On to Grady, who probably vaguely remembered the case, but not well enough to chance it, so he found a Spanish conquistador who'd stumbled on an evil pagan cult and claimed this ghost was so strong he blocked Gabrielle.
Then it was my turn. Becky could scarcely control her excitement. By placing me last, she'd given me the prime spot for using the details she'd provided.
I pulled my nonprescription glasses from my purse, and adjusted my hair from semipinned to a neater do--less sexy, more scholarly. Then I had them film me sitting under the doubleD nymph, as I gravely explained the "challenges" of this seance.
The geographic connection was tenuous at best, which likely explained why no one could contact Gabrielle. Even had we been on the very site of her murder, I doubted our results would have been much better, given the trauma of her passing. While we'd hoped to help lessen her burden by sharing her story with the world, we had to accept that she wasn't yet ready to do that for herself. Perhaps someday, the world would know the truth behind her tragic passing.
Cut.
"WHAT THE hell was that?" Becky said as I checked my cell phone for messages from Jeremy.
I closed the phone. "What's wrong?"
"You didn't contact Gabrielle Langdon, that's what's wrong."
I sighed. "It's the location. I could have worked it harder, but after Tansy Lane, I thought it best if I didn't try to show up the others." I returned my phone to my purse, took out a pen, then stopped, staring at it. "Oh, my god. I'm such a ditz. That release you wanted me to sign. I forgot all about it. I'm so sorry. After you left, I got a call and walked out without grabbing that folder. I'll do that as soon as I get back to the house."
"No," she said, words clipped. "That won't be necessary."
I asked if she minded if I walked back to the house while she finished up. She waved what I took for a "yes" and strode back to the set.
THE STREET was empty. The houses, pushed back from the road, peeked out from curtains of trees and evergreens. The rumble of the distant highway was only white noise. Even the lawn crew I passed worked in silence as they clipped bushes into submission. Across the road, a pool-cleaning truck idled in a drive, the fumes harsh against the smell of fresh-cut grass.
There was nothing to see, nothing to listen to, nothing to distract me from burrowing deep in my thoughts and staying there. I wanted to say "to hell with this shoot" and walk off before it got worse, but I'd earned my own TV show and I was damned well going to get it.
A throat cleared behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a blond woman.
"Nice to see someone walking," she said as she fell into step beside me. "Around here, people drive to the corner store."
I nodded, torn between wanting to be polite and wanting to be left alone. We continued on, the woman staying beside me in silence.
"I hope I'm going the right way," I said finally.
"You are. Just another block and a half."
"Oh?" I glanced at her. "How--? Ah, there's not likely to be more than one TV special filming in Brentwood right now, is there? We're probably the subject of much discussion."
A small laugh. "Probably. But that's not why...I mean, that's not how I know..."
The sentence trailed off. I took a better look at her. Any other time, I'd have pegged her as a stereotypical Hollywood housewife, but considering where I'd just been and what I'd been doing, I recognized her.
I stopped walking. "Gabrielle, I didn't--Yes, they were calling you, but I didn't--"
"I know. Better keep walking. Bad enough you're talking to yourself. You don't want to be caught doing it in the middle of the road."
I resumed walking, my heart thumping. I pulled out my cell phone--an invention that made "talking to myself" much more socially acceptable. "I'm sorry. I'm so--"
"--sorry. But you shouldn't be. Like you said, you didn't call me. Some of us have been...catching your show, so to speak."
I glanced around, imagining ghosts, hidden on the other side of the veil, watching me, waiting for an excuse to make contact and ask for help I couldn't give.
"We don't get many of your kind around here, so it was big news. We're the ones who told Tansy you were calling her and, well, seeing you talking to her, being so nice, it gave us hope."
"Hope." The word echoed down the empty street, as hollow and empty as its promise. And it reminded me of an obligation I'd been trying to avoid--my promise to speak to Tansy. A double shot of guilt. I took a deep breath. "I don't blame you for wanting revenge against whoever killed you, but telling me who it was isn't going to help."
