Blowing Smoke (15 page)

M
anuel left a little while after Bethany and her dad. Zsa Zsa and I shared a bowl of cereal, after which I tried to go to sleep. Only I couldn't. Pat Humphrey's words kept buzzing around in my head. Finally, I got up and called Paul.

“Listen,” I told him, “I want you to get me a rundown on the Center for Enlightened Self-Awareness. Whatever you can. And anyone connected with it,” I added as an afterthought.

“You know, Light, you really should stop doing these crappy little jobs and come to work for me,” Paul said. “I could hook you up with some decent money.”

“Yeah, but then I'd have to take my orders from you.”

“Always have to be a wiseass, don't you?”

“That's why you love me.”

“Wanna go out sometime?”

“I thought George was your friend.”

“He is. Up to a point.”

I hung up and went to Noah's Ark, where I fed the animals and cleaned their cages and tried to figure out how five geckos had managed to escape from the aquarium I'd housed them in.

Around one, when Tim came in, I went back to the house to take a nap before I drove out to Wolfe Island. Otherwise, I was afraid I'd fall asleep at the wheel. I'd just drifted off when George walked into my bedroom.

I raised my head off the pillow. The afternoon sun slanting through my bedroom's blinds gave George's black skin an ebony shine and made him seem even bigger than he already was.

“I dropped by the store. Tim said you were here.”

“Don't say anything,” I told him as he came toward me.

“About what?”

“This.” I pointed to my jaw.

“Maybe I wouldn't have noticed.”

“You would have.” It was impossible not to.

“I can't ask how you got it?”

“No.”

“Or ask who—”

“No,” I reiterated.

“I'm not going to do anything to him.”

“I know.”

George scowled. “If you want to be a moron, who am I to stop you?”

“You came here to insult me?”

“No. I came here to do this.” And he bent over and kissed my bruise. “And this.” He got lower. “And this.”

“This
is good.”

“Tell me,” I said as I turned toward him. “Do you believe in messages from the other world?”

He laughed. “No. I believe in this,” he said as he lowered himself down and slipped inside me.

 

 

“So,” George said an hour later, when we were sitting out on my deck. “Who's going to cover the store while you go off to Wolfe Island?”

“Tim.” I stretched and stifled a yawn.

“That's nice of him.”

I poured sugar in my ice coffee. “Nice nothing. I'm giving him two weekends off next month.”

George pointed at my cup. “How can you drink it like that? Why don't you just have some coffee with your sugar?”

I picked up a spoon and began to stir. “I like it this way.”

He grimaced. “You're going to get diabetes.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to die of lung cancer.” I took a sip, then leaned over, snagged a slice of the pizza George had bought, and bit into it. The taste of tomato and oregano exploded in my mouth. God, it was good, almost as good as the sex George and I had just had, but maybe that was because this was the first food I'd had all day. “Are you sure you don't want to come with me? It's a nice drive.”

“I would if I didn't have to teach a class.”

“Cancel it. I'm sure your students won't mind.”

“But the administration would.” George drained the can of soda he was drinking and crushed it. “There's nothing in here about Shana's death,” he said, indicating with a nod of his head the newspaper he'd brought over.

“I'm not surprised.” Rose Taylor was still powerful enough to keep the incident, as she'd called Shana's death when she'd spoken to me at the store, out of the papers. Unless, of course, the coroner ruled Driscoll's death a homicide. Even someone like Rose Taylor couldn't do anything about something like that—not that she wouldn't try.

“You think the coroner will find for death by misadventure?”

“Rose Taylor does. She's asked me about representation for her son.”

George grunted. “They'll bargain it down if it comes to that.” He flicked a piece of pizza crust off his khakis. He was in his teaching clothes, khakis, a light green polo shirt, and Docksiders. “He'll probably get three years' probation and community service. Unlike the poor schmuck who gets seven mandatory for growing grass in his basement.”

I could see Rose explaining the incident to the people at the country club. It would be an accident, of course. My son the murderer. Somehow it didn't sound as good as my son the doctor. I took another bite of pizza and shared my observation with George.

“I wouldn't know. I've never joined one. Not Our Kind, Dear,” George affected an English accent. Then he reached down and absentmindedly scratched Zsa Zsa's rump. “She's lawyering up awful quick.”

“I was thinking that, too.”

“Maybe she knows something you don't.”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

George leaned forward. “So what is the Center for Enlightened Self-Awareness, anyway?” He made a face. “One of these New Agey places where people come to find themselves—whatever that means.”

