment Owen appeared ready to protest, then sighed. “She said she told you everything about herself—her ability, her situation. And I assume she must have told you something about me to explain why I’m here with her.”

  “She just told me that you helped her get away from Gerard Bonnay and Louise Mortensen, and then away from Philadelphia.”

  “Did she tell you about anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t ask her?”

  “No.”

  Owen ran the brim of his hat through his hands. “I’m surprised she told you as much as she did.”

  “I think she only intended to tell me about herself, and that the part about you sort of slipped out.”

  Owen sighed. “She needs to be more careful.”

  Philip nodded, then said, “I think that having an impartial third party like myself to talk to would help her be more circumspect in her interactions with other people.”

  “I suppose so,” said Owen.

  “It seems like Sedona is good for her,” Philip continued. “She told me about the yoga classes she’s taking, and it sounds like she’s enjoying that.”

  “Yes,” said Owen. “Although she’s not taking quite as many yoga classes as I had thought earlier,” he added, a slight scowl returning to his face.

  Philip crossed his legs. “Are you enjoying your time in Sedona?’

  “Of course. In addition to the obvious incentive of staying out of the
reach of Louise Mortensen and her associates—even if it is only a temporary solution—it was thirty-four degrees with freezing rain in Philly this morning.”

  “You’re checking.”

  “Well, yes. Doesn’t everyone? Check to see what’s going on back home?”

  “No, I don’t think everyone does. A lot of people would be happy to put the cold temperatures and bad weather in their hometown out of their minds entirely while they’re away.”

  Owen was silent.

  “Missing family?”

  Owen started. “Did Lizzy tell you about my family?”

  “No, but you’ve known Lizzy since she was small. You’re wearing a William Penn University ring. You say ‘water’ with the same slight Southeastern Pennsylvania accent that Lizzy has. You obviously have roots there. It makes sense that you would have family there.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “I can see why clients coming to you for clairvoyance wouldn’t be disappointed.”

  Philip smiled.

  After a moment, Owen said, “It’s my mother. She’s not well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. That must make it difficult for you to be out here.”

  “My brother’s keeping an eye on her. And on my dad.” Owen stared disconsolately at his hat.

  “That can’t be a comfortable situation for you.”

  “No.”

  “And I imagine you’re not just missing family, but friends as well. I’m picturing you as someone with a large circle of friends, and as someone with favorite activities, favorite places, that you would like to get back to.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “How do you think Lizzy felt about hiding her visits to me from you?”

  Owen raised his eyebrows at the apparent change in direction of the conversation. “Guilty.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “She’s a naturally open and honest person. It’s probably a challenge for her to withhold information.”

  Philip uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. “I hope you won’t consider this an insult, because I don’t mean it to be one, but you’re very much like Lizzy—an open person. Easy to read.” Owen began to look ruffled, and Philip held up his hand. “I only say that because for any person like that, living a life of subterfuge would be difficult. And I mean that not only in the sense of being difficult to do successfully—I imagine you, as well as Lizzy, are always having to be on the lookout that you don’t say more to someone than you should—but also in the sense of being emotionally difficult to maintain over time.”

  Owen smiled wanly. “I’m really that much of an open book?”

  Philip laughed. “Yup.”

  Owen shook his head. “I’ll be more careful—although,” he added, “I certainly didn’t exercise much discretion in this conversation.”

  “You already know that discretion is important for Lizzy’s safety,” replied Philip, “and you know that the sooner the two of you can resolve this situation she’s in, the better for both of you. I think the goal we all share is to create a situation where the two of you can go home without having to be fearful for your safety.”

  “Yes, that would certainly be the ideal outcome. I’m just having trouble seeing how to do it.”

  “If you give your approval to let my sessions with Lizzy continue, I think the three of us can make progress toward that outcome.”

  Owen gazed out the window then heaved a deep sigh. “She does seem enthusiastic about her sessions with you, and more optimistic than I’ve seen her in a long time. Yes, I give my approval for the session to continue. Although,” he added ruefully, “history has shown that my approval or disapproval is not necessarily the deciding factor in Lizzy’s decisions. She may be an open person, but she’s got a will of steel.”

  Philip smiled. “She certainly does.”

  27

  Millard sat in his rental car about half a block from Philip Castillo’s office, a pair of binoculars held to his eyes. After a few moments, he put them aside, pressed a speed dial on his phone, and got Louise Mortensen’s usual greeting.

  “Yes?”

  “McNally is at Castillo’s office.”

  “With Ballard?”

  “Alone.”

  “Damn.” After a pause, she asked, “Did the meeting look friendly?”

  “They shook hands before they went in the office, but neither of them looked super excited to be there. I’m guessing that Ballard was seeing Castillo on the sly, and McNally found out about it and came to see what the scoop was.”

