The Haunting of the Gemini (20 page)

I twisted my body sideways and stretched farther into the box. A sharp yank on my arm pulled me forward. The side of my head slammed into the metal.

“Oh, Jackie,” I heard his voice say. “You fell for it again. It's that easy. Right into my trap.” He held my arm against the sharp edge of the donation slot. The pain ran through my body, and I thought I might faint. “How many times must you die before you learn?”

I turned my head as well as I could and looked into the slot. I saw the tall man in black, wearing a mask and sitting on a pile of clothes. His dark eyes burned into me.

“Oh God, help me,” I whispered to myself.

He went still. “God? Who is God? A martyr on the Cross? A man that is worshipped without a belief of the Spirit? Do you believe, Jackie? When you see all the destruction, you know who I am . . .”

I stopped him with a voice that came from somewhere deep inside of me like a blast of thunder. “Yes! I do. I believe. I know God has walked beside me, held my hand.”

My arm was suddenly released. Off balance, I fell back and into people passing on the street. I sat down on the pavement, trying to collect myself. My arm felt like it had been ripped out of its socket. People brushed past me without even stopping to look. And when one woman did, I heard her mutter something about needing to clean up the streets. I was less than human to her. Was I being shown how easy it was to be tossed away by society? Was this how Patricia had felt? Had she evoked disgust and revulsion, too? Even though she was just a person, frightened and alone?

A shadow came over me, and the smell of garbage filled the air. A hand came out of the darkness and the shape of him followed. “Take my hand, Jackie,” said the tall man in black. “Your quest for humanity will be thrown aside, just like you are now. Did anyone help you? I am here, Jackie. I always was . . . God moved too slowly today . . . Take my hand . . .”

I sat, frozen with despair. His hand moved closer.

And then, a little girl walking by pointed right at me. “Mommy, look. A lady is crying on the ground.” The child continued to point. “And there's a man with a mask on!”

The mother tried to tug her child away. “I don't see a man. Just a woman . . . She'll be okay,” she said. The girl shook her off and ran toward me. The masked man turned and disappeared into the crowd. “Are you okay, lady?” her tiny voice asked.

I stood and tried to act normal, smiling at the apprehensive mother, who plainly wanted to get her kid away from me. But that one, that particular child, will someday understand what I have been fighting. Today, though she did not know it, she did the fighting for me.

God does exist.

TWENTY

I went to Highland Park, and I stood at that place where Patricia lay down to die so many years ago on that hot, steamy night. Eddie had talked about this place during our phone conversations and I'd listened, knowing that I would have to face it myself eventually. He called it the playground of the dead, and he told me he would pass among the drug addicts and the prostitutes, sizing them up carefully for their suitability as victims.

“It's been a long time,” he said on the phone, talking to me as though I were Patricia. “Why haven't you gone back to that park?”

I knew now that Patricia wanted me to see what he had done. She wanted someone to help her. She wanted desperately to be loved. She wanted to feel normal, to leave behind the schizophrenia that had gripped her in life. And she didn't want to die alone, left behind like trash.

And so I finally got up the courage, and I went. I sat on the bench next to her and held her hand. We would relive her death in my vision. I saw him waiting for us, standing silently with a grin. His eyes I will never forget. Patricia and I looked at each other. It was time. We began our doomed walk, slowly up the steps in Highland Park.

I began to fade. Her body became solid, and I was the ghostly figure. I was the observer now, the medium going back in time to bring light when darkness falls. I held on to her hand.
Don't look at him.
She nodded, telling me that she could do this. We got to the top of the stairs, where she had been shot twice and stabbed more than one hundred times even while fighting back with everything she had. He was waiting.

“It's time to stop running from him,” I said.

She took both of my hands in hers. “I'm ready.” She laid herself down on the ground, on the spot countless people had walked over in the years since her temporal death. I went down on my knees next to her, and my tears began to flow.

“You are no longer lost, nor are you blind. My sweet love, my companion. No danger. No darkness. Accept the Kingdom and go home. No pain, no fear. You are in God's arms, traveling home . . . home . . .”

I bent to kiss her hands, still clutched in my own. She whispered in my ear. “I'm scared. I can't see. The sky is so close . . .”

