Double Threat

by F. Paul Wilson

  Had to watch it here.

  “Where did you get the idea I cast spells?”

  Her hands fluttered. “Oh, some woman in my bridge club knows someone who came to you and was cured of something or other after you sold her a magic stone.”

  Wow, it’s like a giant game of telephone out there.

  (“Soon they’ll have you levitating.”)

  “Okay, let’s get something straight: I don’t cast spells and I have no magic stones to sell.”

  She look stricken. “You sold them all?”

  “No!” That came out a little harsher than she’d intended. “There’s no such thing as a magic stone. Good word of mouth is nice, but not if it’s off base and sets up unrealistic expectations. Can you tell me where in particular you—?”

  “Does it matter? Does it really matter? All that matters is whether you can help me or not.” She pulled a tissue from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Her voice threatened to break as she said, “I’m desperate!”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  A derisive snort. “Are you kidding? I’ve seen a slew of them. They’re all quacks and incompetents. But I’ve heard marvelous things about you.”

  What do you think?

  (“I’m not sure. I don’t particularly care for her attitude. And ‘I feel awful’ doesn’t give us a lot to go on.”)

  Do we have to like them to help them?

  (“No, of course not. It’s just…”)

  What?

  (“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”)

  Well, put your feelings on hold and let’s see what’s going on here.

  Daley gave her another once-over. She looked like understated money.

  “Let me take you to our imprinting room,” Daley said.

  “Imprinting?”

  “It’s where you get acquainted with your palm stone.”

  “Palm—?”

  “Just follow my lead. It’s easier to just go with the flow and let all this happen.”

  “But aren’t you going to heal me?”

  “Just go with the flow here, Joyce. I make no promises.”

  Daley picked out a quartz palm stone on the way to the rear alcove, and seated Joyce at the little table. She placed the stone between Joyce’s palms, then enclosed her hands in her own. Pard appeared behind her.

  “Now what?” Joyce said.

  “Be patient. The stone is imprinting on you.”

  “What does—?”

  “Hush.”

  Ready?

  (“Almost.”)

  Can you fix her personality while you’re in there?

  (“I wish. Okay, going in.”) He vanished.

  Daley and Joyce held their position. Joyce seemed fine with it at first, but after thirty seconds or so, she became restive.

  “How long—?”

  “Hush. Give it time.”

  As with Araceli, thirty seconds didn’t sound long but it could seem long. Time ticked on and still no word from Pard. He’d never taken this long before, but then, they didn’t have a big log of encounters like this to compare.

  He popped into view behind her. (“All right. I’m out.”)

  Finally. What did you find?

  (“Nothing. At least nothing of any consequence. She’s got a few gallstones and some mild emphysema—I’m guessing she was a smoker in the past—but otherwise she’s in pretty good shape.”)

  Then what’s her problem? Psychological? She depressed?

  (“Maybe.”)

  You didn’t check on that?

  (“I can’t read her thoughts, and I can’t get into her psyche with such a small window. It took me almost two days to fully integrate with your nervous system. However…”)

  What?

  (“Her adrenals are a little overactive, as if she’s anxious.”)

  About what?

  (“I can’t tell.”)

  So what do I tell her?

  (“Tell her to see a shrink. I can’t help her.”)

  Daley released Joyce’s hands and leaned back.

  “Done.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Joyce.”

  She looked horror-struck. “You mean I’m too sick? Am I terminal?”

  “No, I mean you’re too healthy.”

  “But I feel terrible!”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  Joyce reached out and gripped Daley’s hands, squeezing them. “But I was looking forward to a close doctor-patient relationship with you.”

  (“Wait-wait-wait! Where’d that come from?”)

  No idea.

  (“It’s a total non sequitur, and very leading.”)

  What do you mean?

  (“I smell entrapment. I bet she’s wearing a wire.”)

  A flare of angry heat flushed through Daley.

  What? The bitch! I’m gonna call her out!

  (“No. Play it cool and clueless. But be careful.”)

  Careful? She’d taken in this woman on good faith, only to learn …

  Daley took a deep breath to cool herself, then smiled.

  I know just what to say.

  “That’s nice, Joyce, and I’m flattered, but you do realize, don’t you, that I’m not a doctor, so we can’t have any sort of doctor-patient relationship.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  (“Why indeed?”)

  “I’m afraid that’s a question only you can answer.”

  “What should I do then?”

  After an appropriately dramatic pause, Daley said, “You’re not going to like to hear it, but I think you should see a psychiatrist or some sort of therapist.”

  Now an offended expression. “I’m not crazy!”

  Daley shrugged. “Well, you said none of your doctors could find anything wrong. I don’t think what’s bothering you is physical, so that leaves…”

  She jumped from her seat and shouted, “Fine! Just fine! What a waste of time this was!” She stormed out without another word.

  I feel like applauding.

  (“I know. Great performance. But if my suspicions are correct, it’s better not to let her know you’re on to her.”)

  Consumer Affairs, you think?

  (“Who else would care? But she’s going to have to give you a good report: You didn’t charge her or offer treatment for a nonexistent illness.”)

