Haunted Air rj-6 Read online

  Ifasen said, "Please write your question on the billet, sign it, fold it, and seal it in the envelope. I will then contact Ogunfiditimi and ask him if he can find the answers in the spirit world. This is not a time for prank questions, or schemes to test the spirit world. Do not waste Ogunfiditimi's time by asking a question to which you already know the answer. And realize this: the mere fact that you have asked a question does not obligate the spirits to answer. They pick and choose. The worthier the question, the more likely it will be answered."

  Great hedge, Jack thought. The perfect out.

  "May I ask a question?" Gia said, raising her hand like a schoolgirl.

  "Of course."

  "Why do we have to seal the question in an envelope? Why can't we simply hand you the card and get the answer?"

  Ifasen smiled. "Excellent question. Communication with the spirit world is not like a long-distance call. Words sometimes filter through, but often the communication is in the form of hints and feelings. To open the clearest channel, I need to empty my mind. If I'm thinking about the question, I'll muddy the waters with my own opinions and prejudices. But if I don't know the question, then my own thoughts can't get in the way. What comes through then is pure Spirit Truth."

  "Smooth," Jack whispered. "Silky smooth."

  Jack scribbled How is my sister? on his card and showed it to Gia.

  "Is that fair?" she said.

  "It's something I'd like to know."

  Before he folded the card he tore a piece off the top left corner. As he slipped it inside the envelope he glanced at Gia and saw her sealing hers.

  "What did you ask?"

  She smiled. "That's between me and Ogunfiditimi."

  He was about to press her when a soft musical chime filtered through the room. He looked up and saw Ifasen holding what appeared to be a large bowl of beaten brass on the tips of his fingers.

  "This is a ceremonial bell from a temple deep in the jungles of Thailand. It is said that if properly mounted it will ring an entire day from a single stroke." He flicked a fingernail against the shiny surface and again the soft chime sounded. "But tonight we will be using it as a bowl to collect your billets."

  He handed the bell to Kehinde who passed among them, collecting the envelopes. Jack kept an eye on him, watching closely as the younger brother placed the bell behind the base of the podium. He fiddled with something out of sight, then shook out a white cloth. The bell reappeared, covered with the cloth, and was handed up to Ifasen.

  Jack leaned back, nodding. Gotcha.

  Kehinde walked off and the lighting changed, the room growing dark while an overhead spot brightened, leaving Ifasen towering above them, bathed in a glow from heaven. He whipped off the white cloth and stared down into the bowl. After a moment he reached in and removed an envelope. He held it before him.

  "I have the first question," he intoned. He lowered his head and raised the envelope on high where it gleamed like a star in the brilliant light. "Ogunfiditimi, hear me. These supplicants come before me, seeking knowledge, knowledge that only you can provide. Heed their requests and furnish the answers they seek."

  He shuddered once, twice, then spoke in a flat, sepulchral tone.

  "You are not yet ready. You must work harder, hone your craft, and above all, be patient. It will come."

  Ifasen looked up and blinked. He lowered the envelope and picked up a slim gold-plated letter opener. He slit the top of the envelope and pulled the card from within. He unfolded it and, to Jack's chagrin, held it by the upper left corner. After reading it he smiled down at Karyn. "Does that answer your question, Karyn?"

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  Clause said, "What did you ask?"

  "I wanted to know when I'll be as successful as Junie."

  Junie turned to her. "Didn't I tell you? Isn't he just so amazing?"

  "How does he do that?" Gia whispered.

  "Later."

  Knowing pretty much how the rest of the act would go, Jack pulled out a folded pamphlet he'd picked up downstairs. The cover read THE MENELAUS MANOR RESTORATION FOUNDATION over a grainy picture of this old stone house. So that was where the donations went.

  He opened the yellow tri-fold brochure and out fell another, smaller pamphlet, almost the size of the three-by-five billet he'd just filled out. The cover showed a crude illustration of a human silhouette falling into a pit next to the title, "The Trap." He flipped it over and almost laughed aloud when he saw the words "Chick Publications." A Born Again mini-comic. The. opening pages showed a Christian character debunking a self-described channeler.

