by Lotta Smith
“Can you stand up?” he said. “It’s an experiment, so don’t try to outsmart me by moving your head to other directions.”
“Okay.” I tried to stand, and I felt my back and leg muscles contract, but I couldn’t move. “Wow, when my head is fixed, it almost feels like I’ve totally forgotten how to stand in the first place.”
“Right.” He chuckled. “Messing up your opponent’s balance is the first thing they teach you at the MMA gym.”
Karen put her finger on her forehead and tried the move, but she couldn’t stand up. “Oh… that was nothing out of the norm. How about the part with my fingers moving against my will? I swear I wasn’t faking it.”
“Mandy, you should be able to explain how that happened. Use what you learned at med school.” Rick winked at me and looked around the table. “She’s not just beautiful but intelligent as well.”
“Well….” Feeling pressured, I knitted my eyebrows. Inside, I was dying to punch him in the arm and demand that he ask me if I was comfortable answering the next question before he’d actually asked me the next question. “Mr. Barnes was clasping her arm by the elbow, right? That part of the arm is anatomically important as it’s full of big nerves and tendons. Karen, did you feel any sensations when that happened?”
Karen sucked in her breath. “Indeed, I felt something like heat and electricity.”
“Aha. That causes your fingers to move. Basically, the nerves controlling any muscles are contracting and relaxing said muscles by providing electrical current to the destination. So when the current runs into your elbow, it gets transmitted via the nerves to the fingers, moving them.” I looked at Karen and then Rick.
“Exactly.” A corner of his lips quirked up into a lopsided grin. Then he turned to Mr. Barnes. “Can you see the fashion statement he’s making? The typical prophet with the black cape and everything. Indeed, when I saw him for the first time, I couldn’t help but expect him to produce a crystal globe out of the cape. Considering the baggy cape can hold something as big as that, it should be able to hold that little electrical device which gets pretty handy for performing magic, and/or attempting to beat the machines at the casinos.”
“Electric device used at the casinos?” Karen furrowed her eyebrows.
“Right. Cheaters often use them at the roulette tables. By planting little magnets in the dice and the wheel, they can manipulate the dice. As the current flows, the side with the magnet faces down,” Rick explained as he looked at Mr. Barnes. “If you still insist that everything’s the spirits’ doing, why don’t you take off your gloves and convince me that my theory is wrong? I’m assuming you have little wires underneath the gloves that provide the current coming from the device underneath your cape.”
Mr. Barnes looked at Rick with daggers in his eyes, like he was seriously wishing to kill his counterpart with just his look. But of course, Rick wasn’t weak enough to drop dead on the spot from a menacing stare. All the while, Mr. Barnes kept his silence. At least by clamming up, he didn’t risk further exposing what he’d been hiding by trying to smooth talk his way out of trouble.
“So, Michael wasn’t…,” Karen muttered. She sounded somewhat torn between relief and disappointment.
“Exactly. Nothing spiritual or magical happened,” Rick assured her. “It was just manipulating your nerves and senses. Basically it was similar to an illusion show—only it was incomparably small and petty compared to the ones in Vegas.”
“Oh.” Karen exhaled deeply, then looked at Rick. “But… how can you explain the warmth I felt on my hand?”
“Capsaicin gel, I’d say,” Rick said nonchalantly.
“Capsaicin gel?” Karen tilted her head to the side. “I’ve heard about it but never tried it.”
“Capsaicin is a component found in chili peppers, and many products contain it,” I interjected. “Imagine chopping chili peppers. Your fingers become hot and tingling, as if you’d burned them. That’s capsaicin causing the hot sensation. The amount of capsaicin in gel and cream products is engineered to cause only the level of heat that you feel as warm and comfortable. Those products are widely used to relieve muscle pains by relaxing the aching muscle.”
“Karen, if you sniff at the parts of your hand touched by Mr. Barnes, you’ll probably smell something,” Rick added.
Karen sniffed her hand. “Oh… it smells like hand cream.”
