Looking Glass

by Andrew Mayne

  CHAPTER FORTY

  BLESSED

  When I pull up to Ms. Violet’s practice, there’s a group of people sitting on plastic chairs outside the house, apparently waiting to be seen.

  Her home is in an older neighborhood of mid-twentieth-century houses with gravel easements and slightly overrun lawns.

  My rental car is the most expensive one parked in front of the house, with the exception of the Mercedes in the open garage.

  When I walk up the sidewalk, a tall black man who appears to be in his forties, wearing a button-down shirt and khakis, greets me with a firm handshake.

  “Mr. Craig, Ms. Violet is so glad you could pay her a visit.”

  This must be the man I spoke to on the phone, Robert. He explained to me that Ms. Violet was a woman of God and provides her services for free. If I try to offer her money, she’ll take it as an insult.

  When I asked when I could visit her, he told me that there were a great number of people waiting to see the wonderful woman. After a long pause, I inquired about making a donation and was told that I could see her the next day as a thanks for my generosity.

  “How much is appropriate?”

  “We had a man yesterday who tried to give her one thousand dollars, and that was too inappropriate,” Robert informed me. “If he had been a rich man, that would have been acceptable. But he was poor, and it hurt Ms. Violet to think that his children might go hungry.”

  What a sweet woman. “Would five hundred dollars be acceptable?”

  Of course it would. Robert already knew how much money I dropped on a worthless rock and what was in my billfold.

  “That is very generous of you. If you must, just put it into an envelope and give it to me, so Ms. Violet doesn’t have to know who did this kindness for her.”

  But of course. I give him the envelope after shaking hands. “I hope this is appropriate.”

  He pockets it without looking. “You’re a kind man. A very generous man.”

  Before showing up I took the time to do a little research on how some psychics operate and discovered that many of them have secret networks through which they share information about clients. The goal is to figure out who the big fish are and bleed them for as much as possible.

  Worried that while I was talking to Ms. Violet they might run the plate on my rental car and get my real name, I took the slightly illegal step of stealing a plate from another rental car in the airport parking lot while I loaded my luggage.

  This would confuse anyone doing a search on the plate but would likely be attributed to a clerical error and not the intent of “Craig” to deceive anyone.

  Robert points to a plastic chair for me to sit in, next to an elderly woman knitting a long scarf.

  Next to her sits a much younger woman, bouncing one child on her knee while another plays at her feet with a toy car.

  I suspect that the saintly Ms. Violet has a progressive rate structure and my visit is offsetting the others’.

  Predictably, Robert has me wait long enough to know that Ms. Violet is a very busy woman, but not too long to test my patience and rethink my patronage.

  After about fifteen minutes, I am ushered inside the house, which is decorated with more votive candles and religious paraphernalia than a wing of the Vatican, and into a room in the back of the home where the curtains are drawn so that only a flicker of the setting sun is visible.

  Ms. Violet is a heavyset black woman with large glasses and a sincere smile.

  When I enter the room, she gets up, bounds around the table, and embraces me in a hug that nearly off-balances me.

  “Mr. Craig! I’ve been so looking forward to our visit!” She gestures to a statue of a saint sitting on a side table. “He told me I’d be meeting someone special who traveled quite a distance.”

  I can see that she’s already aware of the rental car. Just for giggles, I had put a copy of the Chicago Tribune in the back seat. I’m curious to see how long it takes before that gets put to use.

  “Please, have a seat, child,” she says, ushering me to sit down in the chair across the table from hers. “Now, let’s see those hands of yours.”

  She takes my wrists and turns them palm up and spends what has to be at least three minutes staring at them while making mmm-hmm sounds, as if she’s reading the paper and seeing news she already knew about.

  Finally she lets them go and sits back with her arms crossed. “What can I do to help you with this problem?”

  Right now I surmise that she’s able to cold-read a little about me, plus use some of the information the botanica owner told her and whatever Robert has gleaned from my rental car.

  But she’s smart enough to not use it unless she has to. I suspect that she knows from my body language I’m skeptical, even though I’m trying to hide it. She wants to know what she has to do to convince me, possibly to keep me coming back.

  I make it easier on her. “There’s a man who has been giving me problems.” In my head I think of Park back at OpenSkyAI. My best lie will be one based on truth.

  “Is he jealous of you?”

  “Yes.” She’s good.

  “Mmm-hmm. I can see a little bit of his aura around you. He’s thinking about you right now. But this ain’t about a woman, is it? This is about your business.”

  “Yes. I think he’s trying to make my life difficult.”

  “Take my hands,” she tells me. As she clasps mine, she kneels, her head down in prayer. “Lord, please help this man. Don’t let this other man wish his evil on him. Protect this child of yours. Look after him and all his friends and family up north. And when he gets home, see to it that he no longer be troubled.”

  She lets go of my hand. “I’m going to give you something special.” She reaches up and unclasps a crucifix from around her neck. “When I was a little girl and the bullies used to make me cry, my grandmother gave this to me and said that when I wear this, Jesus walk side by side with me. And the bullies would see that and leave me alone.”