“No, Patricia,” I said, “you can always see.”

My ghostly form held her and began to hum an old Gospel song. As I rocked her, I thought that this child of God was all of us—you, me, our children. We all know her, somehow.

“Do you feel the sun?” I asked. “Do you see all the faces waiting for you? Let go, Patricia, and feel the eternity. Look past the stars.”

“Don't let go, Jackie. I don't want to die alone. Not this way.”

“I'm here,” I whispered. “You're not alone. You're safe.” I was crying on her shoulder as she hung on to what she thought was life all this time. Death was coming.
Dear Lord, take this soul and keep her close. Walk with her. Free her. Take her pain. Time is no more on this earth, and yours shall be the glory.

I saw her lift off with a golden glow. Not even the Zodiac Killer could destroy such a spirit. As I watched her go, I remembered the old jazz funerals in New Orleans and could hear the trumpets playing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.”

When my feeble life is o'er,

Time for me will be no more;

Guide me gently, safely o'er

To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore
.

We should all look to the heavens for our everlasting home, reunited with the ones we long for and welcomed with unconditional love.

I was left alone, kneeling on the spot where she had died, twice. There was no trace of blood. It had been washed from her soul. And I was solid and whole once again. I pulled myself up and looked toward the sky. Good-bye, my friend.

* * *

One night soon after, I decided to retrace my steps. It had been almost three years since Patricia had first come to me, and I finally felt so at peace that I knew that kind of walk would not send me back down into the devilish tug-of-war I had endured for so long. At Bellevue, I stood and stared up. This time, the wind blew the torn curtain outward, as though it were pushing me away from that place. “Go . . . Jackie . . .” The words floated down to my ears, and I turned away with a smile.

I paused to wipe my nose, runny from the December chill, and saw a newspaper blowing in the gusty wind just a few feet away from me. My breath caught—not again—but I made myself grab the paper and look. The date was current, and there was no news of death. I let it go with another smile. It blew away slowly and came to rest against the door of the New York City medical examiner's office. I walked on.

My feet carried me toward Midtown, and I found myself in front of Macy's, the grand master of Christmas spectacle. The windows twinkled with lights, and bold, beautiful letters spelled out the store's holiday theme: “Believe.” That, for me, had been easier said than done. But now, I took it as a sign from God, and I did believe.

I walked the length of the window displays until I came to one with little Virginia's letter. Was there a Santa Claus? I looked at the display with wondering eyes. A little hand took mine, and I saw my Forever Guardian reflected in the glass. For that split second, she didn't have the wisdom and strength that I always relied on. She was just a child full of wonder and innocence—something neither one of us ever got to be in real life.

A car horn sounded on the street behind me. The little hand slid out of mine and disappeared as I turned around.

“Well,” he said, puffing on a stinky little cigar as he leaned against a yellow cab, “it took you long enough.”

“Tony!” I yelled in astonishment. “What brings you out?” I opened my arms wide. He felt like a long-lost friend.

“Look at ya! You'll catch your death out here in this cold. Get in!” He reached over and opened the car door. I looked one last time at all the lights that spelled “Believe” and then back at him. “That's some message,” he said. Yeah, it sure was.

I got in the cab and buckled up. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. “What about you? Don't you wear a seat belt?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “Don't need one anymore.”

We both knew what that meant.

Tony turned his taxi toward the highway and the bridge. “So, did you learn something, Jackie?”

“Yeah, I did, Tony,” I answered. “I know the answer to many things now.”

We smiled at each other. He reached for the radio and asked if I liked music.

“Are you kidding? I grew up playing any instrument I could get my hands on,” I laughed.

He grinned and turned on the radio. Frank Sinatra's voice filled the car. We started to sing along.

You're running high in April, shot down in May . . .

“Yeah, Jackie, I was shot down,” Tony said.

That's life . . . That's life . . .

He delivered me home safely that night, and it was the last time I saw him. But I'm sure he still cruises the empty streets of Manhattan, the guardian of the roads. I believe.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Yes, Patricia, you are loved for you.

* * *

There was a time, when I was in the middle of everything—when I didn't know what Patricia wanted, only that she was schizophrenic and driving me down the same road—I would have peeled back my skin and bled out just to be rid of her. She took me to hell. But then she brought me back.

