Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (8 page)

“Have more of them disappeared? You know, like the Kathy Harrington case Suter and I looked into?” Bohannon asked.

“We’ve had a couple more that seem similar. There are also other reports of strange behavior, but I’ll get to that in a minute.” The lieutenant swiveled his computer monitor so it faced Bohannon. “You ever watch YouTube, Bo?”

“Occasionally I guess. Why?”

“I want you to look at this video that’s getting a lot of attention online this week.” He clicked the mouse a couple times, and a stilled video filled the screen. It appeared to be a picture of an orchestra, at least the woodwind section of one, with the frame centered on a tall, thin African American man holding an oboe in front of him. The lieutenant clicked again, and the video played. The man at the center lifted the oboe to his lips and exploded into a flash of light. Smoke and dust blotted out the screen, but the audio continued with screams and the crash of equipment. An occasional arm or face could be made out in the billowy haze, and the sounds of panic continued for several minutes until the smoke cleared, revealing a clear blast pattern on the carpet of the auditorium surrounded by overturned chairs, a charred clarinet and a shoe. A woman continued to whimper offscreen.

The video suddenly ended, replaced by the frozen first frame of the man holding the oboe.

“Lord, have mercy,” Bohannon said. “Did that happen in Portland?”

“No, at a community orchestra practice in Little Rock a few days ago. The man with the oboe was Marcus Gentry. He completely vanished. There is no sign that he was ever there. No body parts, no blood, no DNA. He disappeared in that flash of light.”

“Was anybody else hurt?”

“Not seriously. It knocked over a bunch of people, broke a few instruments and burned a hole in the carpet.”

“There was a blast mark like that at the Harringtons’ house too. You think there’s a connection?”

“Gentry was a passenger on Flight 559. I talked to the police in Little Rock. They were willing to share facts, but they refused to conjecture about what happened. They’ve been deluged with calls from tabloid papers and television shows from all over the world.”

“You tell them about Gentry being on the flight?”

“Hell no. They’re probably already getting calls from psychics and UFO buffs. They don’t want to hear what we have to say. They’d dismiss it as more crackpot nonsense, like we would if we were in their place. I bet they are hoping someone will start spreading word that the video was a hoax.”

“So what do we do about it?” Bohannon asked.

“There’s not a whole lot we can do about it, so let’s keep the focus on Portland for now. Agreed?” He rubbed his face and turned the computer monitor back around.

Bohannon nodded and asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Well, you being off the books, as it were, for the next week or so, I thought you could look into a few things, unofficially, to see if there are any dots that can be connected. Talk to a few people. See what’s going on. I can’t order you to do this, but it might be the best way to see what’s up without having to worry about politics or looking crazy. No paperwork, no reports. Take a look-see. Can you get around with that thing on your leg?” He pointed to the cast on the detective’s left leg.

“Yeah, since they lowered the cast to below the knee, I can fit behind the wheel of my truck. Couldn’t do it in a car though.”

“Okay, drive your truck. Turn in your mileage to me, and I’ll figure out how to get the reimbursement through without drawing any attention. Remember, you are officially still on sick leave, so no shooting, no arresting. Talk to folks, and let me know what you hear. Hopefully it won’t amount to a hill of beans.”

“Who do you want me to talk to?”

“Start with this guy, Denton Proctor. He and his wife, Melanie, were passengers on the flight that went into the river. Before that, they were schoolteachers out in Beaverton.” Lt. Simmons reached across the desk and handed a blue sheet of paper to Bohannon.

It was a flyer. Across the top, big bold type screamed Come be
HEALED
! Below that sat a blurry photocopy of a blurry photograph of a man and woman. And below that a caption:

Denton and Melanie Proctor have been blessed with the power to restore both your body and soul. Come to Pioneer Courthouse Square, Thursday, at 3:00 p.m., and experience the miracle of their remarkable abilities. As seen on Channel 2 News.

A footnote at the bottom, in smaller type, but in all capital letters read
DONATE WHAT YOU CAN, IF YOU CAN, SO WE CAN CONTINUE THE WORK
.

Bohannon looked up, wide-eyed. “You’re not saying they are healing people, are you?”