  “I can’t accept this,” I reply, pretending that she doesn’t have a drawer full of these for every rich idiot that visits her home.

  “No. Grandmother told me to give it to you. And I always do what she says.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “If he still bothers you, come back and let me know.” She gives me her warm smile again. “I’ll get Grandma after him.”

  So far I’ve been presented with a perfectly Christian prayer session with only a little psychic showmanship. It’s not what I came for.

  “Ms. Violet … this man. He’s an evil man.” I hold my hands in prayer. “I thank you for bringing this blessing onto me. But … there’s something about him. I don’t know if it’s enough that he stays clear of me.” I put my hand to my heart. “I would never wish harm on another man, so help me god. I was wondering if there was some other kind of … blessing.”

  She sizes me up for a moment, then shakes her head. “Mr. Craig, what you’re asking me to do, I will not do. I’m a Christian woman and only use my blessings for light. You’re talking about something that I’ve promised the Lord I would never allow myself to be drawn in to.” She angrily points to the door. “If you’re wanting that kind of magic, then you have to leave and take Satan with you. He’s not welcome here.”

  “I … I was only … Never mind.” I drop the matter, not sure where else to take it. Although there was something odd about her refusal. Was I supposed to offer more money? I make a dramatic gesture toward my wallet. “I could pay for the inconvenience …”

  She stands abruptly, almost pushing the table into me. “Mr. Craig, leave my house! That kind of darkness can’t be undone! You don’t know what you’re asking for!”

  I get up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll pray for you, Mr. Craig. I’ll pray for you.”

  Robert is waiting for me in the hallway.

  “Please tell her I’m sorry,” I say to him, not quite sur
e what the hell just happened.

  He pulls me into the foyer and speaks to me in a low voice, “It’s all right. She’ll forgive you. Ms. Violet is a sweet woman.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “She knows that. It’s just the thing you asked for …” He shakes his head. “It comes at a heavy cost on the soul.”

  “But it can be done?” I ask.

  He glances over my shoulder back at her room. “We don’t talk about that in this house.”

  His hands reach down, clasp mine, and press a slip of paper into them.

  I open it in my car.

  It’s a phone number.

  The person you call when you want a darker kind of magic.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  STONES

  “Don’t be so nervous,” Robert says to me from the passenger side of my rental car. “The Moss Man is nothing to be afraid of.”

  The number was Robert’s personal cell number. The Moss Man was the person he said he could put me in touch with for something a little more powerful, as he put it.

  My instructions from Robert, who I realize is some kind of middleman for the various psychics and charlatans in the Atlanta area, were to put $900 in fifty-dollar bills between the pages of a Bible and sleep with it under my pillow, then pick him up the next evening in a parking lot south of Atlanta. From there he’d take me to meet the Moss Man. I was also supposed to bring a picture or some item that belonged to my enemy.

  I settled on a pen I could say I’d swiped from the desk of my nemesis.

  When I picked him up, he told me to take I-75 South until further notice.

  I got the impression this wasn’t going to be a trip to the suburbs. Eventually he had me take a turn through a small town whose two major sources of commerce were a water park and a dollar store.

  My anxiety set in as he had me turn down a dark, unpaved road.

  Along the way he regaled me with stories about the Moss Man, how he healed people, even raising an infant from the dead, and how, back in the day, the state governor would pay visits to the Moss Man for his help.

  I didn’t ask if the money came from the state budget or his reelection campaign.

  Next, Robert tells me that I shouldn’t be worried, even though the sight of Moss Man has caused some people to become paralyzed with fear.

  In addition, apparently the Moss Man speaks a language that nobody but Robert and a few others can understand, because the devil took his tongue.

  As all of this is being explained to me, the song “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” plays through my head. If Moss Man breaks out a fiddle and starts playing, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose it.

  All told, assuming the $900 was the final tally, it’s been a pretty good show so far. I’m sure my venture-cap friend Julian and his crowd would pay much more for this kind of entertainment. When all this blows over, I might talk to Robert about being a booking manager.

  “Some good old boys decided they had enough of Moss Man and went out after him with their dogs and their shotguns,” Robert says, continuing to build the man’s legend. “Three days go by and nobody heard from them. A few more and the sheriff sends his deputies. All they find is some piles of ash and the guns. Someone said they saw the Moss Man later on with a couple of mutts at his heels. When they asked him where he got the dogs, Moss Man said the devil bring them to him.” Robert watches my reaction. “Crazy talk. I know. But everyone has Moss Man stories down here. But hardly anyone ever seen him. You lucky he said to bring the white boy from Chicago to him. He don’t tend to no strangers normally.”

  I wonder whether he called the Moss Man directly or their exchange took place over their Slack channel?

  “Turn here,” Robert tells me as we approach what appears to be just another line of trees.

  “I don’t think there’s a road.”

  “There is.” He points to a small white stone near the edge of the path.

  I make the turn and branches brush against the car, making me thankful I sprang for the scam of full protection. Normally I don’t, but I didn’t want to be charged extra if I brought the vehicle back with bullet holes or the smell of dead bodies. Both of which happen to my cars more than I care to think about.