"Revenge?" She met my gaze. "I don't want revenge. I just want answers."
"Answers?"
"I don't know who killed me. I don't remember."
"That's normal--"
"Normal?" A bitter laugh. "I don't think 'normal' has anything to do with my case. Everyone knows how I died. Everyone has an opinion about who did it. Everyone thinks they know the truth. Everyone except me."
I didn't know what to say.
"All I know is who was accused. The man I married, the father of my children. A criminal court finds him innocent. A civil court finds him guilty. And I don't know. I still don't know." Her voice rose, then she steadied herself and rubbed her face on her sleeve. "How am I supposed to spend eternity not knowing?"
If I opened my mouth, I was going to throw up. It's happened before. Just last spring, I almost lost my dinner on the scuffed shoes of a very straightlaced old man who'd cried as he begged me to contact his dead granddaughter and find out who'd raped and murdered her.
That's the price I pay--for every hundred people I console with fake reassurances, there's one whose heart I break by saying no. I used to think the balance was in my favor, that I helped more than I harmed. But lately, I've come to question that.
"I--I don't know what to tell you," I said finally. "I can't solve your murder."
"I know, but isn't there someone you can ask? Some...higher power who can tell me the truth?"
"If there is, I have no way to make that contact. With the afterlife, I'm restricted to talking to ghosts like you."
She reached to take my arm, frustration and despair filling her eyes as her fingers passed through me. She met my gaze. "Then just tell me what you think. Did he kill me?"
As tempting as it was to tell Gabrielle what she wanted to hear, I didn't have that right.
"What if I tell you no, and you wait for him, only to learn I was wrong? What if I say yes, and you find out later I was wrong?"
"You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Do you...do you want me to leave now?"
I shook my head. "Walk with me, if you don't mind. I could use the company."
AS WE neared the house, my gut started twisting again. How should I handle our parting? If I said nothing, I'd lead the other ghosts to believe that while I might not have been able to help Gabrielle, that didn't mean I wasn't willing to hear their stories. I'd spend the rest of this job with ghosts hovering about, waiting for the excuse to pop in, only to be disappointed.
But what was the alternative? Tell Gabrielle to bring them all by, like serfs granted an audience with the queen, telling me their stories, begging for help I couldn't give? I couldn't find a killer. I couldn't help a still-grieving spouse find love again. I couldn't take an inheritance away from an ungrateful child. I couldn't stop an unscrupulous partner from destroying the business they'd built together. Most times, I couldn't even deliver a simple message--at best I'd have a door slammed in my face, at worst I'd be reported for trying to scam the bereaved.
I couldn't handle listening to their pleas, knowing I'd disappoint them. Selfish, maybe, but every no hurt too much.
So what should I say? "Please tell all those other ghosts not to bother me"? How callous was that?
I tell myself that I do help--not ghosts, but the grief-stricken, with my show. But does it matter how many people I reassure if I raise the false hopes of one? By splashing myself on
screen and stage, proclaiming my desire to help the grief-stricken make contact, aren't I lying to the spirits themselves? Misleading them into thinking that of all necromancers, I'm willing to help?
As we reached the drive, I turned to Gabrielle, to tell her...I didn't even know what. But when I looked, I saw only the empty sidewalk.
III
"Five years ago, in this very room, when we first decided to escalate our search for knowledge to the highest level, we made a pact."
She looked around the circle of faces, getting a nod from each member. There was no need to remind them what that pact had been. They were all educated and rational people. Indeed, that very rationality was what had led to the pact.
For over a decade they had searched for the secret that would unlock the arcane mysteries of the occult. It had to exist. Countless ancient texts detailing spells and rituals could not all be mere works of fancy. They were too pervasive, coming from every age, every civilization, every corner of the globe and yet, in many ways, so similar.
They'd come close several times. Even found success with minor magics. But what good was a spell that would levitate a pencil an inch? What they sought was true magic--the ability to fully control inanimate objects, the elements, human behavior, everything those old books promised.
