by Alan Russell
“Marisa Donnelly and Am Caulfield,” said Brother Howard, “both of you have expressed interest in gaining access to another realm. I can enable your passage, can direct you on the way, but in the end each of you will have to make your own journey.
“To hear the dead is not an easy thing. Most of us cannot even hear ourselves. We need to attune our listening, need to get comfortable with our own beings, and come to terms with all of our senses before we can attempt to venture beyond.
“Our first exercise will be for you to listen for your heartbeat. It requires total silence and concentration. Why is it that we can hear and feel our hearts after vigorous exercise, but not at other times? It is there all along, but usually silent, waiting to be discovered like so many other things. Picture in your mind this tireless engine in your chest, this constant clock which we have tuned out of our senses.”
Brother Howard closed his eyes and stopped talking. Am watched him to see if he was peeking. As far as he could see, he wasn’t. Marisa followed Brother Howard’s example. She actually seemed to be trying to listen to her heart. Am thought she was going a little far. The silence, and the hand-holding, continued. For want of anything else to do, Am started listening for his heart. His breathing became lighter and slower. Several times he felt on the verge of picking up that elusive beat, but always it escaped him. His thoughts started to float, his consciousness a series of run-on sentences…
…how long have we been listening probably five minutes that’s about thirty bucks of silence and they say talk is cheap they ought to price out silence can’t hear my heart but if i could it would be about a dime a beat should have brought along a stethoscope and pulled it out but what he really wants is to get a bead on our wallets just wait until he describes the length and treatment of his snake oil that’s one pitch that’s going to get cut short with my own questions wonder how he’ll respond to the name of doctor kingsbury maybe i should bring his name up casually and ask brother gardenia reverend howard to listen to what he has to say and oh by the way doc just how am i supposed to be positive in a world with so many of these bloodsuckers…
“Am,” said a voice. “Am.”
Brother Howard gently shook Am’s arm. He hadn’t been asleep, Am told himself, not exactly, but he had drifted. Red-faced, he returned.
“Good,” said Brother Howard. “Very good.”
Am turned a little redder. In all the world, this was the last person from which he wanted to hear praise.
“You see how Am let loose of his conscious mind,” said the Brother. “That is often necessary. We need to open ourselves up.”
The star pupil glowered a little. At least they weren’t holding hands anymore, he thought.
Brother Howard turned to Marisa. “Did you attune to the beat of your heart?” he asked.
It was her turn to look embarrassed. “Yes,” she said quietly.
Had she really? Am wondered. He wished he could have heard her heart, wanted to know how it sounded, and pounded.
“What about you, Am? Did you find your heart?”
No, he wanted to say, I think I lost it. But he simply shook his head. That didn’t discourage Brother Howard. He said that what they had done was merely an exercise, one of many to build their awareness.
“I don’t have special hearing aids,” he said, “that will provide you the ability to hear the dead, but I do have a program”—he tapped the table and brought their attention to his tapes and books—“that has allowed many to succeed in that quest.”
“Are you sure this ability can be taught?” asked Am.
“There is no question about it,” he said.
“How is it,” asked Am, “that you succeeded in bridging this rather enormous gap, when others have not?”
“I am by no means the first to have done so,” said Brother Howard. “Mine is a God-given ability, not unlike those who can see auras, or those who have second sight.”
“And you just woke up one day and heard the dead?”
“Not quite so simple as that. I think for most of my life I sensed the fragments of communication around me that were not of this world, but I was never quite sure of what I was hearing. Over time I was able to distinguish the messages, and learned how to better tune into them.”
“Do you carry on conversations with the dead?”
“I wouldn’t call them conversations. I prefer the term ‘dialogues.’ “
“’How’s the weather?’ Or, ‘What’s up?’ Those kinds of dialogues?”
Brother Howard looked disappointed. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Human words fail in describing the nuances of communication, especially with the dead. The dialogues are meanings and meetings beyond our terminology.”
“Can you call up any of the dead you want? Abraham Lincoln? Robert Frost? Napoleon? Martin Luther King?”
“My techniques are not those of a séance,” said Brother Howard. “You will find the ‘who’ is not important. It is the ‘there.’ “
“Not the destination, the journey.”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t answer the question, though,” said Am. “Are you able to communicate with a particular person who has died?”
Proudly, firmly: “I am.”
“That’s impressive,” said Am, “considering how many billions of people have died. Is there an A T and T over there?”
“Are you trifling with me, Mr. Caulfield?”
“No,” said Am, “I’m just trying to understand.”
Brother Howard stared at him for several seconds. “There is no telephone system,” he said. “There is an awareness far beyond this earthly plane. It is the reality of ‘I think, therefore I am.’ The dead aren’t in hiding. They’ve merely eclipsed their bodies.”
“The main reason we’re here,” said Am, “is that we want to talk with someone who recently died. Is it possible for you to be our intermediary and help us communicate with him?”
It was apparent, despite Brother Howard’s seeming reluctance, that he had been asked this question before. “This was supposed to be a training session…”
“Methinks thou doth protest too much” was what Am wanted to say, but instead he said, “If we have to pay extra, we quite understand.”
