From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

The ten minutes that I said it would take for me to get downstairs became twenty. Kayla Janas didn’t seem to mind. She was sitting in one of the four stuffed red chairs gathered around a low round table in front of the security desk, her hands resting on the arms of the chair, her eyes closed. She appeared positively serene.

  Smith had pointed her out to me after I emerged from the elevator, although it wasn’t necessary. It was the lobby of a condominium, not a hotel. There were only the three of us; I had no idea where Jones had gone off to.

  I approached soundlessly across the carpet. When I reached Kayla’s side, she said, “McKenzie. Your name is Rushmore McKenzie, of course, but nearly everyone calls you McKenzie.”

  Kayla opened her eyes and smiled. She reminded me for a moment of one of the few nuns at St. Mark’s Elementary School who actually liked me, if the nun had been about twenty years old.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  The woman rose from the chair. Her long winter coat fell open to reveal a soft blue sweater, dark blue jeans, and knee-length high-heel boots. She was half a foot shorter than I was even with the heels and possessed a kind of a girl-next-door ambiance. Most people would have said that she was pretty, but I had just spent the day with Hannah Braaten and Nina Truhler, and my judgment was compromised.

  She took my hand in both of hers. “I’m Kayla Janas,” she said. “I am so very pleased to meet you.”

  “Ms. Janas,” I said.

  She gestured at the red chairs. “Please, sit with me.”

  We sat and stared at each other for a few beats.

  “You seem nervous,” Kayla said.

  “I always get jumpy around women, especially when I don’t know who they are or what they want.”

  “I don’t believe that. I think it’s because the security guard told you that I was a psychic medium. Do you know what a psychic medium is?”

  I repeated what Shelby had told me. “A medium can talk to the dead. A psychic can tell you what’s going to happen a week from Thursday. A psychic medium can do both.”

  “A somewhat abrupt definition, yet accurate, I suppose. I see that you took a shower before coming to join me.”

  “Is that your psychic abilities speaking, or have you noticed that my hair is slightly damp and I smell vaguely of body wash?”

  “You don’t believe in psychics, do you?”

  “Time and experience have taught me to keep an open mind. What can I do for you, Ms. Janas?”

  “Kayla, please.”

  “Kayla.”

  “I am a psychic medium. I can communicate with the dead. I understand if you don’t believe me. Most people don’t. Among those that do, there is a large contingent that is convinced I’m going against the Bible, that I’m an instrument of Satan. I tell you this so you’ll understand that I am prepared to accept whatever reaction you have to my words, although I sincerely hope that you will take them seriously.”

  “What is it you’ve come here to say?”

  “This is going to sound absurd.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  “Your life is in danger.”

  “In what way?”

  “A man wants to kill you.”

  “Okay.”

  Kayla stared at me for a few beats as if she couldn’t believe how calmly I was taking the news.

  “A man called yesterday,” Kayla said. “He told me that he had a bad reading with another psychic medium and that he wanted me to read him as soon as possible. He seemed so distraught that I agreed to meet him today. I left him just over an hour ago.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I—I can’t tell you.”

  “Your professional ethics allow you to tell me that I’m in danger but not to identify the man I am in danger from?”

  “People in my profession view a visit to a psychic or a medium as the same as a visit to a doctor. Confidentiality must be maintained. I felt morally obligated to come here, yet at the same time—ethically—I wish there was someone I could call, someone who could give me permission or at least clarification. I’m kind of new at this.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  “How?” Kayla asked.

  “Let’s see if we’re both on the same page. The man who came to you for the reading, his name was Ryan Hayes. His father was Leland Hayes. They robbed an armored truck twenty-two years ago. The son went to prison for most of that time. The father was killed. The money was never recovered.”

  “I didn’t know those details.”

  “It was Ryan Hayes who came to see you, though, wasn’t it?”

  “His father came through during the reading,” Kayla said. “He had a very dark, dark energy. He was cruel and he was angry and he seemed—he seemed put out, like he didn’t want to be there, like he didn’t want to talk to Ryan, which seemed odd to me. The whole thing seemed odd. I’ve learned through experience, if someone from the other side doesn’t want to come through, well, then, they don’t. Only he was there, like he was waiting for Ryan to speak to him instead of the other way around. Finally, Ryan asked me to ask the father—”

  “Leland,” I said.

  “Yes. Ryan asked me to ask Leland if it was true.”

  “If what was true?” I asked.

  “I was made to understand that Leland had hidden a great deal of money before he died—I don’t know how much—and that he would tell Ryan where it was if he would … if he would kill you.”

  “Leland told you this?”

  “No. Ryan told me to ask Leland if all of that was true. Leland laughed at Ryan. He called him names, names that some men call women. At the same time he chanted yes, yes, yes, that’s exactly what he wanted. I shouldn’t have repeated it to Ryan. It just spilled out before I had the presence of mind to edit the information. I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Kayla leaned toward me. “He was sincere, McKenzie,” she said. “The dead man.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Afterward, Ryan became very quiet. The dead man, though, Leland, suddenly he had a great deal to say, like it was about time Ryan wised up, stuff like that, only I didn’t repeat most of it. I decided I had done enough damage. Anyway, after a few minutes, Ryan got up to leave.”

