Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  “I thought it was an accident. It wasn't until the library shelves fell that I thought it could be something else.”

  “Aren't you curious about how it happened?”

  “Of course. I already know how I would have done it.”

  “How?”

  “See if you can figure it out.”

  Suzanne aimed her flashlight around the edges of the car bottom. “It looks like six bolts hold the floor in place.”

  “Yes, but the floor rests on four solid steel-edge panels. The panels weren't bent. The repairman had no idea how the floor could have fallen past the edge panels. As you can see, it's a snug fit.”

  “Did you find the nuts and bolts?”

  “The repairman found them here in the sludge the next morning. They were intact.”

  She bit her lip. “The only way that floor could have fallen through the panels … is if it didn't.”

  “Yes?”

  “What if the elevator floor was removed and bolted to the underside of the panels?”

  “Interesting …”

  “You probably wouldn't have noticed it when you were stepping into the elevator. As far as the mechanical malfunction, I assume there is some way to take manual control from a remote panel.”

  Joe pointed to a gray box on the wall of the basement. “Right there.”

  “There's one thing I still can't figure out. How could they trigger the floor drop? It couldn't have been just a matter of loosening the nuts. Somebody else might have stepped into the elevator.”

  “Have you heard of blast caps?”

  “No.”

  “Special-effects people use them in movies. Low-power plastic explosives that can be triggered to blow with a radio signal. They can be molded into almost any shape.”

  “Like a bolt?”

  “Yes. Stunt drivers use them to blow lug nuts off speeding cars. I figure someone could do the same thing to an elevator floor.”

  “Wouldn't there be a residue?”

  “Of course, but this oily sludge would help cover up a lot. And at the time I wasn't suspecting anything like this.”

  Suzanne shone her flashlight onto the floor of the elevator shaft. “The evidence would've been blown to bits. The pieces would be mixed into the oil with decades of debris.”

  “That's the way I figure it.”

  “Clever. You're good at your job, Joe.”

  “So are you. I still haven't figured out how you rig your séances.”

  “That's because they're not rigged.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “No hints to give.”

  “Try.”

  “Okay, here's one: They're real.”

  “Do you use a push rig or a pull rig?”

  “Neither.”

  “Do you hire a private detective or do the research yourself?”

  “Daphne does the research.”

  “Your dead friend. Right.”

  “I didn't ask for this ability.”

  “But if you got it, flaunt it, huh?”

  She pulled herself from the shaft and swung her legs over the cold, dirty floor of the basement. “You have no idea how many times I've wished I didn't have it.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “No, you don't,” she said softly. “It's lonely.”

  Joe climbed out of the shaft and brushed himself off. “I'd think you'd be very popular.”

  She smiled sadly. “Do you know how hard it is to date a man, then try to tell him that I have regular conversations with my dead childhood friend?”

  “I've met some guys who would be really into that.”

  “All the wrong ones. The men I like are creeped out by it. The men who aren't bothered by it, I don't like.”

  “Maybe you should look for another line of work.”

  “That wouldn't stop my conversations with Daphne.”

  “Is she always there, in your head?”

  “She was when I was younger. I think she realized it was making me crazy. Now she comes only when I call for her.”

  Joe studied Suzanne. If it weren't for the elaborate physical effects in her séances, he would swear she believed everything she was telling him. Some palm readers, spiritualists, and dowsers actually believed in their imaginary abilities, but the obvious thought and preparation behind Suzanne's effects made that impossible in her case.

  She drew her knees up to her chest. “Why do you think I spend so much time looking for people who can do the things I do? I know you think I'm just trying to find newer and better ways to rip off people, but I'm telling you, I do want to feel a little less alone.”

  “You're an extremely attractive, intelligent woman. You don't need to do this.”

  “It's not my choice. Look, I've seen so many fakers that I'm almost as skeptical about this stuff as you are. I doubt Jesse Randall is the real thing, but if he is, he probably feels the same way I do.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Let me help you figure this out. Even if you think I'm a fake, I'm the best damned fake you've ever seen. Who better to expose a bit of psychic trickery? Other than you, I've probably exposed more reputed psychics and mediums than anyone in the city.”

  “Kellner and his team offered to help me too.”

  “They're clowns. Any kid with half an hour and a magic book from the school library could fool them.”

  “Jesse Randall isn't an amateur. However he does it, he's amazing.”

  “I know. I'd love it if he were the real thing.” She wrinkled her brow. “Would you?”

  “It hasn't even occurred to me.”

  “Would you be happy if you discovered that my abilities were genuine? Or the powers of the other people you study?”

  “I can't let myself think that way.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I wouldn't be able to do my job. Why do you think Kellner and the spook squad are so easily fooled? They want to believe. They want to believe it so badly that they don't let themselves see the truth. If I let myself feel that way, I might not be able to see it either.”

  “I want to believe, and it hasn't hurt me.”

  “For me this is just how it needs to be.”

  “That's too bad. You might enjoy your work more the other way.”

  “I'd be disappointed more.”