  Consumer Affairs again … I’m wondering who instigated this. I’ve got a bad feeling …

  (“You’re thinking your uncle Billy—”)

  He’s not my uncle.

  (“Well, he’s—”)

  NOT my uncle!

  (“Got it. You think he’s behind this?”)

  Possibly. He said he had a source in Consumer Affairs. I could see him putting a bug in someone’s ear there. He told me he’s working up some scam to run on the people with the horrors, so maybe he thinks Healerina might be a competitor.

  (“As if those poor people don’t already have enough troubles. But the victims are catatonic most of the time. And when they’re not, they’re screaming.”)

  He won’t go after them directly. He’s probably looking for a way to fleece their families.

  (“How?”)

  You must have heard the conspiracy theories by now.

  (“Sure. So many. But how does he cash in on a conspiracy theory?”)

  Well, the most popular seems to be that the horrors are the result of a government experiment gone wrong, followed by the inevitable cover-up. So if I was running a scam, I’d whip up some concoction that was stolen from the government—the CDC, maybe—a cure that they’re keeping under wraps and saving for White House and Pentagon bigwigs. But lucky me, through some complicated connections, I’ve managed to secure a small supply. I’ve got more than I need, so I can sell you some for your loved one. Just a little, because there’s not a lot available, and when it runs out, that’s it, baby. My source dried up and nobody outside the CDC knows how to make it. So once it’s gone, it’s gone.

 
She waited for Pard’s comments but he was silent.

  Well?

  (“You just made that up? On the spot?”)

  Well, yeah. I know it’s got lots of rough edges but—

  (“You’re telling me that you haven’t already been thinking about this for a while?”)

  Not until we started talking about Billy Marks.

  (“You simply pulled this out of the air as you went along?”)

  Like I said, it’s not perfect.

  (“That’s scary, Daley. Really, really scary. I mean, if you came up with that on the fly, what could you come up with if you took time to do some deep thinking on it?”)

  Yeah. She had to admit it was kind of scary. But this was the sort of thing she’d been exposed to, day in and day out, during her first thirteen years. She’d listen fascinated as the Family’s grownups worked out their schemes. It became a mind-set: How do we cash in on this? The COVID-19 pandemic had arrived after she’d left them, but she had no doubt they’d tried to find a way to profit from it.

  One thing I learned listening to my dad’s people is that scams work best when you make the mark a sort of coconspirator. You know: What we’re doing is illegal, and we’ll both go to jail if we’re caught, so if you keep this on the down low, everything will work out.

  (“So if the marks catch on, they’ll hesitate to blow the whistle.”)

  And by the time they do, we’re in the wind.

  (“Fascinating. Morally bankrupt, but fascinating just the same. Are you tempted at all?”)

  Tempted how?

  (“To try that scam?”)

  Not a bit. Some places I just won’t go. I’ve always limited my marks to the class of folks who won’t miss what they lose.

  Too bad she couldn’t say the same about Billy Marks.

  THURSDAY—MARCH 5

  1

  “I’m still baffled,” Dad said.

  Rhys sat in his father’s office and watched him pace. The reappearance of The Duad Must Go in the morning’s analysis just moments ago had only exacerbated his already agitated state.

  “I just don’t understand what went wrong with the porthors,” he added.

  Rhys could help him out there—the answer was quite simple, really—but never in a million years would he betray Cadoc’s trust. Not that Cadoc had admitted in so many words that he’d washed off his father’s markings and transferred them to the shop next door, he’d simply denied that such a thing was beyond the realm of possibility.

  “It’s a mystery,” Rhys said, “one we may never solve.”

  His father stopped his pacing and gave him a look. “You don’t sound terribly concerned.”

  “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that porthors exist at all. Wondering about why they deviated from your instructions will have to wait.”

  No lie. The implications of their existence had worsened yesterday’s hangover and haunted his dreams last night.

  “Well, I suppose I can understand that.”

  “I don’t supposed you can ask the porthors.”

  Dad shook his head. “No, they’re barely sentient.” He stepped to the window and stared south—toward the tower. “We installed that high-capacity substation and it goes online from the Tadhak transformer today. The tower’s already wired in.”

  “I guess that means another light show soon.”

  “Not for a while. We need some adjustments. And I want to find out more about this girl first.” He jabbed a finger toward the town below. “She knows something.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. When I visited her yesterday, she seemed as baffled and as unsettled as everyone else in town.”

  “Putting on an act, I’m sure. She knows. Mark my words, that girl knows.”

  “Dad…”

  “Listen to me, Rhys. The porthors appeared to her and then spared her shop. She knows something and tonight you’re going to find out what. Where are you taking her?”

  “El Toro.”

  “Good place. But before you do, bring her up here.”

  Where the hell had that come from?

  “You’re kidding, right? It’s a little soon to meet my parents, don’t you think?”

  “No, just me. Make up something—say I’m concerned about what happened next to her shop. Say whatever’s necessary, but get her up here. I want to meet this girl face-to-face.”