  “If Ballard’s godfather is now getting involved with this ‘psychic counselor,’” said Mortensen, delivering the title with obvious contempt, “we’ve run out of time. We need to get Ballard and McNally out of the picture now. Have you come up with a plan?”

  Millard tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “If it was one or the other of them, and we didn’t have Ballard’s ability to consider, it would be easy. I could take Ballard out with a quick sideswipe of her bike if she would ever venture off the main roads. I can’t just pull her into an alley and fake a mugging. That worked with dear old dad, but trying that on her seems like a suicide mission. I saw what she did to Anton Rossi.”

  Millard had helped to tidy up after the test that Bonnay and Mortensen had set for Ballard in Pocopson. They had locked her in the library with small-time mobster and big-time bully Anton Rossi, and when the inevitable happened, Ballard had reduced the bully to a corpse.

  He continued. “McNally would be even easier: a fire at night, something blocking his path to the front door, a bedroom window too small for him to fit through.”

  “A fire could take care of both of them, if the situation were managed correctly.”

  “She’s slender, and probably limber from all those yoga classes she goes to. Anything that would keep her in a burning building would likely be too overt to pass for an accident. Plus,” he added, “fire is just generally unpredictable. I wouldn’t want to count on it.”

  “Good lord,” Mortensen muttered. “I’m getting tired of this. Just shoot them.”

  “To keep myself out of harm’s way, I’d have to do it from a distance, and someone killed with a rifle shot is sure to raise questions, especially if I take out both of them that way.”

  She sighed. “The decision’s yours, but make it quickly,” she said, and cut the connection without waiting for his reply.

  When McNally left Castillo’s office, Millard noted that the handshake looked more friendly, and the two men stood on the covered walkway chatting for a minute before McNally walked away with a wave. Whatever their conversation had been, it had certainly put the two of them in a better mood.

  Millard followed McNally back to the house in West Sedona. McNally pulled into the driveway and Millard drove past, then pulled to the side fifty yards down the road. After a minute, Ballard appeared, ran down the steps, and climbed into the passenger seat. The SUV stayed in the driveway for another minute, then McNally backed out and pulled away. Millard followed from a distance, knowing that he wouldn’t lose them with the tracker on the SUV.

  Ballard and McNally stopped for lunch at a Mexican place, then headed out of town. Millard sighed. He had a pretty good idea where they were going.

  As he had anticipated, Ballard and McNally drove to what was evidently her favorite hike: the Thread-the-Needle Trail.

  As he drove, he thought back fondly to the previous day when he had followed Ballard and Castillo through the shopping village in Sedona. That had involved no climbing tougher than a flight of stairs, no pace faster than a stroll. Millard didn’t have much fat on his frame, but his fitness came from a gym—a real gym, not one of those LA Fitness spandex palaces—and it was muscle built at the free-weight station. He had given up his daily run a decade before.

  He was regretting it on this job. Ballard was a hiking maniac.

  He had followed them to Thread-the-Needle for the first time a few d
ays before. McNally had dropped her off and then sat in the SUV reading until she had come back.

  The trail was a dozen miles outside of Sedona, and sparsely used. Even better from Millard’s point of view, it was out of cell phone range, and Millard started to think that a hiking accident might be a viable option. He didn’t think Ballard would recognize him if she encountered him on the trail: the only time she had seen him in person had been at Smoketown Airport, and she had mostly kept her eyes on the ground during that encounter. Plus, unlike that December in Pennsylvania, his face was now tan, his hair was short, he sported a beard and mustache, and he had replaced the winter overcoat with hiking gear. If he could catch her alone, it might be easy to pass her on a narrow path above a drop-off and give her a bump as he went by. If she survived the fall but was unconscious, he could hurry things along with a rock to the head.

  The second time he followed them to Thread-the-Needle, McNally actually got out of the car and started down the trail with her. Millard shook his head. Maybe he wouldn’t have to take care of McNally, maybe he’d just drop dead of a heart attack.

  But the man was a machine. He wasn’t fast—Ballard often took side trips then rejoined him a little further down the trail, which made following them tricky, especially since they hiked it as an out-and-back—but he was steady, like a locomotive.

  As they got out of the car this day they were talking intently, probably about McNally’s visit to Castillo, and as with their previous visit, McNally started down the trail with Ballard.

  Also as before, McNally stopped about a mile in, and sat down on a rock with a view of the valley below. Ballard continued on, disappearing around a curve in the trail. As McNally peeled the foil wrapper off what looked like a granola bar, Millard turned back to the trailhead.

  He knew why McNally stopped where he did. A few hundred yards further on, the trail led up to a tall, narrow spire of rock—the Needle, Millard guessed—through which hikers passed via a claustrophobia-inducing slit in the rock—which he guessed would make it the Eye. Ballard slipped through easily, but it was clear that McNally would never be able to fit his bulk through the opening.