Double Threat

by F. Paul Wilson

  “But that’s just it: She’s not here. She drove out of town last night and hasn’t come back yet.”

  “Stop splitting hairs and check out the social media. Get me some history on her.”

  When his father was gone, Rhys accessed his own Facebook account and started a search. The results shocked him.

  With well over two billion people registered on Facebook worldwide, he found not one Stanka Daley. A couple of search hits came close with spellings that were only slightly off, but the associated photos didn’t match the girl he’d met yesterday. Twitter, with only—only!—a billion point three registered, came up empty as well. Same with Instagram and Snapchat.

  He buzzed his father.

  “Are you sure you got the name right?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Because there’s no Stanka Daley on social media.”

  A long pause and then, “All right, now it’s my turn to ask: Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I didn’t believe it either, but a number of repeat searches yielded the same results.”

  “The only reason I can think of that someone her age isn’t on social media is she’s got something to hide.”

  “Well, she could be using a phony name. But believe it or not, there are people with nothing to hide who can’t be bothered.”

  His father said, “Maybe the thing she’s hiding is herself.”

  That gave Rhys a moment’s pause. “You mean like the witness protection program, something like that?”

  “She could be a fugitive.”

  “Do fugitives open stores?”

  “I’m telling you right now, Rhys, that young woman is either hiding something or hiding from something. I’m assigning you to find out what.”

  2

  “Girl, that’s gotta be the most fucked-up patch of hair I have ever seen.”

  Daley had driven to El Centro last night where only rare buildings rose to a second story. She’d located the anticipated In-N-Out Burger. After inhaling dinner there she noticed it shared a parking lot with a reasonably priced Comfort Inn—a veritable skyscraper at three stories—where she’d spent a fitful night on a not so reasonable mattress.

  With morning, the first order of business was to find a solution to her patch of white hair. After grabbing a roll and a coffee from the motel’s complimentary breakfast, she asked the receptionist for the name of a good beauty salon.

  So here she was in Sandra’s Hair & Nail Palace on South Fourth Street to see what a professional could do for her. The owner herself had taken up the challenge but to no avail. The hair rejected any and all pigment.

  Daley stared at her Lily Munster image in the mirror. Sandra, a hefty Hispanic woman with small hips, a large bust, and cotton-candy pink hair done in a bob, had tried two different dyes but they wouldn’t take. She’d suggested simply coating the hair with black pigment but that would mean applying the pigment every morning because it would wash out in the shower.

  Pard appeared. In place of his usual sandy hair he sported a black mane with a white patch on top. He did his jazz-hands thing.

  (“What do you think?”)

  Are you making fun of me?

  (“Not at all. This is a gesture of solidarity. Since I’m responsible, I think it only fair that I share your predicament.”)

  Well, undo it. Looking at you like that only reminds me of my own Munsterness.

  His hair abruptly switched back to the usual.

  (“I still think it’s a good look for you.”)

  That’s because you aren’t human.

  “Well, thanks for trying,” Daley said to Sandra. “I guess I’m doomed to wearing hats all the time or looking like a skunk.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sandra said. “I have one more option.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We can bleach the rest of your hair to a matching white and make you a platinum blonde.”

  “With my skin tone?”

  “You’ve got some pigment but not a lot. Except for that hand of yours. What’s up with that, if I may ask?”

  Daley waved her golden left hand and recited what she’d settled on for her standard answer: “Got dipped in some dye that won’t come off.”

  “Girl, you got all sorts of color issues, don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, anyway, you ever seen Etta James, that gal who sang ‘At Last’? She went platinum with lots darker skin than you. I’ll be glad to make you platinum but, you know what? Looking at you now, I don’t think this is a bad look for you.”

  Pard pumped a fist. (“Aha! Vindication and validation from one of your fellow humans—and a coiffeur professional to boot.”)

  One with pink hair!

  “I don’t know…”

  “What do you do for a living, honey?”

  How to put this…?

  “I’m opening a shop in Nespodee Springs for—”

  “Nespodee Springs? What can you sell in a crazy-ass place like that in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Healing things, like crystals and—”

  “You mean like paranormal, New Age stuff? I love that kinda shit. You should open up right here in El Centro. I’d be in there every day. So, you gonna put out healing vibes and all that?”

  Healing vibes … One way to put it.

  “I hope to.”

  “Well, then, you want to stay just the way you are and keep on looking just like you do. Black hair that’s got a white spot in the middle, and a golden hand—that’s your healing hand, honey. Take it from one who knows: Make that your healing hand. People gonna look at you and say. ‘Oh, yeah, that bitch can do it, that bitch can heal.’ And that’s what you want. One look at you and they’re already half sold. I can hear ’em right now, saying, ‘Take my money! Take my money!’”

  (“Listen to this woman, Daley. She’s a natural, and she’s right. From what I’ve been reading, a key ingredient in successful therapy—any kind of therapy—is believing it will work. If they believe they’re going to get better, they’re already on their way to a cure.”)

  I don’t know …

  (“Listen to me: The type of people who will seek you out will not be looking for a typical professional in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around the neck. They can find that anywhere. You’ll be offering something different.”)