“Right. Now let’s think about the window breaking and falling,” Rick continued. “So the salon was dark, and at that time, all the attention was focused on Mr. Grasso. Considering no one was watching the window in the dark, anyone could have smashed it by throwing a stone or a baseball and still pretended to be a shocked spectator.”
“The spirits can’t lie!” Mr. Barnes snapped in a harsh tone, but it only echoed emptily.
“You wish.” Jackie shook her head. “Spirits are still people, just without flesh and blood. Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we’ll immediately lose the ability or drive to lie that we used to have as humans. Excuse me for not being a total angel, but we happen to be way stronger and smarter than you’d like.”
Rick crossed his arms. “Okay, so let’s assume the hypothesis that the spirits can’t lie is true. Then again, you can lie. If I recall it right, you’re a living human and not a dead person’s spirit.”
Mr. Barnes opened his trembling lips as if to protest, but no words came out.
“The show’s over.” Mr. Grasso said sarcastically and stood up. “We’re leaving.” He reached for his wife, who clasped his hand and shot up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Thank you for the invitation, Karen, but we have to go. My apologies,” she said in a tone that didn’t sound apologetic in the least, then left the table with her husband in tow.
“We’re not finished yet!” Mr. Barnes stood in their way, but Mr. and Mrs. Grasso didn’t give a hoot.
“Stop playing your little game. That wasn’t fun!” Mr. Grasso declared, then stormed out of the salon with his wife, never looking back.
He had the same air of power and domination that came with people like Dan, Rick’s dad, and Hernandez, the head of the FBI’s New York City field office.
Mr. Barnes slumped back in his chair.
“Come on, cheer up. What happened to your uncontrollable motivation you were sporting just moments ago?” Jackie said teasingly, but the psychic medium didn’t acknowledge her or reply.
“Mr. Grasso was right. It wasn’t fun,” Rick mumbled, prompting me to poke him on the elbow. After all, we were there for an assignment, so we didn’t have a say in judging if it was fun or not. Not to mention I didn’t want to be rude to our host.
“Look, Karen. It was—” I opened my mouth, trying to recover my husband’s blunder, but…
“How could you say that? You know nothing about anything!” Mr. Macomber shot daggers at Rick. “I’m going to terminate the contract with USCAB.”
“Oh my God.” Jackie’s jaw dropped and I inhaled sharply. Losing a customer was always bad news.
“It’s your choice, but if I were you, I’d rather stick around with the current services you have. Not that I’m here as a sales rep, but it’s not as easy as you’re probably assuming to come across a good security package that not only covers your behind, but also keeps every particle of your dirty laundry out of the press.” Rick shrugged, whisking the stray lock of hair off his forehead.
“Are you threatening me?” the politician demanded in a tone as if he was playing the part of a king.
“Threatening you? Who, me?” Rick widened his eyes in mock shock. Then he turned to Mr. Barnes, winking. “So, what brought you to resort to such a ridiculous stunt? Did you, by any chance, assume it could turn into a spectacle, Father—what should I call you? Okay, let me call you Father Spectacle.”
“Father… as in a priest?” I muttered.
“A priest?” Karen repeated.
“It’s slightly questionable that you, someone who’s supposed to be God’s royal servant of al
l people, are doing this ridiculous masquerade tonight. Still, considering séances used to be conducted by pastors like any other church services back in the old days, maybe you’re the most suitable person for the job.” A small smile curled the corners of Rick’s lips, the same as whenever he walked the police and the fed agents through what happened in each case. Just like when he was still with the FBI, Rick was attempting to provoke everyone around him just because he could.
I braced myself to witness Mr. Barnes’s dramatic fury—not that I knew him so well, but assuming from his behavior so far, I could almost picture him resorting to something dramatic, such as dropping dead on the spot because of indignation.
Instead of dying or denying Rick’s words, the guy who’d called himself Mr. Barnes said calmly, “How did you figure out that I’m a pastor?”
