Daniel Hecht_Cree Black 02 (28 page)

30

JOYCE WENT off to Window Rock to get a start with the archives at the Navajo History Museum before it closed for the day.
Ed arranged to meet Cree at nine-thirty for a second trip to the ravine, then went with Julieta to meet the maintenance staff
and get a tour of the electrical system's components in preparation for the exhaustive analysis he'd conduct tomorrow. Lynn
was called to tend to a boy who had badly scraped both elbows playing basketball.

Cree spent the evening resting and reading more of the materials Mason and Joyce had provided. It was disquieting stuff in
more ways than one.

From what she'd read so far, it was clear that most cases of "possession" from earlier eras were actually examples of clinically
definable maladies. Many were obviously epilepsy or schizophrenia, but some were more likely DID, dissociative identity disorder,
previously referred to as multiple personality disorder. The condition was believed to be caused by a combination of neurological
predisposition and early childhood trauma so severe that the victim "quarantined" aspects of his or her personality, locking
them away to escape the pain of coping with the trauma. Most people lived in some degree of forgetfulness or denial, but with
DID victims the sequestered parts began to develop independently, to grow and articulate as complete, separate personalities
that could emerge under the right triggering circumstances. The supposed "epidemic" of MPD during the 1980s had been discredited
as a phenomenon largely created by unscrupulous therapists, but a number of cases, stretching back centuries, held up under
scrutiny and made it clear that though very rare, the disorder was real.

At the same time, the inverse was also true: To Cree's eyes, some of those now labeled as MPD/DID sufferers were clearly victims
of invasion by a separate, roving, extracorporeal entity.

Again, she had to admire the insight and courage of Mason's basic dictum: No theory of human psychology could be considered
accurate or complete unless it accommodated the principle that mind is to some degree independent of brain or body and that
the human personality is shaped by psychological and social influences that extend beyond the physical lifetime.

Included in the papers Joyce had provided was one of Mason Ambrose's most famous monographs, published eighteen years ago
as a slap in the face to the psychological status quo. Describing five specific, well-documented MPD case studies, he had
challenged anyone to offer a single fact that was demonstrably inconsistent with the idea that the victims were in fact possessed
by a distinct, externally originating entity. Despite their scorn, his detractors mustered only feeble efforts to refute the
idea. Some psychologists had applauded the paper, assuming that Mason intended it only as an ironic argument against current
diagnostic criteria for MPD, a way of saying that criteria that didn't permit ready refutation of such a wild theory had to
be inadequate. Subsequent developments in the field had reinforced that view, and multiple personality disorder had been dropped
from the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual.

Cree, of course, knew that he'd meant it literally.

Mason had relished the ongoing controversy. But now, rereading that first paper in the light of the bedside lamp in the ward
room, with desert-dark windows on all three sides, Cree found herself deeply unsettled. Somehow it made the awful stuff more
real—the biblical and medieval accounts and the quasi-religious or pseudomedical reports from the last ten centuries. In
particular, she couldn't shake that damned woodcut image, the rearing saint above the contorted sufferer, the worm spewing
and coiling. Maybe because it echoed too well Tommy's description of the maggots in the sheep.

There was another perspective, Cree knew: the old faiths of the world, the nature religions and shamanic spiritual traditions,
like that of the Navajo. For a moment she wished she wasn't so far from a library, then realized she had access to a knowledgeable
source. She went to the nurse's office, dialed Paul's home number.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Paul said. "I was hoping it was you."

"You busy?"

"Monday night. I'm busy trying to shed the accumulated stresses of a day of dealing with other people's intractable problems.
I've got a tall, slim, sensuous companion named Beaujolais Nouveau who is, shall we say, helping me unwind."

Cree heard a clink of glass, the sound of wine pouring. "Trying to make me jealous? It won't work. I'm calling for professional
advice."

"Is that so? I'm kissing her ruby lips even as we speak . . . mmmm." Paul was in a good mood; this obviously wasn't the first
such kiss of the evening.

"Okay, it's working, I'm jealous," Cree said sincerely. A sip of the good grape
would
be nice, maybe help ease the growing tension she felt. "Listen, I was thinking about a paper you told me you'd written. On
the parallels between modern psychotherapy and shamanistic healing practices."

"Aha."

"I'm interested in . . . well, in possession. I've got a bunch of literature on the Christian/Satanic outlook, and some papers
on the parallels between DID and possession. But I'd like to get some perspectives from other traditions."

Paul was quiet for a moment. "So that's what you're dealing with there? Jesus. I hated the idea even when I didn't believe
in ghosts. Now . . .Jesus. That sounds like a scary proposition for a . . . you know. A person like you, Cree."

"It's a common diagnosis in the Navajo tradition. The entity is often the ghost of a dead ancestor. Is that typical?"

"You know all this better than I do, Cree."

"Indulge me. Refresh my memory."