  Daley was beginning to think that Pard—and Sandra—might be on to something.

  3

  Next stop was the Sign Factory to order a banner to hang inside the store’s front window. Four feet wide and one foot high looked about right.

  She bought some linens at Bed Bath & Beyond, then they headed for the New Age supplier Pard had looked up in San Diego.

  Interstate 8—also called the Kumeyaay Highway—cut right through El Centro, so they hopped on that and rode it west past another wind farm—smaller than the one in Palm Desert but larger than Nespodee Springs’—and into the Laguna Mountains where some of the upgrades were so steep she wondered if her Subaru would make it. Then, after a peak altitude of four thousand feet, a wild ride down to sea level in San Diego.

  Pard rode shotgun the whole way and a couple of times Daley had to stop herself from telling him to fasten his seat belt. They traveled mostly in silence as they gloried in the scenery. Daley had lived her whole life in California but predominantly in and around LA with an occasional trip to San Francisco. Spend too much time in LA and your unconscious begins to assume the world is paved. This wild, unpopulated side of California was new to her. So much unsettled land, so much green on the western slopes.

  The Rare Earth Center for the New Age occupied a two-story brick building with a giant blue eye in a golden pyramid painted on its side.

  She eased from the car and stretched—a too-soft mattress and a long ride had stiffened her back.

  Pard said, (“You forgot your cap.”)

  “I’m going to go au naturel and see how these folks react.”

  Inside she found a cornucop
ia of New Age paraphernalia: quartz crystals in varying shapes and colors, rune stones, chakra healing crystals, Reiki stones, tell stones, palm stones, and on and on. She picked random aromatherapy vials. The geodes and candles would look good in the front window. She stocked in all of them, but took special care with the various colors and shapes of the large palm stones. These might come in handy. She threw a beaded curtain into her cart as well.

  “I really dig your hair,” said the ponytailed guy working the cash register. “Striking. Who does it for you? My girlfriend—”

  “Nobody does anything to it,” Daley said. “This is the way it grows. The result of a terrible accident.”

  (“What?”)

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I.”

  (“Oh, thanks, Daley. Nothing like a stab in the back. I thought we were friends.”)

  Oh, lighten up. Just having some fun.

  (“At my expense!”)

  That’s what makes it fun. Ready to head back?

  (“Not until you’ve had a fashion makeover.”)

  I don’t need—

  (“Look at you: worn jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse. Nobody’s going to believe that someone dressed like that wields any sort of healing power. We passed a vintage clothing shop a few blocks back. Let’s check it out and find you something with a little more style, something that goes with your hair.”)

  4

  I look like a Goth chick.

  As soon as they’d stepped into the clothing shop, Pard morphed into Tim Gunn in a gray business suit. He picked out a long-sleeved scoop-neck top and a black tube miniskirt over black tights.

  (“First off,”) he said, smoothing his suddenly gray and receding hair, (“black is mysterious. Second, you’ve got great legs so you should show them off. Third, the long black sleeve draws attention to the gold of your left hand. And finally, all that black pops your patch of white hair.”)

  In all the scams she’d worked, the aim of her clothing had been to look anything but mysterious, to project a look that inspired trust.

  (“This completes the picture, and it inspires a different sort of trust—trust that you have some mystical power. All that’s left is to do something about those eyes. You know, get all Cleopatra with the eye shadow and eyeliner.”)

  Nope-nope-nope-nope. That’s where I draw the line.

  (“Trust me on this. I—“)

  “No!” she said aloud.

  A number of women nearby turned and gave her wondering looks.

  Let’s get out of here.

  5

  Hands on hips, Daley looked around her shop. True to his word, Jason Tadhak had had the place cleaned up before Daley arrived.

  She’d driven from San Diego to El Centro where she picked up her banner at the Sign Factory. From there straight to Nespodee Springs. She’d stocked her shelves with the various New Age knickknacks and hung the beaded curtain over the alcove at the rear of the space where she’d do her “consultations.”

  (“Despite all our purchases,”) Pard said, (“the place looks kind of bare. No, wait—let me rephrase that to something more euphemistic: The shop emits a ‘minimalist vibe.’”)

  “It does look sparse, doesn’t it. Maybe I should put off the grand opening for a while.”

  (“Getting cold feet?”)

  “I wouldn’t call it that, exactly. It’s just that…”

  She had to admit she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d been maneuvered in some way. But by whom? She knew Tadhak had wanted to fill one of his vacancies, and he’d succeeded there.

  But Tadhak hadn’t lured her out here. Juana had. Ever since the incident in the cave, Juana had been popping into Daley’s life. Really, was her mother truly in the hospital with the horrors when Daley had been there? Was her mother even alive? Yeah, Juana was the most likely suspect as the manipulator. But if so, what was she getting out of it?

  A roar outside as Juana pulled up on her Harley.

  “Well, speak of the devil.”

  (“You think she’s evil?”)

  “Not at all. But I think she’s got an agenda with me, and damned if I know what it could be.”

