by Sonia Singh
Anjali often wondered if human beings lost the power of clarity after death.
“I’ll make some calls at work tomorrow,” Zarina said. “I’m pretty sure the biomechanics lab has an opening for a programmer.”
The last thing Anjali wanted was to spend five days a week under the disapproving gaze of her sister. And what was biomechanics anyway? Didn’t Zarina have a Ph.D. in biochemistry?
Anjali was saved from making a lame excuse by the arrival of the waiter. He set their orders down on the table: two vegetarian portobello pizzas made with nondairy soy cheese, and one steak medium-rare with a side of fries.
Guess which dish was for her.
Anjali felt like a hypocrite ordering the steak. Not because she was Hindu, but because she belonged to an organization devoted to animal rights, and she was the only nonvegetarian member. She didn’t know how to explain herself. All she knew was that she couldn’t stand to see an animal being cruelly treated and she couldn’t turn down a well-cut side of beef.
Call her a hypocrite, call her complex, and she’d call you when she finally figured herself out.
Vijay slammed his BlackBerry on the table, causing nearby heads to turn. “I’ve changed my e-mail half a dozen times but I keep getting spammed. Ads for low-interest home mortgages, triple-strength Viagra, how to increase your sperm count—”
Anjali laughed.
“—and psychic advice.”
The laughter died in her throat. Across the table, Zarina froze.
Still absorbed with his spam issues, Vijay didn’t notice the emotional byplay. But then why should he? Vijay didn’t know Anjali was psychic. Zarina had sworn her to secrecy.
Now looking at her sister’s rigid face, Anjali felt her cheeks grow warm. She knew the root of her family’s behavior stemmed from fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what people would say when they discovered her peculiarity. She had some of those same fears herself.
Didn’t stop her from being annoyed with her family, though.
Zarina placed her napkin on the table and excused herself. Anjali sat back and stared glumly at the table.
“Ah…” Vijay leaned forward and peered with interest at her plate. “Can I have a French fry?”
A little startled, Anjali nevertheless pushed her plate toward him. “Dig in.”
Vijay looked over his shoulder, realized the coast was clear, then stuffed a bunch of fries into his mouth. He closed his eyes and chewed. “Now that’s good. Not as good as the fries at Frjtz though.” He blinked at her. “I can let you in on a little insider tip. Burger King has the best fries—if you go between one and one-thirty. That’s when they change the grease traps. McDonald’s used to be good until they were sued by a bunch of Brahmins and forced to remove the beef tallow.”
So Vijay had a closet fry addiction—the more beef tallow, the better. Anjali smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie with her brother-in-law. She decided to take a risk and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table—Emily Post be damned—and kept her voice casual. “What do you think of psychic advice and all that Shirley MacLaine stuff?” Fry halfway to his mouth, Vijay paused and looked at her. “You know, just out of curiosity,” she added.
Vijay popped the fry into his mouth and chewed, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Science hasn’t conclusively disproved the existence of psychic phenomena. For all we know there may be genuine psychics out there. Who’s to say? Any ketchup?”
Anjali pushed the bottle toward him, then stood and mumbled something about the restroom. Busy with condiments, Vijay barely looked up.
She moved with quick steps toward the ladies’ room and found her sister at the head of a line of women, preparing to step into the vacated bathroom.
Zarina’s eyes widened as Anjali pushed her way inside—amid a chorus of angry protests—and locked the door behind them. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, Anjali stood dumbstruck as she took in the pink linoleum, the pink tile counter, and the pink poodle wallpaper. She shook her head and refocused. “Vijay is more open-minded than you think. He believes psychic abilities might exist!”
Zarina gasped, “You didn’t tell him—”
“No. But that’s my point! You don’t have to worry. We can tell Vijay the truth. He might even think it’s cool!” She knew she was probably getting excited over nothing, but it was like a knot inside her had finally loosened. If Vijay accepted her, then Zarina was bound to. Maybe they’d start acting like real sisters—confiding in each other, gossiping together, going shopping—not that they could ever borrow each other’s clothes. Zarina wore a size zero, and Anjali…well never mind.
“No!” Zarina shouted. “You can’t tell him anything!”
Anjali had never heard her sister raise her voice before and took a step back.
Zarina stood there, clenching her fists, her face white.
Anjali raised her hands and tried for a soothing voice. “I’m not going to walk up to Vijay and offer to contact his dead relatives. I’m just saying you don’t have to worry so much about his reaction if I did. You don’t have to worry that your husband will condemn you because of me.”
Zarina sighed, some of the tension leaving her body. “You don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that.”
Anjali made sure the pink toilet lid was down before taking a seat. “Understand what?”
“Remember Uncle Gopal? He used to preach Hindu-Muslim brotherhood. He wanted India and Pakistan to be friends.”
Anjali nodded. “He used to say Allah and Krishna were one. He even wrote a song about it and performed it at parties.” She remembered her uncle sporting a jaunty red beret and breaking out the accordion before each performance.
Zarina leaned back against the sink. “And then one day our cousin, Priya, comes home with her new boyfriend—Tariq. An exchange student from Karachi.”