“Money is not the issue,” said Brother Howard, but in the end it naturally proved to be just that. They agreed on an additional hundred dollars.
“With whom would you like me to communicate?” asked Brother Howard, “and what is it you would like to know?”
“Dr. Thomas Kingsbury,” said Am, “and who murdered him.”
Brother Howard didn’t react to either the name or the request. He asked for them not to move or talk, even to keep their breathing quiet, then he closed his eyes and grew still. It was three or four minutes before his eyes opened again. He took a deep breath, sighed slightly, and shook his head.
“Sometimes it happens this way,” he said. “The dead do not always speak. I could not find the one you wished.”
Am noticed he didn’t say the name aloud. “Are you sure you got his right name?” he asked.
“Thomas Kingsbury,” said Brother Howard. “Dr. Thomas Kingsbury.”
Am nodded. “Well, since he’s not available, I guess we’ll have to ask you some of the same questions. Do you prefer that we call you the Reverend Mr. Gardenia, or Brother Howard?”
He didn’t respond to the baiting, merely said, “Brother Howard is my legal name.”
“But you were the Reverend Mr. Gardenia?”
He shrugged, then said, “Since neither of you are here to learn, I think it is time this session came to a close.”
“But we are here to learn,” said Marisa. “Mr. Caulfield is head of Hotel security. And I’m with the Union-Tribune.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Did the two of you talk while he was here?” Am asked.
“Why are you asking these questions? The newspapers reported that he died of natural causes.”
“Never believe what you read.” This from Marisa.
Brother Howard’s vow of silence didn’t last. “I was in the dealer’s room,” he said. “We have a booth there where we sell our material. Business was very good. There was a line of customers and suddenly there was this commotion. A man was pushing to the front of the line.
“ ‘Brother Howard,’ he said loudly. Mockingly. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’ I knew at once who he was. My persecutor was there in front of me. He pretended to be very solicitous, interested in my teachings. He made quite the scene looking at my wares and acting as if they fascinated him. Then he brought out his notebook and made an entry as to when I would be speaking. ‘I’ll be there, Brother Howard,’ he said, ‘oh, you can be sure I’ll be there.’ His voice told me clearly that he would be there to crucify me, to announce what he perceived as my misdeeds of the past.”
“And that’s not how you view your past?” asked Am.
“I tried to help the very sick,” he said. “Do you condemn doctors for making a living doing the exact same thing?”
“You promised cures.”
“I offered hope. I can show you hundreds of testimonials…”
“And now you listen to the dead?”
Self-righteously: “Yes, I do.”
“But you couldn’t hear Dr. Kingsbury?”
“It might be that his spirit still lingers around here,” said Brother Howard, “and hasn’t passed over yet.”
One of the Fat Innkeeper’s shiryoos, thought Am.
“Or maybe,” reflected Brother Howard, “he just didn’t want to talk with me.”
If that was the case, thought Am, he really couldn’t blame Kingsbury.
Chapter Thirty-One
Skylar’s presentation (in his contract he forbade it to be called an “act” or “performance”) was just ending when they arrived. The grand finale was a bunch of forks and spoons turned into Dali-like flatware. The crowd clapped enthusiastically, and Skylar, dressed in black, frowned at them, bowed very formally, and then walked off the stage.
Getting backstage was easy, but getting to see Skylar was not. His manager provided interference, claimed that Skylar was always exhausted after his “demonstrations of the mind” and never talked to anyone. Marisa acted disappointed, said she was a “big fan,” and, “Oh, isn’t it a shame that I won’t be able to interview him.” The manager perked up at her words, asked a few questions, then verified her journalistic credentials. He was suddenly willing to help, and went to talk with Skylar. It was apparent that reporters were no longer clamoring to interview the mentalist, but Am didn’t think that was what got them inside. While they were waiting a door opened, and an enormously large brown eye stared at them—or rather, stared at Marisa. Why, wondered Am, hadn’t the mentalist just conjured a picture of her up in his mind from inside the room? The door opened in about the time it took Skylar to get his eyeful.
“Open Sesame,” said Am.
Skylar kissed Marisa’s hand and managed to ignore Am completely. He led Marisa to a chair, offered her a drink, and said he was so pleased they could have this time to chat.
“I do not allow photos,” he said to Am, not bothering to look at him but assuming he was the photographer. “Do not set up your cameras. My manager gives out publicity shots. Talk to him if you’re interested.”
Am made no move to leave, instead found a chair. Skylar looked momentarily disappointed, then turned his attention back to Marisa. He was a handsome man, had been born and raised in Lebanon, had the good looks of a prince straight out of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Skylar had the reputation of being a ladies’ man. He did have a certain charisma, Am had to admit, a personality that demanded attention. His eyes could have qualified for lakes. He had straight white teeth, and a mocha complexion set off by very black hair. Too black, Am thought, looking a little closer. Yes, it was dyed. And those enormous dark eyes of his had eyeliner around them. Making those discoveries made Am feel a little better.