“Something like that.” And I filled in George on what Paul had dug up for me. I didn't tell him about Paul's hitting on me. I didn't see the point. Why bring up something that was only going to get George pissed? Not that he'd see it like that. He being for truth and honesty. Unlike me.

He made soft clicking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth while he listened to me read off my notes.

“Okay. The Center for Enlightened Self-Awareness was founded five years ago by the Reverend Ascending Moon, a.k.a. John Sinclair before he went to court and legally changed his name. The building Sinclair is in was donated to them by a charitable trust called Alternative Strategies.”

“Who set it up?”

“Paul's still working on that.”

“It shouldn't be too hard to find out.” George ate some more pizza while I continued talking.

“The cult has a tax-exempt status and claims a hundred and fifty members. According to its brochure, it's a place of peace and rejuvenation where all are welcomed to come and replenish themselves.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that Paul could find. There have been no complaints filed against the center. At least none that he could locate. They're quiet. They pay their bills on time.”

“And John Sinclair?”

I consulted my notes again. “Pretty standard stuff. He was born in the Buffalo area. Both parents are dead. No brothers or sisters. Or none that we know about. Our fellow married and divorced twice. Has one child, a boy, who is residing with his mother out in Boise, Idaho. Sinclair graduated from high school and went straight into the army. He made sergeant but was dishonorably discharged for redirecting supplies.”

George looked up. “Stealing?”

“Can we say creative management? Anyway, after he left Uncle Sam's embrace, Sinclair worked on the assembly line in a meat processing plant in North Carolina. Got a couple of DWIs down there, then he moved back up here and worked in a restaurant as a short-order cook, where he got tagged for selling pharmaceuticals and put on probation, and then—”

George interrupted. “Let me guess. He found God.”

“He not only found God; he founded his own order.” I fed a piece of my pizza to Zsa Zsa. “Sometimes I think the penal system is responsible for more conversions than the Catholic Church.”

“I don't know. They racked up a pretty good number during the Inquisition. Racked up. Get it?”

“I'm trying to ignore it.”

George looked crestfallen. “Anything else?”

“According to Paul, Sinclair supposedly went to India for six months, although Paul hasn't been able to find any record of that, and came back as the Reverend Ascending Moon.” I pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes and readjusted my sunglasses. “Paul said he'd see what else he could turn up if I wanted him to. This is just his first pass.”

George looked pensive. “It's frightening what you can turn up on someone these days.”

“Isn't it, though? And this just took Paul an hour. Imagine what he could do if you gave him a day.”

“Maybe you should take a computer course. At least then you wouldn't run around getting punched.”

“I thought we weren't going to talk about that.”

“We're not talking about it. I'm just telling you that I think it's time you got off the street.”

“Really?” I eyed the last pizza slice.

“I'm serious.”

“I know you are. Have you considered the fact that I might like it there?”

“Have you considered that's indicative of a problem?”

“Are you saying I need help?”

“I'm saying it's not a good place to be. That's why I left. It messes with your head.”

“My head's already messed up, so I guess it doesn't matter.”

George scowled. “I just don't like seeing you getting hurt. Is that so wrong?”

“No. It's sweet.” And I leaned over and kissed his forehead.

O
n my way to Wolfe Island I made a detour and stopped off at the Hispanic Alliance. The organization, founded around ten years ago in response to a growing Spanish presence in Syracuse, was located on the West Side of town, off Seymour Street. The building it was housed in was a ramshackle two-story affair that had been built on the cheap and was only getting worse as time went on.

The steps buckled and groaned as I walked up them. Inside, the director was sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper, while a table fan blew a stream of hot air on him. An elegantly groomed man despite the heat, he would have looked more at home at the Spanish legation. He listened politely to what I had to say about Raul and Dorita and took the picture I'd been given out of my hand and studied it for a few moments before laying it down next to a pile of papers.

“You know,” he said in faultless English, “at last count we had over ten thousand Hispanics living in this community. They come from all over—Colombia, Ecuador, San Salvador, Mexico, the Dominican Republic. To most people who live here, they are invisible. Some prosper, but the others . . .” His voice trailed off. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, mopped his brow, folded it up, and replaced it. “If you came here expecting me to help you with this picture ...” He shrugged, his gesture conveying the futility of the enterprise. “I'll try, but frankly the outcome is doubtful. As to the other, my grandmother died from tuberculosis.” He formed an O with his mouth and blew air out. “I'll talk to the clergy and see if we can raise some money for a funeral. Outside of that ... well.” He waved his hand around. “You can see our funds are limited. I only have a secretary three afternoons a week.”

I left him studying the photo I'd given him.