  “He didn’t ask Leland where the money was?”

  “No, and then—and then I messed up again.”

  “How?”

  “I asked Ryan if he already knew where the money was hidden, I don’t even know why.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said—he said eff the money.”

  “Eff?”

  “You know—eff.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you sure that Leland didn’t provide any hints?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Could you see anything with your second sight, whatever you call it—anything that might reveal the location?”

  Kayla leaned back in her chair.

  “No,” she said. Her voice suggested that she was both surprised and frustrated that I had even asked.

  “Then you’re no help to me,” I said.

  “Something I did see, pictures of the man’s head. It was … shattered.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Kayla stood and began buttoning her long coat.

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” she said.

  I stood, too.

  “No, I’m the one who needs to apologize,” I said. “You’re very kind to come here to help a complete stranger. I know it was difficult for you, and I am grateful. If I seem rude, it’s because you’re not the first person to tell me this story, and quite honestly, it’s starting to get old.”

  “The name of the other person who told you, so that we’re both on the same page…”

  “Hannah Braaten.”

  “I know her,” Kayla said. “I know of her; we’ve never met. Mr. Hayes, Ryan Hayes, told me that she was the psychic that he first went to see. He’s convinced that Hannah is trying to find the money and keep i
t for herself.”

  “I don’t know Ryan Hayes,” I said. “I don’t know what’s in his head. I don’t know if he thinks the money belongs to him after all these years, that somehow he earned it. But I don’t think he’s going to let it go. If he attempts to contact you again, tries to force you to tell him where his old man hid the loot, call me. Perhaps I can help.”

  “You would do that? Come to the aid of a complete stranger?”

  “Why not? You did.”

  Kayla pulled her long black gloves from her pockets. Before putting them on, she offered me her bare hand, and I took it.

  “There are a lot of good people looking out for you,” she said. “Now I understand why. Good night, McKenzie.”

  Kayla turned and walked toward the exit. I called after her.

  “You don’t know my cell number,” I said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How?”

  “The same way I knew where you lived.”

  A moment later, Kayla was gone.

  I turned toward the security desk. Jones had returned, and he and Smith were now seated behind it.

  “If this is what the night shift is going to be like…” Smith said.

  “I like it already,” Jones added.

  * * *

  I found Nina lying on the sofa in front of the fireplace. She was wearing her red silk nightgown that seemed to come alive in the firelight and reading a novel by PJ Tracy. How she could manage to make out the words I couldn’t say, but then that’s what everyone did before Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison came along, wasn’t it, read by candlelight or firelight.

  “How was she?” Nina said.

  “Pleasant enough. She seemed genuinely concerned about my welfare.”

  “Did she read you? Put you in contact with Agatha or someone else?”

  “No.”

  “What did she tell you?” Nina asked.

  “The same thing that Hannah told me.”

  “Do you think they’re in cahoots?”

  “I like that word, cahoots. Honestly, Nina, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Have you noticed that female psychics all seem to have interesting names? Hannah Braaten. Kayla Janas. Allison DuBois. Char Margolis. Tracy Farquhar. Rosemary Altea. There’s a woman who lives in Edina named Echo Bodine.”

  “Doing a little research of your own, are you?”

  “They’re all attractive, too.”

  “Would you want to have your future told by the Three Witches in Macbeth?”

  “It smacks of marketing to me,” Nina said.

  “Or sexism. How often have you and Erica and Shelby and Victoria and Katie railed against society for judging women by their appearance?”

  “Apparently not enough.”

  “I wonder if unattractive mediums are like Cassandra…”

  “Another interesting name.”

  “They can accurately predict the future yet are cursed by the gods so that no one will believe them.”

  “If the gods are anything like loan officers, you might be onto something.”

  “Have I told you how much I like your nightgown?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “So, any plans for the immediate future?”

  “I’m going to finish reading my book. You?”

  I reluctantly threw a thumb over my shoulder toward the office area and my computer. “I thought I’d look up Kayla,” I said.

  “She has a nice website. Very clean, very elegant. Not nearly as many pictures of herself as Hannah has.”

  “Okay. You, ahh … You should turn on a light. This can’t be good for your eyes.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  I spun around and headed for my desk while Nina flicked on a lamp.

  So much for sexual addiction, my inner voice said. At least hers.

  * * *

  I went to Kayla’s website and was greeted by a quote:

  Hi, my name is Kayla Janas. Welcome to my website.

  I belong to a different generation of psychic mediums, one that is determined to break away from the ‘weird and wonderful’ stereotypes personified by Madame Acarti in Blithe Spirit without embracing the unnecessary suspense and drama that’s required to make “great TV.” I pride myself on my ability to bring clarity and closure to people and to help them find honest answers to the questions that nag their lives.

