The Haunted Air (27 page)

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Authors: F. Paul Wilson

BOOK: The Haunted Air
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Can I handle fatherhood? Jack thought as he knocked on the door to Madame Pomerol's Temple of Eternal Knowledge.
He'd dodged bullets and been punched, stabbed, sliced, and gouged during the years since he'd moved to the city. He should be able to handle fatherhood. At least he hoped he could.
The prospect of being responsible for raising a child to be a decent human being without screwing up along the way filled his mind, made dodging knives and bullets seem an easier task. At least then the choices were clear.
Thank God he'd be only partly responsible and could defer to Gia's hands-on experience.
But what if something happened to her?
Jack shuddered at the possibility and wondered why he was borrowing trouble. This wasn't like him. Was that what parenthood did to you?
Leave all that for later, he told himself. Focus on the now.
He checked the wig so that the long rear strands of its mullet were again draped over his ears, especially the left with its ear piece.
The door opened and Carl Foster stood there. “Ah, Mr. Butler. Right on time.”
Mr. Butler? Jack thought, He almost looked around, then remembered that
he
was Butler.
Focus, damn it!
He half wished Gia had waited till tonight to tell him. This was going to be a delicate fix, with pinpoint timing. He had to keep his mind off the future and concentrate on the moment.
“Time and tide don't wait for nobody,” Jack said, snapping into character. “That's what I always say.”
“Well put,” Foster replied, ushering him in.
Today Jack wore jeans, cowboy boots, a white Walking Man collarless shirt, and a plaid sport coat with two deep inner pockets, each heavy with their cargo. He followed Foster to the desk.
“Let's attend to mundane matters first,” Foster said. “You have Madame's fee?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Jack drew an envelope from a side pocket and handed it to Foster. “Here you go.”
Foster opened it and quickly fanned through the five counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills inside. He looked disappointed.
“I thought you said gold was the best way to deal with the spirit world.”
“Yeah well, that's what my Uncle Matt used to tell me, but you know how hard it is to put together a bunch of gold coins that total an exact amount? Too much trouble, if you ask me.”
“I could have given you change.”
“Never thought of that. Okay, next time it's gold.”
“Excellent!” Foster said, brightening as he pocketed the envelope. “You mentioned wanting to contact an uncle? Was he the one you mentioned who used to frequent spiritualist mediums?”
“Yep. Uncle Matt.”
“Certainly not Matt Cunningham?”
Oh, you're good, Jack thought. Slick way to draw out some details.
But Jack wanted to be drawn out. He was primed to babble.
“Naw. His last name was West. Matthew West. Great guy. Shame he had to go.”
“When was that?”
Jack wondered if Foster was taking mental notes or if Madame herself was seated at their computer, listening to the bugs and typing Matthew Thomas West's name into www.sitters-net.com even as they spoke.
“Early in the year—not sure if it was late January or early February. I just know I never been so cold in my life as at that funeral. Standing outside in that wind at the graveside—boy!” Jack rubbed his hands and hunched his shoulders as if remembering the chill. “I tell you, I thought I'd never feel warm again.”
“Really,” Foster said. “I recall this past winter being rather mild.”
“Here, maybe, but we were freezing our butts off in St. Paul.”
“Minnesota? Yes, they certainly do get cold winters out there. Is that where you're from?”
“Me? Nah. Born and raised in Virginia.”
“How do you like Manhattan?”
“Love it. Never seen so many restaurants in my life. And they're all crowded.” He laughed. “Don't anybody ever eat in around here?”
Foster smiled. “Yes, the Upper West Side offers every cuisine known to man.”
Jack narrowed his eyes in a display of suspicion. “How do you know where I live?”
“Why, from the questionnaire you filled out yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Forgot about that.”
Jack had expected the Fosters to check up on him. He'd been the only new face yesterday when the lights had come on, so he had to be a prime suspect. That was why he'd used the name of a real person … just in case he had to come back.
But he'd given himself plausible deniability: the remote rig in the light switch could be activated from outside the seance room.
He was sure they'd checked up on him. Foster no doubt took a trip to the Millennium Towers and found that a Robert Butler did indeed live there. If he'd seen the real Robert Butler, the jig would have been up. But obviously he hadn't. If he'd called the number Jack had written on the questionnaire—someone had done just that last night and hung up—he heard an outgoing message from “Bob Butler” confirming the number and instructing him to leave a message after the beep.
The Krugerrand yesterday and today's envelope full of cash should have laid any residual suspicions to rest. At least that was what Jack hoped. These two were the type who tried to kill the competition. What would they do to someone they thought was trying to pull a sting on them?
Jack took comfort in the little .38 automatic nestled in his right boot.
Foster said, “You were close to your uncle?”
“Oh, yeah. Great guy. Split his estate between me and my brother when he died.
Great
guy.”
“Is that why you wish to contact him? To thank him?”
“Well, yeah. And to ask him …” Jack reached into the left inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of Monte's clamshell cases. “ … about this.”
Foster's eyes fixed on its chrome finish.
“Interesting.” He reached for it. “May I?”
Jack handed it to him and watched his hand drop as it
took the full weight of the box. But Foster made no mention of how heavy it was. The fingers of his free hand glided over the tapered surface, caressing the seam, running across the inset hinges, and coming to rest on the keyhole at the opposite end.