“He threw both of them out of the house and told Priya he’d disown her. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Yes it does.” Now Zarina was trying for the soothing voice. “People can be very liberal about things until it hits close to home. Like that movie Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. But minus the happy ending.”
Anjali guessed she’d been cast in the Sidney Poitier role.
The knot inside her was back and tighter than ever.
Meanwhile, Zarina still had to use the bathroom and did not want an audience.
6
Somewhere along the Idaho and Nevada border, Coulter found himself on a deserted stretch of road in the middle of a small, dusty town.
“What a shit hole,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette.
The bus ticket out of Idaho had gotten him this far. Now he just had to decide whether to head south to Vegas or west to San Francisco and farther on to L.A. He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. He never did. Not since that sunny Tennessee day his mother claimed raising a son was cramping her lifestyle and kicked him out of the double wide. He’d been fifteen.
With no family to speak of and not wanting to end up in foster care, Coulter took off. In the beginning, he worked odd jobs, barely living off what he earned, but then one day the carnival came to Chattanooga. He decided to try his luck at knocking down three milk bottles stacked in a triangle. His first three shots just glanced off the bottles and failed to knock down a single one. Annoyed, he purchased three more balls and failed twice more.
By this time Coulter figured out that even a hurricane blowing through the lot wouldn’t knock over a damn bottle. Thoroughly ticked at getting conned, his anger grew. He felt the pull in his gut and hurled his last ball at the target. Not only did the ball knock down the milk bottles but the shelf of prizes behind it as well, and tore a hole in the tent. Coulter walked off with a good chunk of the carny’s money, and a whole new career was born.
God smiled down on Coulter Marshall that day.
He hadn’t heard from the Man since.
Eleven years later, he was still drifting.
Only now
he was looking for bigger game, higher stakes. The kind of score he could coast on for months instead of days. He needed a big city for that. But first he needed a drink.
And like every other crap-hole town in blessed America that didn’t possess a hospital, library, or ethnic diversity, this one had a bar.
He stubbed out his cigarette, pushed open the door, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he noticed the three men playing pool in the corner, his lips curved in a smile and his gaze took on a predatory gleam.
He’d have his drink and make a few bucks in the process.
Coulter walked up to the bar and sat down. He took off his Stetson, laid it on the counter, and ran his fingers through his blond hair.
The bartender was a woman in her early forties, he guessed. Who the hell knew a woman’s age these days anyway? You had sixty-year-old women Botoxed to look thirty and sixteen-year-olds dolled up to look twenty-five.
The woman tossed her unnaturally bright red hair and surveyed him with a hand on her hip. “Hey there, cowboy, haven’t seen anyone as handsome as you walk through that door before.”
“Today’s your lucky day, Red.”
“Name’s Loretta. What’ll you have?”
“Whiskey. Straight up.”
She set the glass before him. “We don’t get too many strangers here. Where you from?”
Coulter took a swallow of his drink before answering. He’d spun so many lies upon lies that even the simplest question took careful thought. He decided that in this case the truth couldn’t hurt. “Tennessee.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Passing through.”
Loretta smiled and took the hint, turning away to polish a row of shot glasses. Coulter focused his attention back to the pool players.
He could hardly tell them apart, what with their scruffy beards, greasy hair, and bad teeth.
Coulter caught Loretta’s eye and angled his head toward the men. “What’s up with the cast from Deliverance? Locals?”
She nodded. “They work over at the gypsum mine. Act like a bunch of drunken sailors. Come in every Friday and blow their paycheck. Naturally”—she grinned—“I’m not complaining.”
Today was Friday.
Well bless their hearts, Coulter thought. Piss drunk with a paycheck. Just the way he liked ’em.
Downing his whiskey, he headed over to the pool table. “How about a game?”
One of the men smirked. “You don’t look strong enough to lift a cue stick, pretty boy.” The other two snickered and elbowed each other.
“I can do more than lift it, Cletus. Care to wager?”
Cletus scowled. “You any good?”
“Yeah,” Coulter lied.
“You tryin’ to hustle us?”
Coulter shrugged. “Well now, that all depends on whether I win or not.”
The three men looked at one another and then back at him.
“If you’d rather not venture,” Coulter said, “seein’ as how you’d probably lose your money to me anyway.” He turned to leave.
“Let Goldilocks play a game,” one of the men said.
Coulter turned back and took off his denim jacket, tossing it onto a bar stool. He held out his hand for a cue stick. “Rack ’em and crack ’em, boys.”
Unlike most pool sharks, Coulter had the unique distinction of being truly terrible at the game.
That was the idea.
Playing honestly and as skillfully as he could, he lost the first two games.
In between roaring with laughter and calling Coulter names, the men continued to pound beers.
Coulter ordered another whiskey and placed his remaining money on the table. “One more match,” he said. “Double or nothin’.”
Loretta walked over with his drink. “You sure, hon?”
He tipped the contents into his mouth and handed her the empty glass. “It’ll be just fine.”
Once again the table was racked. This time Coulter broke.
Concentrating, he felt the familiar pull in his gut and guided the seven and five balls straight into the pocket.