Even after Patricia passed on, I still walked through the streets at night. The empty sidewalks brought me an odd sense of peace. Do you ever say, “I wish I didn't have so much laid on me. Why is my life so hard? Why? Why? Why?” I did. But I don't now. After Patricia had gone, I found myself longing for her reckless smile. I walked alone and looked in shop windows, hoping to see her reflection just once more. But I didn't. Every once in a while, when I saw someone pushing through a crowd, it caught my attention—could it be Patricia? But then the person would turn and make eye contact, and it wasn't her. She had passed on to a place where she no longer needed me. Her soul was free, finally, from her killer's grasp. And my soul was slowly becoming my own again as well.

She wasn't able to give herself as much as she ended up giving me. She forced me to look in my own mirror—the hardest thing a person can do. I know now that I also was murdered in a former life, and that I still have work to do to find the peace that Patricia now has. I now tell her, “Go! Don't ever come back. Freedom in death is just as important as in life. It's yours now.” Eddie can no longer hold her.

I kept the journal that I wrote when I was possessed by her. It has her words in it, and I often reread them. They are the pages of a pained mind and soul. But then there is the last entry. It is free of suffering. Hallelujah.

I think I like it. It's always warm.

I see the frost of winter, but never shiver.

My hands are clean.

The blood is gone.

I don't run anymore.

I'm never alone.

I used to relive my death.

Now I can't place it, and I stopped trying.

It's far away from me.

TWENTY-ONE

I had taken Patricia by the hand and led her into a beautiful place, one reserved for the clean and the pure who have been washed by the loving hands of the angels who await them. It was not a place for the living. I was privileged to have been able to accompany her there. Sometimes, the sight I was born with does have its rewards.

But—and this is a big but—I was still recovering from what I'd come to call the Acts of Patricia. I think it will take years to resolve all of the effects of her possession. She had shredded my bills, and I had to make good with numerous utility companies. She had thrown out one jury-duty questionnaire, which was better than what she did with the next one that arrived—she sent it back under her name and listed “city morgue” as her place of residence. That one was a hoot to clear up, let me tell you.

I had thought that freeing Patricia would force Eddie and his devil twin back into the hole they had come from. But that wasn't what happened. The visits from the tall man in black continued, and they were more intense than ever. He had been forced to let Patricia go, and I now realized that he had turned that focus to me. He did not want to give me up, too.

* * *

Will and I talked about putting our home up for sale, just to get away from Eddie—and all the entities before him. It felt good to think we could start over. We'd done it before. So we tried again. I looked online at listings every night for five months. Every house I thought would fit us when I saw it on the computer would turn out to be, well, unsuitable when I saw it in person. The minute I set foot on the steps of the houses we looked at, I could tell there had been a murder there. The real estate agents would finally disclose it when I asked. It was the universe telling us that we couldn't get away that easily.

Will and I went to an open house. The real estate lady greeted us at the door, a cute gal in her midforties, well-suited for the job. I smiled at her but walked in without shaking her hand. I just didn't want to pick up anything—if I shook her hand, I'd know her whole life story, and I just needed a break. It was nothing personal. For goodness' sake, I pick up on things when I try clothes on in a department store—the thoughts of the last people who tried it on, maybe even the factory workers who sewed it. At this point, I needed to limit my exposure.

We walked through the house. I knew instantly that Will wasn't interested in the place because it needed too much work. I wasn't interested either, because it was too small for me and my big old Southern furniture and art. There was no place for my ornate mirrors. Or my boxed-up demons.

I didn't want to leave too quickly and hurt the agent's feelings, though, so I went upstairs. The master bedroom was the last room on the left. I pushed the door open and got a very uneasy feeling, the kind I get when spirits are right next to me. I fought down the panic but didn't leave. I opened the closet door. It was full of clothes, packed to the ceiling. Not a good selling point, certainly. I stood and stared and slowly, the hangers began to move. Then I saw his eyes from behind the clothes. The hangers parted and he spoke.

“You can't hide, Jackie. You can't run or move. Not without me. I thought we made that clear.”