  “Not to get too PC or anything, Dad, but she’s twenty-six and running her own business; you might want to get used to referring to her as a ‘woman.’”

  “When you’re my age, any twenty-six-year-old is a kid. But point taken. I’ll remember that when she arrives. And then I want to look into her eyes and see what’s going on there.”

  They’re very nice eyes, Rhys thought. A lovely shade of blue.

  But he doubted his father would be interested so he didn’t bother mentioning it.

  2

  Healerina was empty when Sam Alvarez walked in shortly after three. Daley noted the full uniform—Stetson, sunglasses, the works.

  “Deputy!” she said. “I was hoping you’d stop by. How it’d go yesterday?”

  “How did you know?” he said.

  “Know what?”

  He burst into tears.

  “Oh, no!”

  It must be bad.

  Over by the window, Pard wore an alarmed expression. (“How can that be?”)

  The deputy was waving a hand at her as he pulled off his shades and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  “I’m so sorry,” Daley said.

  Shit-shit-shit!

  She eased toward him. She wasn’t very good at comforting people, but she’d give it a try.

  (“There must be some mistake.”)

  “No-no! It’s good news. The tumor’s gone. No trace of it.” Another sob escaped. “I’m sorry. I’ve been doing that since yesterday.”

  (“Yes! We did it!”)

  “That’s fantastic!” Daley cried as she felt her own eyes puddling up.

  “But how did you know?” he said.

  “I didn’t. Just a feeling.”

  “More than that. You stood right there and said ‘She’s going to be all right.’ I remember those exact words because you sounded so sure and it was just what I needed to hear at the time.”

  “I wanted it to be true as much as you, but I didn’t know.”

  He was nodding. “Yeah, you did. Somehow you did. You said, ‘This little girl is going to bust the statistics’ and you told me to remember that I ‘heard it here.’ It’s all imprinted on my brain.”

  “Just being a cheerleader.”

  (“Change the subject.”)

  Already heading there.

  “So, what did the doctors say?”

  “They said it’s gone. The tumor was definitely there on the first MRI, but no trace of it on the repeat. And her headaches are gone … gone like they never were.”

  “I’m so glad. How did they explain it? A misread? An artifact?”

  How do I know that term?

  (“You’re welcome.”)

  “That’s what they thought at first but they have views from all angles and it’s always there on the first scan and never there on the second. A death sentence on Monday, a reprieve on Wednesday. They couldn’t explain it. None of the doctors would say ‘miracle’ but a number of the nurses did.” He fixed her with his gaze. “But it wasn’t a miracle, was it.”

  (“Uh-oh.”)

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was you. You healed her.”

  She had to puncture this balloon immediately.

  “Wait-wait-wait. You know that’s not possible.”

  “It isn’t?” He gestured around. “The place is called ‘Healerina,’ right? You did that thing with the stone—which she absolutely loves, by the way. Treats it like a pet. But you held her hands around that stone and then you told me she’d be fine. And now she is.”

  “If it’s gone it’s because she cured herself.”

  He wa
s shaking his head now. “You knew she had a tumor so you practically shamed me into getting her head scanned. And you were right. Then you did your magic with that stone and made it go away. So from now on, whenever I run into someone with an incurable illness, I’m sending them to you.”

  (“Stop him! He mustn’t do that!”)

  “Oh, no, Sam. I’m begging you, please. Don’t do that. It’ll only raise false hopes and crushing disappointment when I can’t deliver. And then there’ll be anger and a whole lot of trouble for me. I’m just a cheerleader, really. A facilitator. If you want to help me, just let me go on the way I’ve been going, and doing what I’ve been doing.”

  He stared at her a long moment.

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay. Then that’s way it’ll be. But know this: You have a friend for life.” He pulled a card from his breast pocket. “Here’s my card. I’ve written my personal number on the back. Anytime you need help with anything—anything—you call that number and I’ll come running.”

  (“I’m suddenly hearing a Carole King song.”)

  Hush.

  “Thank you,” Daley said.

  “Now, I know it’s unprofessional, but this is personal.” He spread his arms. “Can we hug?”

  “Of course.”

  He wrapped her in his arms and squeezed. It lasted a long time, until she said, “I can’t breathe.”

  He backed off immediately. “Sorry.”

  He adjusted his Stetson, replaced the sunglasses, and started for the door.

  “Just remember,” he said. “Any time, for anything.”

  “Got it.”

  (“Catastrophe averted,”) Pard said as Sam exited. (“I warned you that your super-confidence might backfire on us, and it almost did.”)

  Is this an “I told you so?”

  (“As a matter of fact, yes.”)

  Point taken, lesson learned. She did a happy dance down the aisle. But isn’t it GREAT????

  (“It is. It absolutely is.”)

  3

  Daley closed up an hour early at four to give herself extra time to shower and dress. Araceli’s cure had put her in an exuberant mood so she blasted Katy Perry—a favorite from her high school days—as she dried her hair and slipped on a navy-blue shift she’d brought back from LA. So she was ready and waiting when Rhys came a-knocking at six. They’d agreed via texts that he’d come to her back door.