When We Touch (8 page)

“I'm so anxious to meet Mr. Alexander,” Maggie said.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Walsing, you have met him.”

“You're Adrian Alexander?”

“Yes, it pleases me greatly to say, since you are so eager for my acquaintance!”

She glanced at Mireau through the veil. He was keeping quiet, playing his part well, looking about with awe.

“The others have already arrived,” he said. They had reached the second floor. Adrian Alexander extended an arm, indicating that they should enter a room to the left. Maggie inclined her head and did so, followed by Mireau, and then their host.

An elderly woman was in the room, resplendent in black. Her mourning gown was of silk and satin, trimmed in the finest lace. She didn't, however, wear a veil. A small black cap, studded with dark pearls, sat atop her graying hair.

“Her Grace, Lady Marian, Duchess of Chesney,” Alexander said.

“Please!” the Duchess said. “Not so formal here!” She was whispering. They'd read that she didn't like to be properly formal at a séance. “Tonight, I am Marian.”

“And I am Amy,” Maggie said. Still, old ways died hard, and she took the other woman's hand with an inclination of her head. “This is my brother, Ben.”

“How lovely that we shall all be on a first name basis this evening!” The Duchess applauded. “This gentleman . . .” She indicated a tall fellow standing before the fireplace, “. . . is Richard.”

The man was in black from head to toe, as well. Graying muttonchops were furry upon his cheeks. His beard and mustache were not well trimmed. Indeed, they seemed to swallow his face.

The man extended a gloved hand. “Richard Riley,” he said with a Dublin trill.

“Poor Richard lost his dear Nellie to a tragic drowning accident,” the Duchess explained.

“So sorry, old chap,” Mireau murmured.

“Indeed,” Maggie echoed.

“Well, now that we have gathered . . . Ah, here comes my dear niece, Jane, who will lead me to my spirit guide,” Alexander said, introducing them to an elegant, sleek-haired woman in a black tunic who came gliding into the room. She had an exotic look, as if her beauty was a derivative of a not-too-distant ancestor from the Near East.

“Good evening,” the woman said softly.

“And Oscar, my control,” Alexander continued.

An enormous man, bald as Alexander but with a pitch black mustache, entered. He nodded to them all, and took up a stance by the door, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Shall we gather, then?” Jane suggested softly.

“Would you have us any special way?” the Duchess asked anxiously.

“The spirits will come where they will!” Jane said, her voice ethereal.

Maggie glanced at Mireau. At least they weren't arranged in any special order. Then again, that might just be to make the appearance of anything happening all the more real.

The table was arranged for six. Jane and Adrian Alexander sat opposite from one another. There was a plain black cloth on the table with a single candle in the center. “Wherever you will, friends,” he said.

Maggie sat next to Alexander. Mireau seemed pleased enough to sit next to the exotic Jane. So far, they hadn't been seated in any particular order, and they hadn't been offered anything to drink that might have been laced with an hallucinogenic. Adrian Alexander was good at appearing entirely legitimate.

Across the table, the Duchess was seated on Alexander's other side. The Irishman, Riley, was between her and Jane.

“Now . . . Oscar, the lights, please.”

Oscar turned off the gas lamps overhead. The room was pitched into darkness. A faint glow gave an orange cast to the area of the hearth; the single candle burned on the table, affording just a whisper of light.

“We will all hold hands atop the table, please,” Adrian Alexander said. He had a booming voice, and yet it seemed filled with gentle authority.

They all obeyed.

“Are you ready, Adrian?” Jane asked.

“Yes.”

“Adrian, you must clear your mind. Sit back. Let all that troubles your mind slip away; let all that brings tension to your limbs be eased. Watch the flame as it brings its light to the darkness, watch it, focus on it, feel it. Feel the warmth bring to you the comfort and ease that are present when the mind is freed. Sit back and feel the warmth, see the light, know the comfort. Watch the flame and rest, rest . . . let go of this world, and open yourself to the next.”

Jane's voice was certainly one of the best Maggie had ever heard. Soft and fluid, like flowing water. There was power in that voice, definitely. Mireau's eyes were half closed as he stared at the flames. Marian, Duchess of Chesney, seemed nearly in a trance herself.

Adrian Alexander had been staring into the flames. He slumped forward suddenly, his eyes closed.

“Adrian, can you hear me?” Jane asked softly.

“Yes.”

He straightened. It seemed that his eyes had rolled back into his head, that they were white now. Maggie felt a chill herself, and was stunned.

“Are you alone, Adrian?”

“No.”

“Who is with you?”

“Many . . . I am in the tunnel, the hall . . . the light is ahead of me. Others move with me.”

“Where are you moving to?” Jane's voice was clear, and yet it never rose above a whisper.

“The light . . . we all seek the light.”

“Who are the people with you?”

“The recently . . . dead.”

The chill shot right into Maggie's heart. She was amazed at how eerie and frightening the room had become.

“It's cold. So cold . . . and that is why we seek the light.”

Cold wind suddenly seemed to blow in. The windows were closed.

“There are those here seeking loved ones. Can you help them tonight?”

“Speak. Those who would talk, must speak.”

“May I?” the Duchess whispered fervently.

Jane looked around the table. No one protested.

But as Marian started to form a word, Adrian spoke again. “Someone passes me now . . . catching my arm. Ah, she is lovely, blond hair free and flowing . . . her clothing is damp . . . she is anxious . . . she knows I am with them, but not of them. Her name is . . . Nell . . .”

“Nell?” Jane murmured, looking around the table.

The Irishman across from Mireau made a choking sound. “Nell? My Nell?”

“Adrian . . .?” Jane prompted gently.