 

 

Accessible by a twenty-five-minute ferry ride, Wolfe Island is located between Canada and the United States and bounded by Lake Ontario on one side and the Saint Lawrence on the other. The island is about sixteen miles long and seven miles wide. Once occupied by the Iroquois, it now consists of windswept meadowlands, a sprinkling of farms, cattle, and a few cabins and small resorts, as well as the stores that serve them. Except in the summer and early fall, when vacationers come, the cows mostly have the place to themselves.

The Center for Enlightened Self-Awareness was situated on the Saint Lawrence side of the island. Housed in what had, at one time, obviously been a fishing lodge, the main building was an elongated two-story log cabin set about fifty feet off the shoreline. Several cottages, also done up in log-cabin mode, dotted the perimeter of a large grassy square. We're talking upscale Catskill bungalow colony here. Down by the water, three motorboats were tied up to an old wooden jetty. They were bobbing up and down in the wakes left by the boats zigzagging around the lake. Water-skiers' shrieks vied with the screeches of seagulls.

The place didn't seem very crowded. As I parked on the grass next to a beat-up Honda Civic, I spotted a couple walking down by the shore and a man going into the main building, and that was it. I saw one other person, a woman, as I went into the main lodge. If the Center for Self-Awareness was taking in a lot of donations from its congregation, they sure hadn't spent it on the furnishings.

I was willing to bet the fishermen who'd come here would find things almost the same as when they left. There was a check-in desk at one end of the lobby and a grouping of shabby sofas and chairs at the other. A variety of flyers were spread out on the main desk. Most of them were announcing classes in yoga or tai chi, talks by various people, or the availability of massages. A board on an easel, set up by the main desk, gave the day's menu.

A man materialized on the other side of the desk. He was short and plump, with well-tended pink skin and thinning, mousy brown hair. The white knit skullcap he was wearing matched his white caftan. A large enameled pendant with a circle inscribed in the center hung from his neck.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His voice, high and reedy, didn't go with the rest of him.

“Perhaps. Are you the Reverend Ascending Moon?”

He nodded. “Indeed I am. Would you like to register?” He glanced at the box with the keys in it. “Fortunately, we have a couple of cottages available. Normally this time of year, we're full up.”

“Actually, I'm looking for a Pat Humphrey.”

“I don't believe I know that name,” the reverend informed me.

Right. And I eat cream of wheat and jog five miles every day. “I got a message from her originating from here on my machine yesterday.”

“Perhaps she was someone's guest and used one of the phones in the cabin.”

“Then what about this?” And I showed him the letter.

He read it carefully and handed it back to me. “Well, it appears from this that she was here, I can't dispute that, but I'm afraid she's not a regular member of our congregation. Her name is unfamiliar to me. She was probably a visitor. You know, we open our facilities to the public. People come and go all the time.” The reverend straightened out a crease in one of his sleeves. “I've just come back myself. I've been traveling quite a bit recently. Giving talks. People ask me and I go. May I ask why you're inquiring about her?”

“I'm inquiring because one of her clients needs to speak to her.”

“Clients? May I ask what business she's in?”

“She's a pet psychic.”

Sinclair cocked his head. “How interesting.”

“Yes. Isn't it? Anyway, as I was saying, my client has a matter of pressing concern and has hired me to find her.” I didn't see any need to discuss Shana's untimely demise as well. I took out one of my business cards and gave it to him. Then I showed him the picture of Pat Humphrey that Rose Taylor had given me. “Are you sure you haven't seen her recently?”

He studied the picture for a minute and handed it back. His nails were manicured. “I'm sorry, but I can't say that I have.”

“Can I speak to the person that runs the place while you're gone?”

The reverend sighed. “I wish you could. Unfortunately, Brother Sisley left for Bolivia last night.”

“What a pity. And when will Brother Sisley be back?”

“In two or three months. I can give you his address in La Paz if you want.”

I told him I did want it just to see what he'd do. The reverend disappeared into his office and came back empty-handed a few minutes later.

“That's funny.” He scratched his neck. “I was positive I had the address. I must have mislaid it. If I find it, I'll definitely send it to you.” And he made a show of rereading my card. “I see you've come all the way from Syracuse.” He tsk-tsked. “Such a long drive for a fruitless errand. Perhaps you'd like to share a meal with us before you leave. It's the least I can do.”

“Thanks, but I'll pick up something on the way home.”

The reverend waved his hand around. “I'm sorry I couldn't be more help. I wish you success in your venture. Please feel free to walk around. And I hope you'll return another time and avail yourself of our facilities.”

“You can count on it,” I replied.

“Good.” Looking at him as he put his hands in the sleeves of his robe and strolled away, the word smarmy came to mind.