“It was obvious.” Rick glanced at him. “Your neck was the dead giveaway.”
“My neck?” The psychic reached for his throat.
“Right.” Rick nodded. “You’ve been trying to slouch as much as possible, but the thing is your neck has been kept straight. That’s one of the hazards of being a priest and wearing high-collared shirts all the time. I guess I’ve assumed correctly.”
The psychic inhaled deeply and looked down at the table.
“Gotcha!” Jackie pumped her fists in the air. “I knew he was a fraud at the very beginning. I told you, right, Mandy?”
As my ghostly pal wanted an affirmative answer from me, I responded with a slight nod. So far, Rick was the only person in the room who was aware of my communication skill. Disclosing my ability to talk to dead people and introducing Jackie seemed inappropriate for the occasion.
Karen was watching Rick and the priest’s interaction with wide eyes, but as the priest clammed up, she angrily shot out of her chair. “Was everything a lie?” she demanded. “How could you do that? Don’t you have something called morals? Or did you think you could milk money from me by faking a message from Michael?”
“No. You don’t understand.” The priest shook his head weakly.
“You’re right, I don’t understand. Then again, you’re the one who tried to lure me into this mess by faking a stupid message from my late husband! How dare you do that to me! What you’ve done so far is play me so that I’d look like a total idiot who seriously needs hospitalization at some mental facility!”
Karen was on a roll in a full-blown accusatory mode against the phony psychic, yet she was as elegant as ever even when she was practically breathing fire.
I made a mental note to be just like her when I grew up.
“Look, Mrs. Rosenberg, my intention has never been to hurt you. I had something I had to do, and I just did it!” the priest protested.
“What is that? Tell me what you had to do!” Karen shot back, prompting Father Spectacle to budge.
“Well,” he started. “I can’t share the details with you, but it’s about Mr. Rosenberg.”
“You mean… Michael Rosenberg?” Karen watched him with sharp eyes.
The priest exhaled deeply. He was frowning and squirming uncomfortably, but as Karen continued to look at him with hawk eyes, he finally mumbled, “Mr. Rosenberg’s death wasn’t an accident. He was indeed murdered.”
“What makes you so sure about that?” Rick interjected.
“I can’t tell you.” The priest shook his head.
“Do you think you can just get away with the ‘I can’t tell you’ crap? Tell us now!” Rick demanded.
“No.” The priest shut his eyes and shook his head harder. “I can’t talk about it, as I don’t want to hurt Mrs. Rosenberg any more, and I can’t keep lying.”
“How would you hurt me if you talked?” Karen asked in a softer tone, but he didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 7
After a silence that seemed to last forever, Father Spectacle finally opened his mouth. “You might not believe me, but Mr. Rosenberg was murdered… by Mr. Grasso.”
“What are you basing your accusation on?” Karen asked, never moving her eyes from the priest.
“I saw the murder,” he whispered.
“You saw what?” Rick leaned forward.
“I saw Mr. Rosenberg being murdered by Mr. Grasso.”
“What do you mean?” Karen muttered, holding her arms.
Another blast of cold air whooshed inside.
“If you say my husband was indeed murdered, can you tell me how it happened? If you’re telling the truth, I have the right to know,” Karen insisted. “No, having the right to know may be an understatement. I’m obliged to know. So please tell me now. I’ll accept whatever you say.”
Holding his head in both hands, the priest groaned, his eyes never meeting Karen’s. “No… I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“I can’t tell that either,” the priest said through gritted teeth.
Clenching her hands into fists in front of her chest, Karen asked, “Why not?”
The woman who had been charging the phony psychic wasn’t there anymore. Instead, a traumatized woman desperate to learn the truth of her husband’s death was there.
“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “Father Spectacle, if you actually know who killed Mr. Rosenberg and are hiding the truth about him, you’re actively aiding and abetting the alleged murderer.”
“If I recall it right, you’re breaking the Vatican’s code of conduct,” Rick said sarcastically. “Still, considering the recent series of scandals over high priests’ involvement in child rape cases, maybe you’re doing everything right.”