He wondered if Marisa had noticed those things. It didn’t look like it. The two of them were laughing together over something, Skylar’s hand lightly touching her arm. He said something, and then squeezed her shoulder. Am was sure Skylar’s voice had been worked on as much as his hair; it was deep, full-throated, and had a mysterious echo to it, as if it emerged from a great cavern. He kept offering Marisa his white teeth. Probably capped, thought Am.
“When did you discover your gift?” asked Marisa.
“I will present you with my book,” he said. “It will tell you how I came from a family renowned throughout our country for our powers.”
Why was it, Am wondered, that everyone they talked with seemed to have an autobiography on hand? Wasn’t it enough to have a business card anymore?
“I’d rather hear it from you,” said Marisa. “It’s so much nicer hearing things firsthand.”
She giggled. She actually giggled. The woman knew how to flirt. Here she was, intelligent and motivated and self-directed to write important words, and she knew how to flirt. To Am’s way of thinking, that didn’t seem right. To Skylar’s, it was just fine.
“I will tell you anything,” he said. “Anything.”
She was as good at asking questions, thought Am, as she was at stroking Skylar’s immense ego. He watched her rope him in. A man who was out for answers would have tossed the lasso and fought like hell to bring him down. She didn’t work that way. Skylar was roped, caught, and tied up and he didn’t even know it.
“You have fans around the world,” she said.
“Everywhere,” he agreed.
“They must have been as disappointed as I was when that awful man said those lies about you. What kind of a world is it when someone has to try and tear down a being of your stature just to make himself look good?”
“He’s dead!” said Skylar. The words were offered in glee, then slightly reconsidered. “I knew he would die,” he said.
Am wondered if Marisa was as short of breath as he was. “You did?” she asked.
“Yes. When he made up his… stories… three years ago, I sued him. And I foresaw…”
He touched his index fingers to his temples.
“… that he was going to die a tragic death because of what he had done.”
“What do you mean?” asked Marisa.
His large, dark eyes were hooded, cloaked by his eyelids. “Kismet,” he said.
“Kismet,” repeated Marisa.
“Allah punished him for his lies. And he did it right in front of me.”
Am couldn’t resist. “Right in front of you,” he said.
“Yes,” said Skylar dramatically. “The man died in this Hotel last night. And he thought he could laugh at me. I like that old saying: He who laughs last, laughs best.”
“I can’t imagine anyone ever laughing at you,” said Marisa.
She missed her calling, thought Am. She should have been an actress. And then a nagging doubt: She wasn’t performing with him, was she?
“Just the night before last,” he said, “he had the nerve to challenge me in front of a crowd. I was on stage, halfway through my demonstration, when he presented himself. I knew who he was right away. I wanted to call security and have him thrown out. But I could not interrupt my mental exhibition.
“Standing beneath me, he called up a greeting, acted as if we were old friends. In a loud, mocking voice he said that he’d be having a few magic shows of his own before the week was through. Then he looked at his watch, shook it a few times as if it wasn’t working, and said he must be going, that he had a date with a deceitful destiny, or some such nonsense.”
“What an awful man,” said Marisa.
“He now tells his lies in hell. He had no idea what trouble his evil would bring him, and couldn’t know that by attacking me he wrote his own epitaph. My enemies all die horrible and mysterious deaths.”
“Dr. Kingsbury wasn’t the first of your enemies to die in a suspicious manner?” asked Am.
>
Skylar smiled, as if remembering fond memories. Any potential answer was interrupted by a knock at the door. Skylar let a room-service waiter enter. On his tray was a pot of coffee. The server was surprised that Skylar had company.
“I can get more cups, sir,” he said.
“That is not necessary,” said Skylar in a magnanimous voice. “I have extras.”
The waiter nodded and left. “Will you have some coffee?” Skylar asked Marisa.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It is a special Turkish blend,” he said. “I have it served to me after my last nightly demonstration everywhere I go. Some people say they can’t sleep if they drink coffee. I find I can’t if I don’t drink it. Cream? Sugar?”
She shook her head. “That is how I like it,” said Skylar. “Leaded, as I hear some people say. Or in this case, super-leaded.”
He handed Marisa her cup, and then poured himself one. They both sipped appreciatively.
“Excuse me,” said Am, then pantomimed his own cup.
Skylar sighed, then poured. “With cream and sugar, if you don’t mind,” added Am.
The mentalist did, but provided them anyway. Skylar was sipping, and looking into Marisa’s eyes, when Am spoke again. “And a spoon, please.”
Skylar didn’t disguise the malevolence in his look. He was not a man who liked to be interrupted. To challenge him, he had said, was dangerous.
He handed over a spoon. Am thanked him, and started to stir, then noticed the metal was twisted, bent in half.
On Skylar’s profile, Am noticed, was the smallest of smiles.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“So,” said Cleo, “what you’re really saying is that I haven’t been arrested.”
Jimmy nodded. “I kinda thought you just needed to get away for a little while and think about what you’re doing to yourself.”
They were sitting in the employee’s cafeteria drinking coffee. Cleopatra’s eyes looked as if they had a permanent puffiness to them. She kept sniffling, and Jimmy kept offering her napkins.