“Nell . . . yes, she longs to touch her sweet Richard. She is so worried about him, afraid that he will think that he wasn't home when he should have been, that he might have saved her. She tripped, and it was no one's fault . . . and she is anxious for the light. One day she will meet her Richard on this side, and she will be there, welcoming him into the light.”

The Irishman let out something that sounded like a soft sob.

“Is there anyone else?” the Duchess asked anxiously. “Oh, please . . . please, please tell me that my dear husband is still there?”

“Touch!” Adrian Alexander's voice deepened to a rumble.

“Touch?” the Duchess whispered.

“The Duke . . . he longs to touch you . . . longs to say good-bye.”

“Oh, dear God!” the Duchess mouthed.

And there, in the air before them, a white mist began to appear. Then slowly, so it seemed, it began to become substance.

The Duchess gasped.

“Oh, please, yes, please, yes!” she said.

“Don't break the circle, don't let the contact slip away!” Jane warned, when it seemed that the Duchess would break free to reach out. “Wait, wait . . . don't frighten the spirits!” Jane warned.

The mist floating in the air appeared to become a hand. Detailed, down to the ducal ring on the finger.

Marian's mouth was now formed into one huge O. That was it; this had gone far enough.

Maggie slipped her hand free from Mireau's subtly, making sure not to lose her hold on the hand of Adrian Alexander.

In a swift movement, she reached upward, grabbing the floating prosthetic that hovered above the candle.

“Frauds!” she cried angrily. “Duchess, these people are frauds, just like the others.”

“What, oh, no! Oh, no, oh, no!” the Duchess cried, her hand to her heart as she stared around her.

“The old bitch is about to have a heart attack!” Jane exclaimed.

“And the other is about to die!” Alexander growled in a furious voice.

“Eh! Now, now, there's a bit of trickery here, but no need to go calling the very fine ladies here such names!” the Irishman said, rising slowly. “Sure and there's some good way to make all here happy.”

He rose. Maggie realized with sudden horror that Alexander's giant “control” was rushing toward the Irishman's back.

“Sir!” she cried with alarm.

But apparently, the Irishman had heard. He was already swinging around and ducking the tackle that had been intended to take him down. His ducking turn continued in a smooth sweep, and he rose on the return, his fist connecting with the big fellow's jaw. The man crashed to the table.

The Duchess was on her feet, screaming.

“This is really quite enough!” Maggie said furiously. She picked up the candle and stick, ready to break a window and scream for the police to come quickly. She meant to disappear herself—before the officers could arrive, but she was quite determined that they should come, and come quickly.

The Duchess would bear witness to what had occurred there tonight.

But she never reached the window.

Fingers latched onto her arm. She was dragged back.

“Oh, no! There'll be four new corpses here tonight, heading for that light.”

“Are you mad?” Maggie demanded.

She saw that though the woman might be partially insane, she was serious. She had a small dagger in her right hand, and she was preparing to use it.

Self-preservation and instinct certainly saved her life at that moment. Without thought, she swung the candlestick, catching Jane on the right temple. The woman slumped to the floor with a whimpering exhalation.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!” the Duchess was chanting.

And suddenly, they heard the deafening sound of a bullet thundering into a wall.

The room went still.

“Now, the noise will stop!” Alexander roared.

He smiled. Where he'd kept the pistol he held, Maggie didn't know. That it was solid and real was certainly a fact.

The Irishman had the giant Oscar down on the table, but the man was groaning. Jane remained on the floor. But Alexander appeared to have the power.

“You intend to kill us all, don't you, Alexander?” the Irishman said. “What else can you do? If one of us leaves this room, you're ruined.”

“Alas, I am so sorry. But perhaps one of you will come back in truth to haunt me!” He took aim with the pistol. “You first, Irishman. Though it should be the bitch in black. She just had to reach out!”

He started to swing the gun toward Maggie. She gasped with amazement, the shock of the situation setting in.

Knives, and guns. They were more than shysters.

They were prepared to be murderers.

And she was going to die. She'd been warned, and she had underestimated the danger she might face.

She stared at Alexander, too stunned to do anything but wait to die, her thoughts racing.
Why hadn't she left some clue, some warning, so that the police might be there already, in case this occurred? Why was she so determined on her own way that she never let Justin know what she was doing, that she had kept the truth from Charles?

But the Irishman shouted, and suddenly, Alexander was falling back. The gun exploded, but the shot went wild. The Irishman had hefted up the giant Oscar and gone hurtling into Alexander.

For a moment, the room was still.

Then, the Duchess started screaming again.

But Oscar, Jane, and Alexander were down. Completely down. The Irishman was rising from the tangle of Oscar and Alexander.

Maggie grabbed Mireau's hand. “We've got to get out!” she whispered. “The police might well have heard this kind of commotion.”

“The Duchess is louder than a siren!” Mireau agreed.

She tugged him toward the door. They burst into the hall and ran for the stairs that led to the second floor.

A bullet rang out. Another man, clean shaven like Alexander and Oscar, was coming up the stairs—firing at them.

Maggie stood dead still, amazed once again.

Frozen.

Staring straight ahead, once again seeing her life fly before her eyes.

Another shot exploded. Maggie screamed.

The bald man in front of her fell to the floor.

She spun around. The Irishman was at the top of the stairs, behind her and Mireau, a smoking gun in his hand. “This way!” he told them, as they heard the police whistles. “This way, quickly!”

She rushed back up the stairs, dragging Mireau in her wake.

“Back stairs!” the Irishman said.

She realized only then that he had lost his accent, and yet, it didn't seem to register in her mind that it meant . . . something. Between them all, they had managed to draw the police.

And now, it was really time to disappear.

“Come on! Now!”

They ran. As they flew down the back steps, they heard the thunder of boots from the front. They followed the bearded Richard Riley down the back stairs, bursting out into a fetid alley. A single black horse was tethered there.