No need to overdo it. Telekinesis required a fine touch.
Unconcerned, Cletus took his shot, eyes widening as the ball veered slightly off course.
Coulter almost laughed.
For the remainder of the game, each of Cletus’s shots just barely missed the pocket. In one case, the ball stopped right before the pocket and rolled back.
So Coulter didn’t always exercise a fine touch; sometimes he just had fun.
The third game went to him.
Cletus demanded a rematch. “Hell if that wasn’t just dumb luck on your side. Double or nothin’.”
Coulter chalked his cue stick. “Always happy to oblige.”
He won the next game as well.
Cletus kicked the wall. “Goddamn it!”
Wallet sufficiently padded, Coulter decided to hit the road. “Nice playin’ with you, boys,” he called out and grabbed his Stetson. Arms folded across her chest, Loretta smiled at him. He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and slapped it on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks, Red.”
Her smile widened. “Any time, gorgeous.”
Grinning, Coulter turned around and stopped as Cletus and his two hayseeds maneuvered themselves in front of the door. “You’re not thinkin’ of leavin’, are you, pretty boy?”
“You call me pretty boy one more time and I’ll start thinkin’ you’ve got a thing for me,” Coulter said.
Cletus glared. “Give us our money.”
Coulter didn’t bat a blue eye. “We had an honest wager, boys. Wouldn’t be gentlemanly of ya’ll to forget that.”
He’d dealt with this kind of thing before. People didn’t take kindly to parting with their money by honest or dishonest means. He scanned the room, looking for something he could use. Something with weight. The heavy fluorescent light fixture above the door caught his eye. He focused, and it began to sway.
Just then he heard an all-too-familiar sound. The bolt being pulled back on a shotgun. He stiffened.
Loretta stood behind the bar, shotgun raised in her hands. “The man won his money fair and square, boys. Now let him on his way.”
“Come on, Loretta, that’s our money for the rest of the week,” Cletus whined.
Loretta’s hands were steady on the rifle. “Then I bet you feel real stupid now, don’t ya?” she said.
Grumbling, all three men stepped away from the door.
Coulter was sure the surprise showed on his face. No one had ever defended him before. There was a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t like it.
Tasted like guilt.
Loretta cocked her head toward the door. “Go on now. I hope it was worth it.”
With a final wave, Coulter walked out into the evening sky. Staring up at the orange and purple clouds, he thought about the money in his pocket.
Was it worth it?
For the first time, he didn’t think it was.
7
Anjali knew she was being followed.
She wouldn’t be much of a telepath if she didn’t.
He’d followed her from the pet food section and kept his distance as she maneuvered her cart between rows of liquor.
Anjali was out of staples like cat food and vodka.
Ah, the life of a single psychic gal in the city.
She was tempted to lead her pursuer on a wild-goose chase—ducking in and out of buildings, zigzagging across streets, leaping on and off buses—but she was feeling lazy.
Besides, she wasn’t getting any serial killer vibes from him.
She lifted a blue bottle of Skyy off the shelf and turned around to put it in her cart and came face to face with her supermarket stalker.
His smile was hesitant. “Anjali?”
He had nice teeth—white and straight. Anjali had a thing about teeth. You could be the most attractive person in the world, but if your teeth were funky—forget about it.
He also pronounced
her name correctly. Most people tended to say An-jelly, when it was really Un-ja-lee.
Nevertheless, she didn’t make a habit of fraternizing with strange men just because they practiced good dental hygiene and happened to pronounce her name correctly.
“Yes?” she said with just a touch of surly.
Anjali did not subscribe to the notion that a stranger was a friend you hadn’t met yet.
“My name is Scott Wilder. Sorry about approaching you like this but your phone has call blocker and, well…never mind.” He held out his business card. “This should explain why I’m here.”
She didn’t want to take it, but figured the faster she got this over with, the faster he’d leave. So she put down the bottle and took the card.
THE COLD SPOT
PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS
SCOTT WILDER: FOUNDER
The Cold Spot? She had to admit that was pretty clever. Still, she didn’t make a habit of fraternizing with paranormal investigators just because they were good with words.
“I’m sorry,” she said, handing back his card. “But I’m not interested.”
“Let me explain—”
She tried to keep her voice even. “Listen, being psychic isn’t a gift. It’s a curse. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding anything to do with the supernatural, the paranormal, whatever you want to call it. So you’re just wasting your time.”
He held her gaze for a few moments and then smiled again. “You know, I need a few groceries myself.” He took hold of her cart. “Mind if I share yours? Call it cart pooling. Less traffic in the aisle.” He headed off toward the produce department.
Anjali frowned. Persistent, he was.
Scott Wilder was thumping a cantaloupe when she approached. “That’s a keeper. Did you know the Australian aborigines think of telepathy as a normal human function?”
“If an aborigine jumped off a cliff, would you?” Determined, she took hold of the cart and moved away. Scott followed her, cantaloupe tucked under his arm.
“Aren’t you curious about how I found you?” he asked.
“No.” She pushed her cart past the beauty care aisle and saw a woman trying to shove two boxes of hair dye under her shirt.