For a long time there was one thing they'd refused to do. An ingredient they would not collect, one that many of the darkest, most obscure tomes called for. Even if that was the key, they'd find another way.
When they finally accepted that their progress had stalled--that they could go no further without help--they agreed to one human sacrifice, to reassure themselves that this wasn't the answer.
To be able to say "we did all we could do," they had to follow the practice most often prescribed. Not just human sacrifice, but the sacrifice of a child.
First, though, they'd needed to protect themselves against one another. They must all agree this was necessary. They must all participate. If it succeeded, they must agree that it would be repeated and that they would participate for as long as the group remained intact. Anyone who refused or changed his mind would forfeit his life.
Harsh, yes. But sound. Sharing responsibility meant sharing blame. That was the iron wall that would safeguard their secret.
And now they didn't need to know why they were being reminded. They had only to look around the circle and see who was missing.
Murray had not bounced back from his breakdown. For a while, he'd seemed fine. But he hadn't taken his share of the ash. A week later, he'd been late for a meeting. Missed a second. Withdrew from the group socially. Found excuses, made apologies. The vacation they'd insisted on had only made matters worse, as if it gave him time to dwell on his misgivings.
"Don has come to me with troubling news," she said.
Don nodded, face grave. "Murray has asked for a job transfer. Out of state."
A murmur of alarm.
"He didn't tell me directly," Don continued, "but when I stopped by his house to speak to him last week, I saw Realtor business cards on his table, and overheard him on a call to his firm's Rhode Island office."
"Should we...?" Brian swallowed, as if his throat had gone too dry to continue. "Should we wait and see how it plays out, in case he changes his mind?"
She felt a twinge of annoyance, but reminded herself that this was the first time their pact had been tested. They were still civilized beings, capable of considering all options and allowing the possibility of mercy. So she nodded to Tina, ceding the floor to the psychologist.
Tina shook her head. "The only way to change his mind would be to remind him of the pact. To threaten him."
Brian shuffled, clearly uncomfortable with the option. As he should be--they weren't thugs.
"And even if we resort to threats, given Murray's personality, he will pretend to acquiesce, but inwardly become more resolved to leave the group. He will cover his tracks better, so we can't find him. If cornered he'll be more likely to betray us."
She let Tina's words settle over the room. Waited for everyone to absorb the idea. Give them the chance to question it. Then, when no one did, she said, slowly and carefully, "Are we agreed?"
They were.
MURRAY CAME to the next meeting, and they'd done what needed to be done. Now the others were gone and his corpse lay on the gurney. She and Don would dispose of it. There was no need to involve the entire group in that process--and safer if they didn't. Take part in the killing, yes. Know where to find the body? No.
Don was examining Murray's naked body as if it were nothing more than a medical school cadaver.
"He's a lot bigger than that teenager," he mused. "I'd suggest removing the limbs and head and disposing of them as we did the boy--in garbage bags."
She agreed.
He glanced from his tools to the small oven, then over at her.
"Waste not, want not," she said. "The others don't need to know. It will be an excellent way to conduct a blind test of the effectiveness of adult material."
He nodded and lifted his scalpel.
THE EHRICH WEISS SOCIETY
AT FIVE-THIRTY, I WAS BACK IN L.A. with Jeremy, walking to yet another office building, this one in a far better section of town. The directory was peopled with accounting firms, law offices and other professional sorts. The elevators coming down were jammed with fleeing workers, but going up we had one to ourselves. Hope pressed the button for the tenth-floor law office of Donovan, Murdoch and Rodriguez.
"Our contact is the head of the group," she said as the door closed. "May Donovan."
"A lawyer?" I said.
"These guys are professionals, in every sense of the word. We've got a couple of lawyers, a United Church minister, a psychiatrist, an L.A. Times journalist, a professor or two...All folks who take this kind of thing very seriously and can contribute to the cause in their own way. Like May. She does primarily commercial law, but she has a sideline helping clients fleeced by paranormal scams. Not a lot of money in it--mostly pro bono, I think--but she's very passionate about it. They all are."