I backed up, found Will, and hauled him past the shocked gaze of the real estate agent and out of that house. He asked if I was okay. Thankfully, with him I didn't have to explain beyond what I said. We can't leave our place yet, I told him. I knew what I had to do. I had to visit Eddie in prison. He had asked me to come see him, and I had to do it, as a last homage to Patricia and all his other victims—both known and unknown—and as the only way I knew of to free myself. The only way out was in.

I scheduled a date with the prison officials and began to prepare. It was hard to even think of all the time I lost as Jackie while Patricia was with me. Now, what would I lose as I faced her killer? How was I supposed to feel? What was it that he wanted to say face-to-face? I didn't want to see any clients in the days leading up to this meeting. I needed a quiet mind and all of my strength. My armor needed to be rock solid. I wanted to just creep up on him as he always did to me, as he did to all of his victims.

Many things crossed my mind. Having to sit there in front of him. Watching him smiling and laughing at the thought of his escape in the most unlikely way, via a woman. In me. He still hoped for this, I knew. And I feared that possibility. The demon who knew how to separate the soul from the body was waiting for me.

As the day came closer, I could not sleep. His energy filled my space. Family pictures I had on the walls moved around as I sat in bed and watched. The heavy smell of rotting meat was all around me. His dark outline stood right in front of my bathroom door. I would break into a sweat and could not slow my pounding heart as he watched me. I would close my eyes and ask for strength from my spirit guides, my medicine men and spiritual warrior ancestors, and one of my favorites, Saint Anthony.
Please, help me. Please, God, don't let him in!

The phone would ring off the hook at all hours. I'd watch his number come up on the caller ID, but would not pick up. I could feel his frustration as he'd slam down the phone. He knew I was coming. And I knew I did not need his voice seeping into my head. Not now.

I did not speak to anyone for those few days before I left for the prison. It took the same form of preparation an exorcism does—bracing myself for a confrontation with the master of darkness.
Don't let anything in. Don't let your human side become weak with any personal conflict. Avoid arguments—they are a diversion. Don't stray off your path.

My mother used to tell me that the devil could knock on your door in any shape or form he wished. I couldn't let Eddie escape. Sure, his body would wither away in solitary confinement, but if he got his way, he would complete the work of the Zodiac through me. The devil had been trying to beat down my door for my whole life. He wasn't going to finally get in via a serial killer sitting in a prison visiting room. I was going to use every device at my disposal.

A week before the scheduled visit, I went to Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. I emptied my plastic water bottle into a beautiful plant outside the church and walked inside for Mass. I filled the bottle with holy water from a huge marble font and then waited my turn for Holy Communion. When it was finally my turn, I knelt down and folded my hands. The priest looked at me over his glasses and asked if I was ready. “Like never before,” I whispered.

He placed the Body of Christ in my hand and made the sign of the cross. “God be with you,” he said.

“I need it, Father,” I replied.

I walked to a pew in the back and sat down. I slid the bottle out of my coat pocket, broke the wafer in half, and put both pieces inside. I put the cap back on and shook it. The Body of Christ dissolved and swirled like a snow globe. I thought of the equivalent of a psychic blizzard that was coming my way, and my worry increased. People next to me in the pew looked at me in puzzlement. “Oh, yeah, this! It's a long story . . .” I said. They nodded apprehensively and scooted farther away down the bench. I would have given me a wide berth, too.

The church emptied after Mass, but I stayed seated, asking God for guidance. The priest passed by me and asked if I was okay.

“Yes, Father, but could you bless me? Please.”

He looked me in the eye. “I already did. You and that holy water bottle of yours.”

“Father, I'm weak,” I said.

He stood in the aisle of that great cathedral and looked at me as though he knew what I was going to do. Then he smiled. “No, you're not. Go, and God will not let you down.”

He moved on down the aisle as images of my mother's failed exorcism crowded into my head. “He has before,” I said as I got up and stood in the aisle as well. “No disrespect, Father, but I need help.”

He turned back toward me and said, “I know God will not let you down. I am not an exorcist.”

“How did you know? Father, please tell me!” I said.

“I know a lot,” he said. “You aren't alone. You are blessed.”

He walked off, and I took my blessing gratefully and fled. I had seen the devil in God's house before, and I didn't want to chance it again now.