“Do you have the key?”
“Um, no.”
“Really. I'll bet there's an interesting story behind this case.”
Jack put on a guilty expression as he held out his hand for the case. “You might say that. But that's between me, my uncle, and the lady.”
“Yes, of course,” Foster said, handing it back to him. He glanced at his watch. “I'll see if Madame is ready.”
He stepped away from the desk and entered the seance room, closing the door behind him. Jack listened in on a hurried strategy meeting between Mr. and Mrs. Foster beyond that door.
“
He's telling the truth,
” Madame Pomerol's voice said in his left ear.
“I found the uncle on sitters-net. And get this: He was a coin collector.”
“You should feel the weight of that case he's got. I'm betting it's stuffed with gold coins. Trouble is it's locked.”
“That shouldn't be a problem for you. Get a look inside that case. I'll handle the rest.”
A moment later Foster reappeared and motioned Jack toward the door.
“Come. Madame is ready.”
He ushered Jack into the room. Again that claustrophobic feeling from all the heavy drapes. This time only two chairs huddled against the table.
Foster pointed to the case. “Did that belong to your uncle?”
“I'm pretty sure it did. That's one of the things I want to find out.”
“Then I'll have to ask you to place it on that settee over there until later in the session.”
Jack looked at the little red velvet upholstered couch
against the wall about a dozen feet away. Jack knew what lay on the other side of that wall: Foster's command center, much like Charlie's but not as sophisticated. He'd found it Saturday night when he'd searched the place.
“Why?”
“Madame finds her gift works better if she is not in proximity to objects that once belonged to the departed she is trying to contact.”
Good line, Jack thought as he clutched the case against his chest.
“No kidding? I'd think they'd be a big help.”
“Oh, they are, they are, but later. Once she is one with the Other Side, they are invaluable. But early on, when Madame is making the transition, the auras from these objects interfere with her connection.”
“I don't know,” Jack said, drawing out the words.
Foster pointed to the little couch. “Please. Place it on the settee for now. When Madame has the ear of the spirits, she will ask you to bring it to the table. Have no fear. It will be quite safe there.”
Jack made a show of indecision, then shrugged. “All right. If it's gonna help make this work, what the hey.”
He walked to the settee and settled the case on the cushions, but his eyes were searching the wall behind it, looking for seams in the wallpaper. He found none, but noticed that the molding here ran in a box pattern just above the level of the settee. He knew one of those rectangles hid a little trapdoor; he'd seen its other side Saturday night.
Empty-handed, he returned to the table and seated himself in the chair the smiling Carl Foster was holding for him.
“Madame will be with you shortly.”
And then Jack was alone. He knew he was on camera so he looked nervous, drumming on the table, fiddling with his jacket. While doing that he checked the stack of counterfeit bills inside his left sleeve, and the second metal case in his left inner breast pocket.
All set.
A moment later the overhead spots went out and Madame Pomerol made her entrance in another flowing beaded gown, pink this time. She wore the same turbanlike hat as on Sunday.
“Monsieur Butler,” she said in her faux French accent as she extended her bejeweled hand, “how good to see you again.”
“Nice to be up close and personal, as it were.”
“I understand you wish to contact your late uncle, yes?”
“That I do.”
“Then let us begin.”
No preliminaries this time, no speech about not touching the ectoplasm. Madame Pomerol seated herself opposite Jack and said, “Please lay your hands flat on the table.” When Jack complied she said, “I will now contact my spirit guide, the ancient Mayan priest known to me as Xultulan.”
As they had Sunday, the clear bulbs on the chandelier faded, leaving the dull red ones lit. Once again shadows crowded around the table, held off only by the faint red glow from above. Jack glanced toward the settee and his case but could make out no details in the darkness.
Madame Pomerol began her tonal hum, then did her head-loll thing.
Jack guessed the reason for the hum: to help mask any sound of the trapdoor opening in the wall by the settee. Foster was probably reaching for the metal case right now.
This was SOP in the spook trade: snatch the purse, rifle through it for whatever information it contained: driver license, SSN, bank account number, address book, pictures of family members. Foster's command center had a photocopier and a key cutter, just like Charlie's; he could copy documents and keys in minutes.
If the remote switch were still in place it might have been fun to turn on the lights and catch Foster with his hand in the till, but Jack had already played that scene. He was going for a bigger sting today.
The table tipped under his hands and so he felt obliged to let out a startled, “Whoa!”
And then the low, echoey moan from the lady. The amp had been turned on.
“O Xultulan! We have a seeker after one who has crossed over, one with whom he shares a blood tie. Help us, O Xultulan!”
Jack tuned her out and concentrated on time. Foster should have snatched the case by now. He'd have had his pick set open and ready and would be working on the lock. Jack had a key but he'd done a couple of test runs picking the lock himself—and had purposely left a few crude scratches around it. As expected, the little lock turned out to be an easy pick, complicated only by its small size. If Foster had any talent, he should be turning those tumblers just … about … now.
And now he's lifting the top … and freezing at the sight of rows of gleaming gold coins. Not bullion coins like yesterday's Krugerrand, but numismatic beauties from Jack's own collection, worth far more than their weight in gold.

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