The doors opened into a quiet lobby, the silence broken only by burbling water--a fountain set in the wall, water cascading over an artfully arranged rock pile. I could hear the faintest tinkle of Japanese music. The walls were done in muted shades of gray and yellow. The thick carpet absorbed all noise. Very Zen.
Though it was just past five, the office seemed empty except for a woman leaning over the receptionist counter, reaching down to peck at the keys and straining to see the distant monitor. She was tall and slender, maybe late forties, with short graying brown hair, a long patrician nose and stylish glasses. She glanced up.
"Caught me checking my stocks." Her voice was low and pleasant, with an accent I couldn't place. "Nasty habit. I know I should just wait out the bad days, but I can't help peeking." She put her hands on Hope's shoulders in a semiembrace. "Good to see you."
Hope performed the introductions.
May caught my hand in a warm, firm grasp. "Jaime Vegas. I read something about you being in town. A TV special, isn't it?"
"Yes. In Brentwood. Trying to raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe." I rolled my eyes. "Cheesy as hell but entertaining...we hope."
"I'm sure it will be. I was at a show of yours in L.A. a few years back."
"Oh?" I managed a laugh. "Checking up on me?"
"No, actually I was taking my mother. My father had died a few months before and she was having a rough time of it. She'd never been a religious person, and I think that made it harder. She needed..." May pursed her lips, as if searching for the right word. "Reassurance. I knew from our dossier that your shows do that very well. Benign spiritualism. I was hoping that might help her, and it did."
"Oh."
"You look shocked." A mischievous glint lit her dark eyes as she laid a hand on my arm. "Rather like hearing about a temperance advocate visiting a saloon? Think of us more like MADD. We don't argue that people should turn away from the paranormal, onl
y that it be used responsibly. For entertainment, yes. For setting a grieving mind at rest, yes. Where we become concerned is when it is misused."
She led us through the office, still talking.
"They say that if you scratch a cynic, you'll find a disappointed idealist underneath. That holds true for many of our members, myself included. Some of us have had bad experiences with paranormal scams. Others, like myself, are fascinated by the paranormal, and disappointed by our inability to find proof of its existence."
She opened a door and ushered us into a huge office. "As a child, I devoured stories of witches, vampires, werewolves, ghosts...I couldn't get enough. Then, in my teens, I began 'the quest' as so many do. Ghost hunting, paranormal groups, faith experimentation, I did it all. Nothing but disappointment. Or so I thought, until I realized I had gained something from it. Knowledge. Having been burned, I could see through the scams. Together with a few contacts I'd made along the way, I decided to put that experience to good use and the Ehrich Weiss Society was born." She glanced at us. "Do you know who Ehrich Weiss was?"
My mind went blank and I'm sure my face followed.
"Harry Houdini," Jeremy said.
May nodded. "Our choice of name reflects our philosophy. Harry Houdini was, in his time, both a debunker and a seeker. He uncovered many paranormal scams, and offered ten thousand dollars to any medium who could produce evidence of the afterlife under rigorous scientific conditions. Yet he gave his wife a prearranged message so that he could make contact from the afterlife. Exposing frauds while hoping for proof."
At the back of her office, she unlocked a door and pushed it open. "And here is the inner sanctum. It's a little unsettling the first time, so I'll leave the door open while I get coffee. Two other members of our group are joining us. They should be here soon."
"UNSETTLING" WAS one word for it, particularly after the Zen peacefulness of the rest of the suite. Like big-game hunters displaying mounted heads on the wall, this group displayed its trophies--paraphernalia from scams they'd busted. Beneath each was a newspaper clipping announcing the bust. I saw everything from tarot cards to a shrunken head, a wooden wand to an ornate sacrificial knife, an "ectoplasm" photo to a jar containing something I didn't want to speculate on.