I kept the bottle on my home altar until I left to go see Eddie. It sat alongside my father's and my granddaddy's medicine bags, pictures of my ancestors, a burning candle, the hair of the wolf, food offerings, and a handful of graveyard dirt for the dead—earth to earth.

* * *

Experts seem to believe that serial killers leave marks on their victims' bodies or leave items, like letters, nearby as their calling cards. Psychologists in this field will tell you that it is a cry to get caught, that the killers want to lead the police right to their doors. But in my dealings with these people, I can tell you this: they do not want to get caught. That's the last thing they want. They do what they do to defile the body further. They mark their territory and leave the task force something to chase but not enough to find them. They enjoy the torment. They enjoy giving you enough to ask a question but not enough to ever find the answer. Psychologists can only assume what makes the bomb tick. But until you
become
the bomb, you will never know.

I sought the answers and found out who Eddie really was. He knew that now and waited for me. We are all born of flesh, but something more settled into Eddie a long time ago. His mind and body guarded the demon with care, feeding it and keeping it safe from exposure. What nestled within was far more deadly than any man-made weapon. The things we chalk up to hysteria are the same things that build momentum for evil. People do not wish to believe, but awareness is actually the first, best weapon. And I was very, very aware of Eddie.

It would not be my first time standing before the devil, of course. I have rejected his enticements, but never will I deny his existence. This was a test of my endurance and belief. I knew—have known for years—that I am marked. My face is on one of those old “Most Wanted” posters. I am wanted, not for committing crimes but for how I have solved them. The criminals know I'm out here. They know I am watching them as they watch me, seeing how far I get.

* * *

The four-hour drive to the Great Meadow Correctional Facility was exhausting. It was interstate the first part of the way but not a very heavily traveled one. Except for some tractor-trailers speeding by, we were alone on the road. I had asked my friend Maria Dinaso to come with me. She has worked closely with Joanne and me for many years. Not many people can handle the crime scenes or the paranormal activity, but she can. She's a strong woman, well trained by me and knowledgeable of otherworldly activity. I knew I couldn't make this drive by myself, and her steady presence was a comfort as we got closer and closer to Great Meadow. I didn't want Will or Joanne to come with me because I thought it would put them in spiritual danger to be so physically near Eddie. They were closer to me than Maria and so would make better targets for Eddie's manipulations.

Throughout the years, my mind has become so piercing that I've had to give up driving; every passing car is a distraction, because I hear the thoughts of everyone inside. It's become too overwhelming to try to tune that out and focus on the road at the same time, so I don't get behind the wheel anymore.

For instance, as we sped along, I saw a car on the side of the highway, an old maroon Chevy. As we drew closer, I fixated on it. I could see a young man wearing a brown ski hat inside the car, trying to fight his way out. He pounded on the windows and looked right at me, his face tearstained and panic stricken. I heard him shout, “Help me!” And then the Chevy burst into flames.

Maria hadn't seen anything. Neither had the big-rig driver who passed at the same time. But the young man's face of ash filled my whole field of vision. I felt it was another of Eddie's victims, reaching out to me in a vision prompted by my increasing proximity to him. Witnessing and not being able to help is unbelievably painful. Seeing the brutality of what Eddie had done was horrendous. I slumped in the passenger seat, and the miles crawled by.

We left the interstate and started down the two-lane highway that would lead us to the prison. I roused myself as I saw another young man, about twenty-five years old and holding a small cardboard sign, come into view on the side of the road. “Don't stop—don't pick up that hitchhiker,” I told Maria. She looked at me and back at the winding road. “What hitchhiker?” she asked.

I studied him as we drove closer. I could now see that he was obviously dead. He had visible gunshot wounds to the head, which was dangling almost off his neck. His skin was blue and covered with old bloodstains. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. He had no shoes, and his feet were filthy. A small, tattered, dark-blue knapsack sat on the ground next to him. I asked Maria to slow down so I could take in everything he wanted to show me. I saw something on his foot that I initially thought was a note of some kind. But as we slowed to a crawl, the paper moved and I could read it: a tag stamped “NYC Morgue,” along with the name “John Doe, 1993.” I knew he had been homeless. His cardboard sign, in red writing, said “TURN BACK!”