Beyond belief (8 page)

“Why?”

“Do it,” Joe said. “We don't know anything about him.”

“He
helped
me,” Jesse said.

“This time.
But there are a lot of crazies in this world, and we don't know what this man is capable of.”

The principal nodded. “I called Jesse's mother.
She's the one who suggested contacting you. She's coming to take him home for the rest of the day.”

“Good.”

There was a soft clattering sound in the room. On a low shelf next to Jesse stood a series of wooden figurines representing the children of the world.

One by one, the figures were falling.

The principal gasped and stepped back.

Joe glanced at Jesse. The boy's glasses were off, and his eyes were open wide as he stared at the dropping figurines.

Jesse looked away.

The figures were still.

No one spoke for a moment.

Joe motioned back toward the shelf. “Can you make the rest fall, Jesse?”

Jesse shot a quick glance at the shelf.

Another figure dropped.

“Like that?”

The principal was hyperventilating in a corner of the room.

Joe kneeled next to the shelf, his eyes only inches from the remaining figurines. “Do it again. Please.”

Jesse stared at them. And stared.

“Sorry,” he finally said. “No more today.”

Joe wanted to push for more, but he stopped himself. He'd already seen Jesse's reaction when he felt he was being pushed. “Okay, fine. Show me your hands, Jesse, and slowly back away from the shelf.”

Jesse tensed. “Why?”

Joe didn't take his eyes off the shelf. “I'm just securing the location. I don't want anything disturbed.”

Jesse raised his hands and backed away. Joe's eyes flicked between the boy and the shelf.

Joe spoke over his left shoulder and motioned toward the figures. “Ma'am, is it okay if I borrow these?”

The principal nodded and made a squeaking sound from the back of her throat.

Idiot, Lyles thought.

He parked his pickup truck on the street in Cab-bagetown, a lower-class neighborhood built around a long-defunct cotton mill. He gathered his Lanchester and maps and climbed out of the truck. If he were lucky, a thief would pick it up and it would be in a chop shop by midnight.

He'd made a mistake by letting Jesse see him. Now everything had to change. Not only did he have to get rid of the truck, he'd have to change his appearance and adopt new surveillance strategies.

Shit.

What an amateurish thing to do. But he was no amateur. He'd just gotten impatient, starved for contact with the One who had been the center of his world for months now. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity; what better way to make a good first impression than to save him from that punk?

But he was wrong. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do.

He walked to the King Memorial MARTA mass transit station and jumped on a train that would take him to Midtown. He sat in the rear of the car and pulled a manila envelope from the gym bag.

“K.Y.O.,” he muttered under his breath.

K.Y.O.—know your opponent—was a rule he swore by; he'd watched too many men die because they didn't know what they were up against. Fierce bravado and an arsenal of weapons were no match for a warrior who could anticipate his opponent's every move. Lyles pulled a photocopied personnel file from the envelope.

The cover page read: BAILEY, JOSEPH.

K.Y.O.
“The kid creeps me out, Bailey.” Howe shuddered. “I watched one of his test videos this morning, and it chilled my shit.”

Joe sat at his desk in the squad room, squinting at one of the principal's figurines through a large illuminated magnifying glass. “Really? My little girl thought it was cool.”

“Cool? Then she'd probably creep me out too.”

“I'm sure the feeling would be mutual.”

“How are you so sure he's not the real deal? Between what I saw on that tape and what you're telling me about those little dolls this morning …”

Joe snorted. “Don't get wiggy on me, Howe.”

“Then explain it. Do you see anything under that glass that tells you how he made those doodads fall?”

“Hmm.”

“Stumped?”

“No, I'm just trying to figure out how long it's been since I've heard the word ‘doodad.’”

“You're a riot, Bailey.”

Joe put down the figure and magnifying glass. “There are other possible explanations.”

“Like what?”

“Jesse was alone in the principal's office when I got there. He could have anchored a thin length of thread to the back of the shelf with a tiny piece of chewing gum. Then maybe he wrapped the other end around a button on his sleeve. A slight pull of his wrist, and the thread starts knocking down the figures.”