  Some prankster was slipping Jack Chick's fundamentalist tracts into Ifasen's brochures. How rich.

  Jack checked Ifasen, who had a fresh envelope held on high, but this time he skipped the incantation. Maybe he was in a hurry. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, scrinched up his eyes, then shook his head again. Finally he lowered the envelope and cast a disapproving look at Claude.

  "The spirits refuse to answer this. They want me to tell you to buy a calculator."

  He slit the envelope and unfolded the card-again holding it by the upper left corner. He read: " 'What is the square root of 2,762?' " He frowned at Claude, his disdain palpable. "What did I say about frivolous questions that waste the spirits' time?"

  Claude grinned. "It's a question that's plagued me for years."

  Junie gave him a fierce look and slapped him on the knee. Jack decided he liked Claude.

  He put aside the Chick pamphlet and was starting to read Ifasen's propaganda on this house and its history when Gia nudged him.

  "Pay attention. You might be next."

  Jack refolded the brochure and trained his attention on Ifasen who had raised another envelope. He gave a couple of shudders, then, "Your sister sends you her love from the Other Side. She says she is well and to get on with your life."

  Jack couldn't help feeling a chill. He knew the game, knew Ifasen was winging it here, but this was exactly what Kate would say.

  Ifasen was unfolding a card, holding it as usual by the upper left corner. "Does that answer your question, Jack?"

  "Completely," Jack said softly.

  Gia looked at him with wide eyes and grabbed his arm. "Jack! How could he-?"

  He cocked his head toward her and whispered, "An educated guess. He's very good."

  "How can you write that off as a guess?"

  "Easy. Of course, if he'd said, 'Kate sends her love,' that'd be a whole other ballgame. Big problem writing that off."

  Another envelope had been thrust into the light, and now Ifasen was frowning again.

  "I'm having trouble with this. I sense a number trying to come through, but the seismic static has increased. I'm not sure, but I believe the number is two." He opened his eyes. "And that's all."

  Ifasen wore a puzzled frown as he slit this envelope, but when he read the message, he smiled. "Two." He looked up. "Does that satisfy you, Gia?"

  "I... I think so," Gia said.

  Jack glanced at her and thought she looked a little pale. "What did you ask?"

  "Tell you later," she said.

  "Now."

  "Later. I want to see if he knows where Junie's bracelet is."

  "The last envelope," Ifasen said, thrusting it up into the light. He closed his eyes, went through the shuddering deal, then said, "It is not stolen. You will find it in the large blue vase." He looked at Junie who was on her feet. "Do you have a large blue vase?"

  "Yes! Yes!" She had her hands pressed against her mouth, muffling her words. "Right next to the door! But that can't be! How could it possibly get in there?"

  "The spirits didn't say how, Ms. Moon," Ifasen told her. "They simply said where."

  "I've gotta go! I've so gotta get home and check that vase!" She ran up to the podium and threw her arms around her psychic. "Ifasen, you're the best, the greatest!" She turned to Jack and Gia and Karyn and Claude. "Isn't he fantastic! Isn't he just so incredible!"

  Jack j
oined the applause. Nothing incredible about Ifasen, but he was good. He was very good.

  3

  "Sweet Jesus!" Lyle Kenton said when their uninvited guests were finally gone. He'd already dropped his Ifasen persona; now he dropped into the recliner in the upstairs sitting room and rubbed his eyes. "What happened here tonight?"

  His brother Charlie, no longer the subservient Kehinde, gave him a reproachful look from where he leaned against the couch, taking tiny sips from a Diet Pepsi. That was the way he drank: no gulps, just lots of quick, tiny sips.

  "Ay, yo, Lyle. I thought you was eighty-sixin' it with taking the Lord's name in vain."

  Lyle waved an apology with one hand and twisted one of his dreads in the other as he reran the past hour through his brain. Not the laid-back Friday night he'd planned. He and Charlie had been sitting in the living room, channel surfing in. search of something watchable on the tube when Junie Moon had come a-knockin'.