  “Maybe. But you'd live in a world where anything is possible, where there are no boundaries. That's a nice world to wake up to every day.”

  He turned to face her. It had been a long time since anyone except Nikki had talked to him about how he thought and felt about anything. Part of her con? Maybe, but he didn't think so.

  “What do you say, Joe? Can you use a consultant?”

  “I'll give you the same sketches that I've passed around to a few people in the magic community. If you come up with any ideas, you've got my ear.”

  It was the dream again, Jesse realized. The dream. The voices, the dogs barking, the hands pulling him underground …

  Except this time he couldn't punch the shadowy figures floating around him. They were always just out of reach. Because he couldn't hit them, the hands’ grip on his ankles never loosened. He couldn't kick free. He was being pulled deeper and deeper into the cold, hard ground….

  “Wake up, kid.”

  In an instant, he found himself jolted awake, in the waking nightmare that was no less terrifying than the one he had just left behind.

  “Did you hear me, boy? You're not here to sleep. You've got work to do.”

  Jesse sat up and stared at the bearded man who was shouting at him. The same man who had been bringing him his meals. Until then the guy probably hadn't said ten words to him.

  “When can I go home?” Jesse said.

  “Never, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “The lady said I could go if I showed what I could do.”

  “You haven't shown us shit, kid.”

  “I made the ball move.”

  “We need more than that. When are you going
to show us something else?”

  “I can't always do it. Especially when I'm sad or scared.”

  “You whiny-ass little brat … Myrna may put up with your crap, but I won't. Enjoy your meal. It's the last one you're getting until I see something special.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  Jesse crossed his arms. He hated this man. This must be all his fault. “Okay, I won't eat.”

  “Son of a bitch!” the man screamed, flipping over the tray of food. “You may think you're hot shit, but we don't need your sorry little ass. You'd better watch yourself.”

  Jesse scrambled back toward the wall, bracing himself for the slap or punch he knew was coming.

  “Charles!” Myrna called out from the doorway. “Please leave Jesse alone. He'll help us. I promise.”

  “When?” Charles said, still glaring at him. “By the time he's ready to go to college?”

  “Please. Let me work with him awhile longer. I promise he'll do what you want.”

  “He'd better.”

  “He will.”

  Charles stepped away. “If he doesn't, I swear I'll bury both of you in the same hole.” He left through the passageway and slammed the panel closed behind him.

  Myrna rushed toward Jesse and enfolded him in her arms.

  “That man scares me,” he whispered.

  “Me too. We have to be very careful around him.”

  “We gotta find a way out of here.”

  “There's no way. Believe me, honey, I've looked. Unless …”

  “What?”

  She glanced at the observation windows. “Unless there's some way to use your powers to get us out of here.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn't always work.”

  “But if your life depends on it …”

  “There has to be some other way.”

  “There isn't.”

  He dejectedly shook his head.

  She was silent for a moment, then smiled. “Hey, I have a surprise for you.”

  “What?”

  She reached into her baggy pocket and pulled out his eyeglasses.

  “Thanks!”

  He reached for the glasses, but she held them out of reach. “They told me that you have to show them something else before I can give them to you.”

  He stared bitterly at her, then sat cross-legged on the floor next to his spilled food.

  “I'm sorry, honey.”

  In front of him, a paper napkin twitched a few times, then jumped a few feet away.

  Myrna gasped.

  A small piece of lettuce flipped over and bobbed up and down, almost as if it were waving to him. Then it stopped.

  “May I please have my glasses now?”

  She gingerly opened her hand, and he took his glasses and put them on.

  “They're never gonna let me out of here, are they?”

  “Of course they will.”

  “I don't believe it. They're never gonna let me go.”

  “Maybe you can bargain with them, Jesse. You obviously have something they want.”

  “I'm not gonna bargain.”

  “It may be our best hope.”

  “No.” He glared at her. “I hate them. And if they don't let me out of here, they're gonna be sorry.”

  Ithink the Little Bastard came through for us, Bailey.” Howe walked toward Joe's desk at 9:02 A.M., holding several crumpled pieces of paper.

  “Looks like it was a struggle.”

  “We wouldn't call the machine the Little Bastard if it were easy. The damned thing almost shredded the output, but I managed to wrench it free. There was one phone number that Nelson and the Rawlingses each called several times. And get this: It was the week before Gaby Rawlings's death.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. It came back to a guy named Andrei Yashin. Was he someone Nelson worked with?”

  “I don't think so. I know almost everyone on the parapsychology team, and that name doesn't sound familiar.”

  “I have an address.”

  “Let's go.”

  * * *

  Within half an hour, Joe and Howe were standing in front of the weather-beaten door of an apartment in Garden Hills. It was a complex of ten units, all in a one-story strip facing a pothole-ridden tar parking lot. A sign next to the door read DR. ANDREI YASHIN—WELLNESS SPECIALIST.

  A woman in her early sixties answered Joe's knock. “Come in, gentlemen. You're early, but Dr. Yashin can see you.”