“I’m not aiding and abetting a criminal! I’d never do that!” the priest snapped.
“If that’s the case, why don’t you tell the details about the late Mr. Rosenberg’s alleged murder?” I shot back. “You could have already talked to the police. In that case, you didn’t have to worry about hurting Karen to her face.”
I was getting annoyed by the phony psychic who had turned out to be a priest. Rick reached for my hand and patted it as if to say, “Calm down and relax.”
“If he could do that, we wouldn’t be having such a fuss in the first place,” Mr. Macomber remarked before the priest manned up and responded.
“We?” Karen tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t holding herself anymore. “What do you mean?”
“Are you sure you won’t regret asking?” The priest glanced at her and took a deep breath.
Karen was silent for a while, then said, “I can’t promise you anything about how I feel, but I can promise never to chastise you—even if I end up deeply regretting my asking.”
“Look, Mrs. Rosenberg, I’ve never feared being criticized.” The priest clenched his fists on the table. “I just couldn’t stand the risk of hurting you. I’m still scared about saddening you in any way.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m an adult, and I can cope with my own feelings.” Karen looked at him sternly.
“Even if you listened to my story, you wouldn’t feel good,” the priest kept protesting, even after Karen made it clear that she wanted to hear his story. I felt an urge to slap him in the head with my purse.
“Father Spectacle, you keep telling me your story is going to hurt me. Have you ever imagined how much you’re hurting me by keeping me in the dark?”
“Remember, Mrs. Rosenberg, I gave you a warning,” he said resignedly. “And please understand that I never intended to hurt you in any way. My silence was meant to be for you.”
As Karen nodded, the priest took off the black hood.
With the hood removed, he seemed to have lost all the mysteriousness he’d been sporting. Instead of an enigmatic psychic, there sat a middle-aged guy sweating profusely. Indeed, except for the sweating, he looked rather ordinary as a priest. Okay, so I didn’t know that many priests, and the one I’d known the longest happened to be Brian Powers, the real-life exorcist who always dressed his 6’5” frame in a black suit made of shiny fabric like a gangster circa 1920s, complete w
ith a black top hat.
“Where should I start?” The priest dabbed at his forehead with his robe.
“Michael died at the condo in Gramercy. Were you there when he died?” Karen asked.
The priest shut his eyes and then opened them. “No, I wasn’t there.” After a pause, he went on. “But we have the video capturing Mr. Rosenberg’s murder scene.”
“Video?” Karen parroted.
“Why didn’t you submit it to the police?” I said.
“What? I haven’t heard about that.” Rick raised an eyebrow. “We keep every bit of security footage, but no one saw such a video. Of course, our representatives would have communicated with the police if they’d encountered such a thing.”
“The video you’re talking about is different from the one I’m talking about.” The priest sighed. “I’m talking about the one secretly captured with hidden cameras. The data was sent to an outside server so Mr. Rosenberg could watch it later for his enjoyment. So it’s not right to submit the video to the police.”
“Excuse me?” Karen interjected. “Are you protecting the person you’ve accused of murdering my husband?”
“No, I’m not trying to protect Mr. Grasso.” The priest shook his head weakly. “I don’t know the right words and phrases to deliver it, but this video should never be revealed to the public eye.”
Karen massaged her temple and sighed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is it just me who’s too dense to grasp what you’re suggesting? Or….” She glanced at me, as if she was looking for some moral support.
“I don’t understand any part of it,” I assured her, and I was telling the truth.
“Father Harten,” Mr. Macomber and Ken Tillard mumbled in unison, finally giving us the real name of the priest. As for Mr. Macomber, he was reaching for Father Harten’s arm—and if I may say, the way he touched the priest’s arm somewhat resembled the way Rick did that to me.
“I said I’m going to accept anything. Will you please tell me what happened?” Karen pleaded. “You can’t expect me to understand anything by your explanation so far.”