  "I tell you, Charlie, when I saw Moonie standing there on the front porch with that crowd behind her, I thought we were cooked. I mean, I figured she'd tumbled to your little visit and brought down the heat."

  Of course, on further reflection, he'd realized that if it really had been the heat, Junie Moon wouldn't have been with them.

  "Coulda been worse," Charlie said, pacing back and forth in front of the couch, a deep purple velvet affair that had come with the house. Everything in the room-the furniture, the upright piano, the murky landscapes in gilded frames on the walls-had been here when they'd bought it ten months ago. "Coulda been the banger who done the drive-by."

  Lyle nodded, feeling his neck tighten. Just last Tuesday night he'd been standing by the picture window in the waiting room downstairs when a bullet whizzed right by his head. It had punctured the pane without shattering it, leaving a hole surrounded by a small spiderweb of cracks. He'd dug it out of the wall, but since guns weren't his thing, he couldn't tell what" caliber it was. All he could be sure of was that it had been meant for him. The incident had left him shaken and more than a little paranoid. He'd kept the curtains pulled ever since.

  The reason, he knew, was that a lot of well-heeled clients had started migrating from the Manhattan psychics to Astoria since Lyle had joined the game. None of those players was happy about it. A slew of angry, threatening, anonymous phone calls over the past few weeks had made that clear. But one of them-hell, maybe a group of them-had figured that phone calls wouldn't cut it and decided to play rough.

  But Lyle hadn't called the police. They say the only bad publicity is no publicity, but this was an exception. A sensational story about his being shot at could be pure poison. People might stay away for fear of being caught in the middle of a shoot-out between warring psychics. He could imagine the quips: A trip to this psychic might put you a lot closer to the dearly departed than you intended.

  Oh, yes. That would be a real boon to business.

  But worse was the gut-clawing realization that someone wanted him dead.

  Maybe not dead, he kept telling himself. Maybe the shot had been a warning, an attempt to scare him off.

  He'd find that easier to believe if he'd been in another room at the time.

  Nothing else had happened since. Things would settle out. He just had to keep his head down and give it time.

  "But it wasn't," Lyle said. "It was just Junie Moonie and friends. So there I was, just starting to relax after finding out she's here because she can't wait till tomorrow for her session. I open the door, and what happens? Bam! The world starts to shake. I gotta tell you, bro, I almost lost it."

  Charlie's grin had a sour twist. "I know you lost that busta accent."

  "Did I?" Lyle had to smile. He'd been affecting a mild East African accent for so long now-used it twenty-four/seven-that he'd thought his Detroit ghetto voice dead and buried. Guess not. "Shows how much I was worried about you, man. You're my blood. I didn't want this whole house comin' down on your head."

  "I 'predate that, Lyle, but Jesus was with me. I wasn't afraid."

  "Well, you should have been. An earthquake in New York. Whoever heard of such a thing?"

  "Maybe it's a warning, Lyle," Charlie said, still pacing and sipping. "You know, the Lord's way of telling us to get tight."

  Lyle closed his eyes. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. You were so much more fun before you got religion.

  My fault, he supposed. My bad.

  A few years ago, when they'd been working a low-budget spiritualist storefront in Dearborn, a faith healer came to town and he and Charlie had gone to see how the guy worked his game, Lyle had kept his eye on all the wheelchairs the healer had brought along, and how his assistants would graciously offer them to unsteady looking old folks who tottered in-the same folks who'd "miraculously" be able to walk again after the healer prayed over them. While he was doing that, his younger brother had been listening to the sermon.

  Lyle had gone home and written up notes for the future when he opened his own church.

  Charlie had bought a Bible at the tent show, brought it home, and started reading it.

  Now he was a Born Again. A True Believer. A Big Bore.

  They used to make the bars together, pick up women together, do everything together. Now the only things that seemed to interest Charlie were reading his Bible and "witnessing."

  Yet no matter what he did or didn't do, Charlie was still his brother and Lyle loved him. But he'd liked the old Charlie better.

  "If that earthquake was the Lord's work and aimed at us, Charlie, he sure shook up a lot of people besides us."