  Dissin’ the TV mediums, my inner voice said. Good for you, Kayla.

  Along with the quote, her home screen provided links for FAQs, readings and events, a newsletter, testimonials, and contact information. What impressed me most, though, was what she didn’t provide—a history of her life, a photo gallery, videos of her TV interviews, a blog, a press kit with media contact information, or a shopping page where visitors could purchase her books, video courses, or tarot and oracle cards, or make reservations for a seven-day spiritual odyssey aboard a luxury cruise ship.

  Clearly the young lady doesn’t understand marketing, my inner voice said.

  Perhaps she doesn’t care about that sort of thing, I told myself.

  Perhaps she’s new at this and doesn’t get it yet.

  Perhaps—hell, what do I know?

  I wondered briefly if there was such a thing as ghost cops, someone I could call to have Leland Hayes arrested for conspiracy to commit murder.

  I actually Googled the words “ghost cops” and was greeted by a YouTube cartoon plus a list of video games plus information about a 1990s TV series that lasted one episode before it was canceled. I tried “ghostbusters” and was directed to a couple million results devoted to the films that shared the same name. Next I tried “psychic medium ghostbusters” and was introduced to all kinds of websites, including one starring Echo Bodine. Just for fun, I started counting websites of psychic mediums, stopping when I reached an even fifty.

  “You know…” I said.

  Nina answered me from across the room. “What?”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “On the other hand, I’ve had two separate and independent sources confirm that a dead man is trying to have me killed. Isn’t that enough for a newspaper to print it on the front page?”

  “The National Enquirer, maybe. One of those grocery store gossip magazines.”

  “I figure I can do one of two things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing. Just wait and see if Ryan Hayes comes looking for me.”

  “There’s a thought.”

  “Or I can go looking for him.”

  “Do I get a vote?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “Will you be joining me?”

  “In a couple of chapters.”

  Dammit!

  EIGHT

  Our building had a modern fitness center on the second floor with all of the machines you’d find in a pay-by-the-month workout facility, yet I blew it off for a somewhat worn and battered gym in an area of St. Paul they used to call Frogtown before political correctness became the watchword. ’Course, Gracie’s Gym had changed its name, too, becoming Gracie’s Power Academy when it began offering martial arts training for women. I liked to drop in a few times a month to remind myself how to take a punch. Dave Gracie told me I needed to train more than that, because at my age the time I was putting in was only enough to give me a false sense of security. To prove it, he swept my leg just like the Cobra Kai did to Daniel in The Karate Kid. Unlike Mr. Miyagi, he didn’t help me up, either.

  What a way to start a day, my inner voice told me.

  I changed clothes but didn’t shower, telling myself that I’d take care of it when I returned to the condominium. If you had seen the antiquated showers at Gracie’s you probably would have done the same thing. I was still a little sweaty, though, and when I stepped into the parking lot, the cool December air chilled my body like an ice cube. I quickly moved to the Mustang, fired it up, and waited for the heater to thaw me out.

  There was a black SU
V parked on the street adjacent to the lot. I had paid no attention to it until I noticed its rear lights going from red to white to red again. That told me the driver had started the car and shifted from park past reverse and into a forward gear. Except the vehicle didn’t drive off. It remained in its parking spot for a few beats until the driver reversed his movements, going from a forward gear past reverse and into park again.

  I probably would have ignored all of that, too, except that I recognized the SUV as a Chevy Tahoe with the same license plates as the vehicle I had followed the day before, the one driven by Karl J. Anderson, the award-winning private investigator.

  My first thought: Why is he following me?

  My second: No way he knew I was going to be at Gracie’s, which meant he picked me up at the condo and tailed me here, and I hadn’t noticed!

  What a putz, my inner voice said. Gracie was right, you do need to train more.

  My third thought: Shouldn’t I be frightened? What if Anderson had heard about Leland’s offer? What’s stopping him from knocking me off, going to the nearest psychic medium, contacting Hayes, and demanding that he pay up?

  Can they do that, just dial up anyone who’s dead? Cuz if they can, there are a lot of people I’d like to have a word with. Louis Armstrong. Shakespeare. My mom. Robert Leroy Johnson—I’d ask him about selling his soul to the devil to become the most important bluesman of all time; how did that work out?

  The Mustang had heated up nicely, but I still hadn’t put it in gear.

  Maybe you should have a word with Anderson, my inner voice suggested.

  What would that accomplish, I wondered, except to let Anderson know that he had been made? He’s a professional; he would never give up his client. He’d either break off the tail or pretend to break it off. He could come back with a four-man surveillance team tomorrow; I’d never know if he was behind me. Or he could tag the Mustang with a GPS transmitter. Hell, maybe he already had.

  You know who you should talk to.

  Yeah, I do.

  I put the Mustang into gear and drove out of the parking lot. I pressed my cell phone to my ear as I passed Anderson’s Tahoe to plant the suggestion that I had taken my time leaving Gracie’s because I was making a call and not because I knew he was there.