  The headlights cut through the darkness and illuminate insects big enough to qualify as birds and more low-hanging branches that drag across the roof like a jungle car wash.

  “Okay, right here,” Robert instructs me. “Grab the Bible.”

  I pick up the brown paper bag from the back seat after he gets out, not wanting him to see the gun tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Or maybe it would be a good thing?

  I tell myself there’s not much point to robbing me out here, as I’ve already agreed to give them the money.

  “This way,” says Robert, pointing to a thin trail barely illuminated by the light of the moon through the canopy. It’s in a waning phase, reminding me that there’s not much time to find the Toy Man.

  I reach for a small flashlight, but Robert nearly swats it out of my hand. “Didn’t I tell you no flashlights? That’s how the devil finds you. We want to stay in God’s light,” he says, pointing to the moon.

  So when there’s a new moon—or rather, no moon—God isn’t watching … Interesting.

  Robert leads me down the path, which is barely visible, but he has a certainty about him. I check landmarks, making sure he’s not doubling back so he can pull some kind of ruse, but the shadows stay consistent and I don’t get the sense we’ve gone in a circle. I’ve got a pretty good knack for that. Whenever I hike, I tend to make a mental hydrological map in my mind and pay attention to the kind of rocks and flora. Trails usually follow erosion patterns created by flowing water or the paths carved by animals in search of streams.

  “Here we are,” Robert says as we come to a small clearing.

  White stones like the one marking the road form a perfect circle about twenty feet across.

  He takes a seat on a log inside the circle and motions for me to do the same. “This is a safe spot. The devil won’t find us in here until we call him.”

  Until? I’ve found that I’m feeling a little less sarcastic as the croaking frogs and chirping crickets create an eerie backdrop to the foggy woods.

  Moonlight breaking through the trees creates small pools of light that fade into the distance. It feels like we’re a thousand miles away from civilization. Or a thousand years. I can’t even hear the omnipresent sound of cars on a highway.

  “Now we wait for the Moss Man and see if he shows.”

  After about twenty minutes, Robert points to some moving bushes in the distance. “That’s him,” he whispers.

  I get a small chill when I see the leaves sway like a rolling wave passing around us.

  “What’s he doing?” I ask.

  “Making sure the devil didn’t follow us.”

  In a flash I have a realization that chills me even further. While Robert and Ms. Violet knowingly engage in theatrics, that’s just for business. It doesn’t mean they don’t actually believe this.

  The moving wave of leaves fades away before me, and I’m suddenly aware that the frogs have stopped their croaking.

  I get the feeling that I’m being watched.

  When I glance down at the shadows of Robert and me at our feet, a third figure now stands between us.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SEER

  Turning around takes an eternity. In that expanded moment, my brain fires at high speed, trying to make as many neural connections as possible, assessing whatever threat I may be about to face.

  The number one danger is that when I turn around, I won’t be looking at one more play actor in Robert’s elaborate occult dinner theater, but rather the man I came to Atlanta to find.

  I now realize the stupidity of going this far. If the Toy Man is the Moss Man, he may not know who Craig from Chicago is, but he’ll more than likely know Theo Cray, the man who uncovered his house of horrors.

 
; When I see who is standing there, I feel a wave of relief, not because this man isn’t unsettling, but because, on first glance, he looks nonthreatening.

  The Moss Man is blind. I can tell from the opaque white corneas of his eyes, even though his face remains in shadow. He’s barely over five feet tall and dressed in torn brown pants with a rope belt and a loose white button-up shirt. The wooden cane he’s holding is almost as tall as I am.

  He hands Robert his cane and motions for me to stand and move to the center of the circle, where he begins to pace around me and stare at me, examining my every square inch. Without asking, he grabs my left wrist and pries open each finger, then scrutinizes my palm and says something that sounds vaguely Creole to Robert.

  “Moss Man says you’re holding something in your left hand.”

  I stare at the empty hand, trying to ascertain what he means.

  “A secret. He says you’re holding a dark secret.”

  Moss Man walks over to a burlap sack he dropped by the log and riffles through it, finally coming back with a bottle.

  It’s the size of a whiskey bottle but has a clear liquid inside. The label is black with a coiled cobra and the words Snake Bite.

  Moss Man takes a knife from his waist, grabs the tip of my thumb, and makes a small nick. He then squeezes it over the mouth of the bottle.

  My blood trickles into the alcohol, creating dark clouds.

  Moss Man then yanks a handkerchief from his back pocket and ties it around my thumb in a knot that hurts more than the incision.

  He screws the cap back on the bottle, gives it a shake and holds it up to the moonlight, checking for something.

  I can’t figure out how he even knows where the moon is, unless he’s not totally blind or he has some other means.

  Satisfied at what he sees, he unscrews the cap and takes a swig, grabs my hand again and sprays the mixture of blood and booze on my left palm.

  I guess that takes care of that problem.

  I glance toward Robert, curious as to what happens next, but Moss Man grips my chin with a surprising strength and gazes into my eyes, my nostrils, and then my mouth.