  (“Maybe she truly wants to ‘help and guide’ you.”)

  “But guide me toward what? Will it be a place I want to go?” She watched as Juana pulled shopping bags from her sidecar. “Why don’t you disappear now.”

  (“What? But—“)

  “When I can see you I tend to talk to you and that causes confusion and maybe raises a few questions about my mental status.”

  (“I have a few questions myself. But I create this image only for your convenience, you know.”)

  “I appreciate that, but sometimes it’s inconvenient. Like now. So go on—evaporate.”

  Pard complied, but with deliberate slowness.

  Toting a shopping bag in each hand and dressed in her uniform of faded T-shirt and bib-front denims, Juana pushed through the door and stopped dead. She dropped the bags and stared.

  “Your hair…”

  Daley touched the top of her head. “You’ve seen that.”

  Juana shook her head. “No … not till today. You always wear that Dodgers hat.”

  “Yeah, well, I wear it so people won’t give me that look you’re giving me right now.”

  “Sorry.” Juana shook herself. “It took me by surprise, but I guess it shouldn’t have.”

  Daley frowned. “What do you mean by—?”

  “Nothing. Just talking.” She picked up the bags and looked around. “Despite the CLOSED sign on the door it appears you’re ready to go.”

  “Just about.”

  She upended one of the shopping bags and emptied it onto the counter in front of Daley. Circular and semicircular shapes with strings and feathers and beads …

  “Those look like—”

  “Dream catchers,” Juana said. “They’re not part of any Desert Cahuilla traditions—they started in northern tribes—but some of the ladies on the reservation make them for gift shops and paranormal shops and such. Would you display them? They’ll go halfsies on the price. They’re raising money for my mother.”

  “Well, hell, they can have all of it then.”

  “Thank you. My mother could use it. But are you sure?”

  “It’s for a good cause. And since I have no overhead to speak of for the moment, why not?” She gestured around at the array of crystals and geodes and candles and posters she’d stocked in. “I’ll be selling this junk but really they’re just props to add some New Age ambiance—you know, help reel in the kind of—” she caught herself before she said mark—“client I’m looking for.”

  Juana reached into her second bag and brought out a flattened, softball-size rock with a spiral design, then another with humanish figures, and others until they totaled six.

  “Cahuilla rock art,” she said. “These are definitely part of our own culture, but they’re not antiquities. They’re all new, done by the same ladies who do the dream catchers. And for the same cause.”

  “Fine. You set the prices and display them where you want. Just make it clear they’re not museum pieces.”

  “We can add some handwoven baskets too.”

  “Bring ’em on.”

  Daley had no problem with helping raise money for Juana’s mother, or helping the local natives make a few bucks for themselves, but she didn’t want to get busted for bogus antiquities. That would cast doubt on her main line of business, and people needed full faith and belief where healing was concerned.

  “Ready to hang out your shingle?” Juana said, setting her bags on the floor. One landed with a soft thunk. Another art stone?

  “Just about,” Daley said. “I had a window banner made in El Centro.”

  “Let me guess.” She waved an arm toward the window. “DALEY: HEALER.”

  “That occurred to me but it seemed kind of in your face. And frankly, it promised too much. So I ca
me up with this.”

  She pulled the banner off a shelf and unrolled it atop the dream catchers and stones.

  HEALERINA

  Pard reappeared and said, (“I repeat: dumb name.”) He’d complained about the name when she’d ordered the banner and apparently hadn’t changed his mind. (“Too much like Healerama, which sounds like a used shaman dealership.”)

  Used shamans?

  (“We can do better, Daley.”)

  It’ll grow on you.

  (“So will a fungus.”)

  Juana cocked her head as she studied it. “Healerina … I like the way it rolls off the tongue … like ‘ballerina.’ What does it mean?”

  “Aha. Just the question I want people to ask when they see it. ‘My-my. Look at that … Healerina … whatever does that mean? Let’s go in and see.’”

  Juana nodded slowly as a smile played about lips. “You’re a clever girl. I think all this is going to play out just fine.”

  See? Juana gets it.

  But Daley wasn’t sure if “all this” referred to the shop or something else entirely.

  “Help me hang it?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  Together they managed to center the banner on the front window and tack it to the top of the frame. They stepped outside to see how it looked.

  Juana was nodding. “Easily visible from the street. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

  (“So do I,”) Pard said.

  Daley held back as Juana returned to the store. She wasn’t so sure. She saw pitfalls ahead. She was going to have to walk a tightrope to avoid them.

  (“Why so worried?”)

  We have to cure people to make this work—I mean, you’ve got to beat whatever’s ailing them—but we can’t let people think I cured them.

  (“Really? Then why are we doing this?”)

  They have to associate me with the healing but not directly credit me.

  (“Tall order—very tall order. How are you going to make that happen?”)

  I’m working on it.

  As she stepped back into the store she saw Juana staring at one of the smaller rock art stones. She shoved it back in the bag as Daley entered.

  “What’s that?”

  Juana smiled. “Nothing.”

  “Let me see what’s on the stone. Don’t you want me to sell it?”