“Did you see any thread?”

“No, but by the time I got closer, he could have yanked it free. I looked around, but I didn't see any sign of it on the floor. Short of frisking him, there was nothing I could do.”

Howe picked up the little wooden figure. “He's just a kid. How could he be good enough at this to put one over on you?”

“That's one of the common characteristics of a paranormal fraud: apparent inability to manifest any complex form of trickery. People said the same thing about two English girls when they produced pictures of themselves with what appeared to be fairies. People said there was no way they had the technical knowledge they'd need to doctor the photos.”

“So how'd they do it? Double exposures?”

“No. They cut little figures out of a children's book and posed with them. Sometimes people make things out to be more complicated than they really are.”

Joe punched the door buzzer and waited for a reply from the tiny speaker next to it. It was 11:45
A.M.
, and
he was at the warehouse digs of Cy Gavin, a part-time magician and levitation specialist. He had known Cy for over twenty years, ever since they were teenagers vying for a piece of the local birthday party magic show biz.

“Yeah?” Cy's raspy voice was barely audible through the speaker.

“Cy, it's Joe Bailey. Can we talk?”

Silence.

“Cy?”

“Yeah. Sure. Come on up.”

The door buzzed open and Joe climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The building had been a glass factory, but it now appeared to be home to mostly artists and weekend craftsmen. The hardwood floors squeaked as he stepped through the open doorway to Cy's studio.

“Is this a bust?”

Joe turned to see Cy on the other side of a large table saw. He wore faded jeans and a tattered flannel shirt and was thinner than Joe remembered.

“It's not a bust as long as you don't light up any more of that pot I smell.”

“You got it. Hey, I know it's been a while, but I was sorry to hear about your wife, Joe.”

“Thanks, Cy. How are you doing?”

“Could be better. I guess you got out of the biz at the right time.”

“And you've managed to hang in there?”

“Only because I know how to use these tools. These aren't new illusions I'm working on here. It's a bedroom set for the couple that lives next door to me.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“If you say so. What brings you here?”

“Did anyone come to you in the last few weeks for help with some levitation gags?”

“How do you mean?”

“Pots clanging together, a reed instrument playing and flying around …”

“I like to think that my illusions are a little more compelling than that.”

“They're plenty compelling in a dark house in the middle of the night.”

“Spirit gags? I may have fallen pretty far, but I wouldn't whore myself out to a phony spiritualist. Jesus, I hate those people as much as you do.”

“I know you do. But you're probably the best levitation guy in the city, and I thought someone may have asked you—”

“No. No one asked me anything.”

“Then let
me
ask you. I'm looking into the Robert Nelson homicide. I know heavy lifting isn't your specialty, but there were some smaller occurrences in his house earlier in the week.” Joe held up a sheaf of papers. “I sketched everything out and jotted down a brief description. Maybe you can look at them and give me your thoughts.”

“Put them on the table. I'll try to get to them later.” He gestured toward a board clamped to the workbench. “If you don't mind, I have a headboard to finish now.”

“Devil child, burn in hell!”

Jesse cranked up the LL Cool J tape, trying to
drown out the chanting crowd outside his house. The fundamentalist wackos had been clustered on the sidewalk when his mother brought him home from school. They had screamed, yelled, and spat at him.

“Devil child, burn in hell!”

People had never looked at him that way before. He'd seen shock, amazement, and even envy, but never anything like this.

Hate. Pure hate.

They'd kill him if they had the chance.

“Devil child, burn in hell!”

It was worse than any nightmare.

His mother had turned on the television in the living room. She was trying to drown out the chants too. She had shielded him as they ran past the crowd to the front door, and she'd sent him back to his room in case any gunshots were fired through the front windows.

Would he have to sleep in the bathtub, as he had the time a neighborhood gang war had flared up? There'd been so many drive-by shootings, everyone on the block had been afraid to sleep near their windows.