By the time I left, the couple that had been walking on the shore was sitting on the jetty, dangling their feet in the water. I sat outside for about half an hour on the off chance that Humphrey would show up. When she didn't, I got into my car and drove away. I didn't believe what Sinclair had told me. Not for an instant. But I was too conspicuous sitting there like that. I'd come back later.

I didn't believe Sinclair hadn't seen Pat Humphrey. I didn't believe that she hadn't been here, but there was no point in calling him a liar—at least not yet. A couple of miles later, while I was mulling over my options, I spotted a minimart by the side of the road, pulled over, put in twelve bucks' worth of gas, and went inside.

“Do you know this woman?” I asked the clerk behind the counter.

He tore his attention away from the television and focused on the picture I was holding out to him. His eyes lit up. “What's she done?”

“Nothing. I need to talk to her.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slumped. He frowned. “I thought it would be something interesting. Like she killed someone and chopped 'em up.”

“Maybe next week. So you have seen her.”

He scratched one of the pimples on his face. “What will you give me if I tell you?”

I did my best tough-guy impersonation. “I'll let you live.”

The kid snickered. “Seriously.”

It was nice to know I couldn't even intimidate a seventeen-year-old boy. “Here.” I dug in my pocket and took out a wadded-up ten-dollar bill and threw it on the counter. “This is all the cash I have.”

“What do you live on? Food stamps?”

“If you feel that wary ...” And I reached over to take it back.

“That's all right.” The kid smoothed the bill out and put it in his pocket. “She was here about three hours ago. She bought some gas and a couple of chocolate bars.”

“She didn't happen to say where she was going?”

“Nope. Just gave me her money.”

“Do you know where she's staying?”

“Yeah. With that loony up the road.”

“The Reverend Ascending Moon?”

“Ascending Moon my ass. My ass. Get it?” The kid cackled and slapped the counter. “I don't know. Sometimes I just crack myself up.”

I took a piece of bubblegum out of the box on the counter, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth.

“Hey, what about the gas?” the kid yelled as I walked out the store.

“Deduct it from the ten I gave you.”

“You owe me twelve.”

“Oops.” And I got in my car and went back to the center.

A group of five men and women were doing tai chi under the evening shade of a maple tree, while another woman was looking at the river through a pair of binoculars.

The lobby of the lodge was empty when I walked inside, although I heard voices. I followed the sounds into the dining room. Ten people were sitting at two round tables in the small wood-paneled room. I stood at the entrance for a few seconds and watched them pick at the mass of brown-colored food on their plates. Then I went inside and showed them all Humphrey's picture. No one in the group had seen her.

“We just got here a little while ago,” one of the men explained.

Before I could ask him anything else, Sinclair appeared at my elbow. “You've come back, I see.”

I wondered if the smile he was wearing would fool his guests. “I already told you I need to talk to Pat Humphrey.”

Sinclair's smile grew till it threatened to split his face. “You can see she's not here.”

I allowed him to take me by the arm and steer me back into the lobby. “The kid that works at the minimart said she was.”

Sinclair started laughing and ended up snorting instead. “You're taking his word against mine?”

“Yes, I am. Maybe I should start knocking on the cabin doors.”

“You can't do that,” Sinclair protested. “I won't have you disturbing my guests any more than you already have.”

“Call the cops.”

Sinclair wrung his hands. “This is a place of peace.”

“I need to speak to Pat Humphrey.”

“And I'm telling you she's not here.”

“And I'm telling you I don't believe you.”

“Please.” Sinclair came around the counter and touched my shoulder. “Let's go into my office and talk this out.”

As he spoke to me, his eyes flickered out toward the lake and back and then toward the lake and back again. It was a slight movement—it couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds—but it was enough. I turned my head and followed his glance. At first, all I saw was one of the motorboats that had been tied up putt-putting away from the dock. Two figures were sitting in it. They both had hats on. They were both dressed in khakis and short-sleeved white shirts. One was thinner than the other. I couldn't see their faces because the setting sun was reflecting off the water in a way that obscured my vision, but from the look on Sinclair's face, I had a pretty good idea who one of those figures was.

I cursed under my breath and ran out of the lodge.

“Wait. Come back.” Sinclair's voice floated behind me as I sped down the lawn toward the woman standing on the shore, gazing at the sunset through her binoculars.

“I need those for a second,” I told her as I wrenched them out of her hands.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“I'll give them right back,” I promised as I focused in on the two figures in the boat.

I felt something hard prod me in the ribs and heard Sinclair's voice say, “Do it now.”