  Joe put his hand on Howe's forearm to keep him from producing his badge. “Thank you.”

  “This way, please.”

  As she turned around, Howe gave Joe a questioning glance.

  “Play along,” Joe whispered.

  They followed her through the sparsely decorated apartment to the dining room, which looked somewhat like a doctor's office. A large massage table was in the middle of the room, next to a table of gleaming chrome instruments unlike anything Joe had ever seen.

  “My name is Eve. Which one of you will the doctor be seeing?”

  “Him,” Joe said quickly, pointing to Howe.

  Howe shot him an annoyed glance.

  “Very good.” She handed Howe a flimsy hospital gown. “Take your clothes off and put this on, please.”

  “You've got to be kidding,” Howe said to Joe as much as to her.

  “You heard the woman.” Joe turned to Eve. “That's why he brought me along, to keep himself from chickening out. This won't hurt, will it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Joe turned back to Howe. “See? You've got nothing to worry about. I'll hold your clothes for you if you'd like.”

  Howe was still glaring at him.

  The woman pulled Joe out of the room as she drew a pale green curtain over the entranceway.

  “Would you like to wait in the other—”

  “He stays here,” Howe said from behind the curtain.

  “He's useless without me.” Joe smiled. “Is Dr. Yashin around?”

  “He's meditating.”

  “Ah.”

  “While he changes, perhaps I can get some information from you.” She picked up a clipboard hanging next to the dining room entrance. “He hasn't eaten in the last twelve hours, has he?”

  He remembered the chocolate chip bagel Howe had devoured in the car. “No.”

  “Have his headaches persisted?”

  “If anything, they've gotten worse.”

  “Well, I promise that he'll feel better almost immediately after the session today.”

  “You hear that?” Joe called out to Howe.

  “Yeah.” Howe spoke sourly from behind the curtain.

  “There's the matter of payment. Dr. Yashin agreed to accept two hundred dollars now, plus another two hundred Friday.”

  “Of course.” Joe opened his wallet, but all he had was sixty. He was about to call out to Howe, when a fistful of twenties was suddenly thrust from behind the curtain.

  “Two hundred dollars,” Howe said.

  Eve took the money and fastened it to the clipboard. “Dr. Yashin will be out in a moment.” She walked into the back bedroom.

  Howe pulled aside the curtain, revealing himself in the shorter-than-short hospital gown and a pair of black dress socks. “Not a word,” he said.

  “Shh.” Joe pulled him from the room and guided him toward the kitchen. “The room may be bugged.”

  “Bugged?”

  “I'm not sure what this guy is all about,” Joe whispered. “He's some kind of healer. He may have listening devices in that room so he can pick up patients’ conversations, then amaze them with what their bodies tell him about their lives.”

  “Let's just take the son of a bitch in.”

  “Not yet. We can buy ourselves some leverage.”

  “But why do I have to go on the table?”

  “Your vision may be blocked by a towel or something. I need to be able to watch him.”

  “I could have watched him.”

 
“You wouldn't know what to look for.”

  Howe pulled down the hem of the small gown. “Just be careful where you look.”

  The bedroom door creaked open. They walked back toward the massage table, where a thin, long-faced man in his late forties was arranging the instruments.

  “Dr. Yashin?” Joe said.

  “Yes. Good morning.” The man spoke with a trace of a Russian accent. “I would offer to shake hands, but I don't want to contaminate the instruments.”

  “Of course.”

  Yashin spoke to Howe as if he were a sick child. “How are you feeling, my boy?”

  “Worse by the minute.”

  “I'll take care of that. Please lie on the table faceup.”

  Howe gave Joe a wary glance as he slid onto the table and lay back.

  Yashin motioned to a frayed couch in the next room. “You may wait in there.”

  Joe cast a glance at the waiting area, which featured a coffee table with stacks of New Age medical magazines and issues of Fate, Nature Extreme, and other periodicals. “I'd rather stay in here,” he said.

  “It would probably be best if you would just go into the next room and—”

  “He's staying,” Howe said. “It's the only way I'm going through with this.”

  “As you wish.”

  Eve returned to the room, carrying another pair of instruments. They looked like scalpels but with thick chrome handles that spiraled down to dull blades.

  “Why are we here?” Joe asked. “Why not in a real office?”

  “Society is always slow to accept advances in medicine,” Yashin said in the well-rehearsed manner of a man who had answered the question a hundred times before. “Those of us on the frontier are subjected to harsh scrutiny, and this helps us be a little less conspicuous.”

  “Are you licensed?”

  Yashin waved at a diploma on the wall. It was in Russian. “Of course. I studied at the Odessa Homeopathic Institute.”

  “That's where you got your doctorate?”

  “No. I received my doctorate at the university in St. Petersburg.” He turned from Joe. “Now, if you please, we must begin.”

  “Of course.”

  Yashin ran his hands over Howe's skull, feeling every contour. Twice he paused and made clicking sounds with his tongue.

  “Am I all right?” Howe asked.

  “There's a buildup here of humors. I'm surprised you can even function. You came here just in time.”