  "Maybe lots of people besides us need shaking up, yo."

  "Amen to that. But what was with that scream? You've got to let me know when you're going to pull a new gag. The house shaking and the ground rumbling were bad enough, but then you throw in the scream from hell and everyone was ready to run for the river."

  "Didn't have nothing to do with no scream," Charlie said. "That was the fo' reals, bro."

  "Real?" In his heart Lyle had known that, but he'd been hoping Charlie would tell him different. "Real what?"

  "Real as in not something I cooked up. That sound didn't come from no speakers, Lyle. It come from the house."

  "I know. A bunch of these old beams shifting in the quake, right?"

  Charlie stopped his pacing and stared at him. "You connin' me? You really gonna sit there and tell me that sounded like wood creaks to you? Betta recognize that was a scream, man. A human scream."

  That was what it had sounded like to Lyle too, but it couldn't have been.

  "Not human, Charlie, because the only humans here besides you and me were our uninvited guests, and they didn't do it. So it just sounded human, but wasn't."

  "Was." Charlie's pacing picked up speed. "Come from the basement."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I standin' by the door when it went down."

  "The basement?" Lyle felt a chill ripple along his spine. He hated the basement. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Didn't 'xactly have time. We had guests, remember?"

  "They've been gone for a while now."

  Charlie looked away. "I knew you'd wanna go check it out."

  "Damn right, I do." He didn't, not really, but no way he was going to sleep tonight if he didn't. "And would you sit down or something? You're making me nervous."

  "Can't. I'm too jumpy. Don't you feel it, Lyle? The house has changed, yo. Noticed it soon as we come back inside after the quake. I can't explain it, but it feels different... strange."

  Lyle felt it too, but wouldn't say so. That would be akin to buying into the same sort of supernatural mumbo jumbo they sold to the fish. Which he refused to do. But he had to admit that the room lights didn't seem quite as bright as before the quake. Or was it that the shadows in the corners seemed a little deeper?

  "We've had a nerve-jangling week and you're feeling the effects."

  "No, Lyle. It's like it ain't just us in this house no more. Like something else moved in."
/>   "Who? Beelzebub?"

  "Don't you go crackin' on me. You know you feel it, dawg, don't tell me you don't!"

  "I don't feel nothin'!"

  Lyle stopped and shook his head at the double negative. He'd spent years erasing the street from his vocabulary, but every once in a while, like a weed, it popped through the Third World turf he'd been cultivating. Ifasen's accent said old Third World, his dreads said new Third World; Ifasen was an international man who recognized no barriers-not between races, not between nations, not even between life and death.

  But Third World was key. The affluent, white, New Age yo-yos who made up the demographic Lyle was chasing believed that only primitive and ancient civilizations retained access to the eternal truths obscured by the technophilia of western post-industrial civilization. They'd accept just about anything an East African named Ifasen told them, but would brush off the same if it came from Lyle Kenton of Detroit's Westwood Park slums.

  Lyle didn't mind the act; kind of liked it, in fact. But Charlie wouldn't make the effort, declining to become what he called an "oreo." So he became the silent partner in the act. At least he agreed to dress the part of Kehinde. Left on his own he'd be baggied out with a dukey rope, floppy fat sneaks, and a backward Tigers cap. A hip-hop Born-Again.

  Lyle jumped and spilled some beer on his pants as the phone rang. Man, his nerves were jangled. He looked at the caller ID: Michigan. He picked up.

  "Hey, sugar. I thought you'd be on the plane by now."

  Kareena Hawkins's velvet voice slunk from the receiver. The sound gave Lyle a rush of lust. "I wish I were. But tonight's promotion ran way over and the last plane out is gone."

  He missed Kareena. She ran the PR department of a Dearborn rap station. At twenty-eight she was two years younger than Lyle. They'd been just about inseparable before he moved east, and had been carrying on a longdistance relationship the last ten months, the plan being for Kareena to move east and get a job with a New York station.

  "So take a morning flight."

  He heard her yawn. "I'm beat, Lyle. I think I'll just sleep in."