“Actually it’s Proctor, the husband, who has the healing hands. The Channel 2 report didn’t come right out and say he was a healer, but they interviewed several people who swore Proctor had cured them. One guy had gout, and a woman said he cured her deafness. They had video of him curing the woman. That could have been faked, but, if it was, that woman was quite an actress. I mean, she spoke like a woman who was deaf, and her emotional reaction to the healing was award-winning.”

“Reminds me of tent revivals back in Georgia. My dad was a preacher, but he didn’t do healings like that.”

“The wife claims to be able to read souls, whatever that means. She grabs a person by the side of the head, her eyes flutter, and then she counsels them about what will make them happy. She told the Channel 2 reporter to leave her husband and take up pottery.”

“You think it’s a scam?”

“Of course I think it’s a scam. See the fine print at the bottom of the flyer?”

“So I should contact them? See what is going on?”

“Go to the gig down on the square and see what’s up. Talk to them if you can get close enough. Eavesdrop a little. See if they mention the airplane accident or any of the other passengers. Real subtlelike. Consider it a little intelligence gathering. You might get lucky and learn something that could help.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t go looking like a cop. Try to blend in.”

“Don’t look like a cop?”

“Look like you belong there.”

“Well, I do have a broken leg.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Maybe I’ll get Proctor to fix my leg while I’m there.”

Mara snapped out of the static-induced trance brought on by the voice from the radio and reached for the telephone on the counter. She stared down at the face of the rotary dial and paused for a second. Placing a call on this thing drove her crazy. She glanced around the counter for her cell phone and didn’t see it. It was probably across the room in her jacket pocket. Too flustered and frustrated to get it, she stuck a finger into the dial and tried to remember Ping’s number. She pulled her finger in a semicircle and released the dial.
Clickity-clickity-click
. The dial spun back up so the finger holes lined up with the numbers on its face. Mara groaned. One number down, only nine more to dial.
How did people live like this?
She poked another number and dragged the dial down.
Clickity-clickity-click
.

Behind her the static from the radio continued. The little voice called out in a whisper, “Mar-ree, Mar-ree!” With a trembling hand, Mara fingered another number and pulled the dial downward. Before she had fully rotated the dial to the finger guard at the bottom, her finger slipped, thus entering the wrong number. She slammed down the receiver with a loud clang.
At least hanging up these old phones is more satisfying
. She ran for her jacket and grabbed her smartphone from the pocket. Holding it up, she tapped the surface and held it to her ear.

“Ping! Thank God! Listen to this,” she said, tapped the Speakerphone icon and held the phone out toward the Philco 90 radio on the shelf behind the counter.

There was silence.

“Mara? What am I listening to? I don’t hear anything,” Ping said, his voice broadcasting from the phone in Mara’s trembling hand.

Mara shouted toward her hand, “There was a voice! It was coming out of the Philco radio you gave me!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the voice. Can you still hear it? Maybe the phone isn’t picking up the sound.”

“No, it’s gone. There was static and a voice, but it’s gone now.”

“I wish I could discuss it right now, but I’ve got a line of people in front of the counter here, and I can’t stop to talk, at least not until Sam gets back from tutoring later this afternoon. I’ll give you a call when he gets here.”

“No, that’s okay. Just come over this evening like we agreed. I’ll try to not go psycho until then.” She hung up and headed over to the counter.

Abby and Bruce walked into the front part of the store. Bruce was pulling on a jacket.

“Who are you yelling at?” Abby asked.

Mara took a deep breath and hoped her face wasn’t too flushed. “Oh, I was talking to Mr. Ping next door on the speakerphone. Checking to make sure I hadn’t caused a power surge that blew his breakers.”

Bruce smiled. “I haven’t heard him complain about that for at least a couple months. You know, he hasn’t complained about anything recently. Must be mellowing out.”

“Yes, he’s definitely gotten mellow,” Mara said.

“You up for lunch?” Abby asked, leaning toward Bruce.

“No, I’ve got too much going on around here. Also I don’t like for both of us to be gone at the same time if I can help it. We’d have to close up the shop, and we do that too often as it is.”