“Devil child, burn in hell!”

As he changed tapes, he heard his mother gasp.

He ran into the living room. She was only watching TV, he realized with relief. Then he saw himself on the playground with that lady reporter who had shown him that awful picture of Dr. Nelson.

The anchorman grimly read the story: “Big Four News reporter Darlene Farrell's disappearance was first noted when she failed to arrive here for last
evening's eleven o'clock newscast. Her car was found earlier today in this shopping center parking lot, but there has been no sign of her in almost twenty-four hours. Her most recent story was an exclusive interview with Jesse Randall, a central figure in the bizarre murder of Landwyn University professor Robert Nelson.”

For the first time, his mother realized he was in the room. “Go back to your bedroom, Jesse.”

“What happened to her?” he said.

“Now.”

“What happened?”

“You don't need to see this, honey.”

He screamed through clenched teeth: “Tell me now!
I want to know!”

She gasped and stepped back.

He hadn't meant to scream at her.

His mom suddenly looked …
different.
He'd never seen that expression before, at least not when she looked at him.

She was afraid.

Afraid of
him.

No. Not her too.

He turned and ran into his room.

“Devil child, burn in hell!”

Joe had heard about Darlene Farrell's disappearance by the time he arrived at the Landwyn campus, thanks to
Steve and Foz
, an afternoon talk radio show. Listeners were split as to whether Jesse Randall should be burned at the stake or pressed into
service to help the Falcons football team climb out of last place.

He'd seen Darlene Farrell's report on the previous evening's news. What a self-serving bitch. She'd probably hoped that her story would land a nice juicy spot on the national telecasts. Which was, of course, precisely what had happened. Her reward for bullying a scared little boy.

Strange that Farrell disappeared only hours after ambushing Jesse … Still, there was no evidence of foul play, and it was Joe's job to maintain focus on Jesse and Nelson.

He walked to the office of Daryl Reisman, head of the humanities department. The secretary waved him in.

“Good to see you, Joe,” Reisman said from behind the beautiful mahogany desk that was slightly too large for the room. “Any report on that spiritualist woman yet?”

Joe sat down. “Not yet. Actually, I'm here on police business today.”

“I heard you were investigating Nelson's case. Dr. Kellner informs me that the investigative expertise of the parapsychology team is at your department's disposal.” Reisman winked. “I believe he's drafting a press release to that effect.”

Joe smiled. “We respectfully decline their offer.”

“Good boy.”

“I want to talk to you about Nelson. I realize that you and he weren't close.”

Reisman snorted. “Understatement of the year.”

“Did he have any reason to fear for his life?”

“From me?”

“From anyone.”

“You know as well as I do that there are many people here who consider that program an embarrassment. In the academic world, our worth, our currency, is based on our reputation and the reputation of the school where we teach. Dr. Nelson was bringing down the value of the neighborhood.”

“But do you kill a neighbor if he doesn't cut his lawn and leaves a car up on blocks in his driveway?”

“Of course not. I don't know anyone who would have reason to kill him. We had our differences, but he disliked me more than I did him.”

“He didn't particularly care for me either.”

Reisman smiled cheerfully. “Oh, he
hated you.”

“I pretty much figured.”

Reisman's smile faded. “Joe, how close are you to breaking this case?”

“That's impossible to say. What's the matter?”

Reisman sighed. “There's a magazine article coming out this week insinuating
I'm
to blame for what happened to Nelson.”

“What?”

“It's been suggested that I placed too much emphasis on results, and that's why Nelson was so hard on the boy.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but that's the angle. You'll be interested to know that you'll be featured in the article too, Bailey.”

“Why?”

“Your discrediting Nelson's other discoveries is seen as another contributing factor. He was desperate,
and it drove him to push Jesse Randall until the boy just snapped.”

Joe shook his head. “If a scientist claimed to discover a new method of cold fusion, fifty review boards would be scrutinizing every single stage of his research. But because you wanted one man to check Nelson's results, you're a monster?”