“All right, we’ll see you later.” Abby grasped Bruce by the elbow and led him to the door.

He turned back to Mara and said, “You want me to bring you something back?”

“No, just return in one piece.” She smiled and added, “Abby, don’t be a brute.”

Abby hustled Bruce out the door and turned before she closed the door, to wink and smile at Mara.

* * *

By the time Abby and Bruce had returned from lunch, Mara was determined to get something accomplished, so she ordered Abby to return to school or to find someplace else to be truant. Mara turned her attention to Mr. Mickleson’s grandfather clock or, as Mr. Mason liked to refer to it, his longcase clock.

Mara was no expert in antique clocks; she couldn’t tell you who built or designed one from the other, but she did know the basic variations of the mechanisms and how they worked. This particular model was an eight-day clock, meaning it only had to be wound once a week, as opposed to a one-day clock that had to be wound daily.

The clock’s hands had not moved from the 6:58 position since its delivery. And the pendulum—which could be seen through the glass door at the clock’s waist—was not swinging. It either was nonfunctional or it needed to be wound. Mara opened the glass door and looked in the bottom of the casing below the weights, cables and pendulum, where she found the key taped down, apparently so it would not be lost during transport. She carefully pulled it loose and closed the casing. Tiptoeing, she reached up to the ornate bonnet of the clock, opened the crystal covering its face and inserted the key in the holes on each side of the dial, winding until it was too stiff to continue. She then opened the glass door again, gave the pendulum a slight push and stood back.

Nothing.

The pendulum swung back to its prior place but did not pick up any momentum nor respond to the demands of the cable and weight that should have compelled it to swing.

Reopening the glass door, Mara stuck her head inside and felt along the cables and reached up to the pulleys above them. Nothing seemed tangled or out of place. She walked around the counter, bent down behind it, retrieved a flashlight from a shelf. Straightening, she pointed it at the grandfather clock and pressed the On switch.

A bright white light shone out of the flashlight and struck the tall wooden clock at the same instant it chimed, reverberating off the walls of the tiny shop and causing Mara to jump a foot into the air, hitting her head on the Billiards light fixture over the counter and landing with her back against a neon Coca-Cola sign. She looked up, saw the clock face read 7:00, heard the telltale
tick-tock
and saw the pendulum swinging to and fro effortlessly.

* * *

The jangle of the bells over the door caused Mara to look up from the nail gun she was reassembling. Her eyes widened when she saw Ping standing in the open doorway with a smear of flour on his face and what looked like a dusting of nutmeg or cinnamon across the white shirt that stretched across his belly. Behind him the day had already turned to night, and streetlights were visible across the road. He closed the door and walked up to the counter.

“What a long day. I can’t believe how busy the bakery has gotten all of a sudden. I had assumed that the holidays might mean a slow down because people would be taking time off from work and doing some of their own baking at home.” He leaned against the counter. “Not at all. With company parties and family gatherings, I’m quickly getting booked up through New Year’s. Nobody does their own cooking anymore.”

Mara put aside the nail gun. “You know, I think Mom’s going to want me to get some stuff from you for Thanksgiving. You going to have anything left? She wants to have lots of different stuff for Sam to try out, since this will be his first Thanksgiving.”

“Getting something from me isn’t going to be a new experience for Sam. He eats half of what I bake before it can cool. Why isn’t he fat?”

“He’s a kid. Where is he anyway?”

“Next door, closing up. He’s got clean-up detail until I can hire some more help.”

Mara walked to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and turned inward the Open sign hanging in the window. Returning to the counter, she hit a few keys on the register, and the drawer popped out. She pulled out the cash tray and motioned for Ping to follow her to the back of the shop. Glancing up at the grandfather clock, she said, “We’ve got a few minutes before Bohannon arrives. Let’s sit back there and talk for a bit.”

Ping followed her to the back room where a wheelless bicycle sat upside down in front of a garage door surrounded by various parts. To the right of it, a cluttered long workbench displayed an array of tools, rags and bicycle parts. Ping moved to the left to sit at a cheap resin table surrounded by mismatched resin chairs in a little alcove next to the tiny office where Mara puttered with the money tray.