"It's universal. All over the world, every culture. All the old religions have the same basic idea. In a few traditions, you
find some rough equivalent of the demonic entity, but that's rare. I always saw the ancestor thing as a useful metaphor. Struck
me as full of resonances with modern psychotherapy—not so different from Freud putting you on the couch and asking about
your mother. A way to cope constructively with our unresolved business with our forebears. But it's not always ancestors.
The spirit can be any dead person close to the victim. A mother or father can become possessed by the ghost of a dead child.
A widow or widower can be possessed by the dead spouse. It's often a blood relative, but not always—a murderer might be possessed
by the spirit of his victim."

"Always someone with a connection to the victim, though."

"Yep. Unless it's a deity or nature spirit of some kind."

"What kind of symptoms? Are they consistent in different cultures?"

"Very. But if you want details . . . well, let me think. It's been a while, Cree." He took another sip of wine and breathed
deeply once or twice. "Well, in Melanesia, the possessed person typically speaks in a strange voice, shows glaring eyes, twisting
limbs, convulsing body, foam in the throat. The
mana
—that's the spirit of the dead person—overpowers the victim in fits or cycles, leaving him exhausted, almost comatose.
Among the Alarsk Buryat of Siberia, the ancestral spirits are called
utcha
and manifest first in dreams, getting to the convulsions and strange voices only as they gain greater control. In Nepal, the
Tamangs have a term, um . . . God, I used to know all this stuff . . . I'd impress my fellow grad students, those of the female
persuasion, with it . . . uh, yeah,
iha khoiba mayba.
The term means, essentially, 'crazy possession.' As opposed to voluntary possession. Symptoms are typical, your basic convulsive
shaking, incoherency, chaotic visions or hallucinations."

"
'Voluntary
possession'?" The idea was appalling to Cree.

"Oh, sure. For shamans, it's a sought-after state. The shaman surrenders to the spirit to get guidance from the dead. Sometimes
the ghost gives him prophetic information—advice on what's going to happen, what people should or shouldn't do, warnings,
and so on. Advice on how to heal people, how to settle their unresolved issues. I thought you'd know all about
that
—isn't that a lot like what
you
do?"

She hadn't quite thought of it in those terms and wished he hadn't pointed it out. "Let's go back to the involuntary variety.
What else? Why do the spirits return? The human type?"

"That's variable. They often come back to seek redress or justice for wrongs. Or to punish the living for offenses—the Tibetan
Book of the Dead has a ton of stuff on after-death retribution."

"Terrific. Great."

Paul heard the bleakness in her tone, tried to inject something more hopeful: "But, again, the dead may also have important
information to convey. They may be trying to help."

"How nice of them," Cree said acidly. Right now, it was hard to think of spirit invasion as anything but a form of rape.

"Among the Tungas, for example—"

"That's okay, Paul. I get the picture."

"Of course, there are also animal spirits, they're often helping spirits, too. It—"

"This one's human."

"Okay." He was quiet for a minute as her mood really registered. "Do you have to get involved?"

"I'm already 'involved.'"

"And you're . . . at risk?"

"No doubt."

"You want to tell me what you're dealing with?"

He sounded frustrated and worried, and she wanted to cheer him up. "I can't, Paul. Just be yourself. Who you are. And what
you've told me is very helpful. This member of the female persuasion is very impressed."

"Tell me more about that," he said huskily, vamping. "How im­pressed?"

He was fishing for intimate talk, but she felt confused, unable to find the mood. As she hesitated, a change in the light
made her turn. Lynn Pierce had come to the door of the office. Seeing Cree on the phone, she smiled apologetically and passed
by as if heading toward the big ward room. But Cree didn't hear the other door open. She must have paused, out of view in
the hall.

"Anyway," Cree said briskly, "I better get going now. We'll talk another time, okay?"

Paul grunted, put out by her sudden change of tone. "Privacy issues?"

Lynn Pierce still hadn't gone into the examining room. "Apparently," Cree said drily.

31

CREE WENT back to her room and made ready for what promised to be a difficult visit to the ravine later. She spent a half
hour doing yoga, and when her thoughts intruded she steered them toward the many good things in her life: the twins, Dee,
Edgar and Joyce, hiking in the Cascades range, her friends in the lovely Emerald City.
And Paul,
she added.

That was the foundation, she reminded herself. The love, the connection. The world was full of dire things, but love managed
to endure. That's what sustained you.

And, in fact, the things Paul had told her were helpful. In the face of what she'd seen in Tommy, it was good to be reminded
that most supernaturalist spiritual traditions agreed with her outlook: that the entity was not necessarily hostile or malignant.
It wasn't just coiling serpents and rearing saints, or adolescent girls rotating their heads and spewing green bile.

Feeling a little better, she put on thick socks and loaded a fanny pack with a couple of energy bars, a bottle of water, and
one of the good flashlights Edgar had brought. As an afterthought, she included the small canister of pepper spray Joyce had
insisted she carry. By nine-fifteen, she felt almost ready for the night's work.

Then Lynn Pierce came into the ward room.

She drifted across the floor from the hall doorway to stand at the end of Cree's bed, her silver braid thick as a hawser on
one shoulder. "Your partner called from the admin building, said to tell you he'd be here in ten minutes."

"Great. I'm just about ready." Cree zipped up the fanny pack and set it on the bed, then began consolidating the possession
literature she'd spread on the neighboring bed and table.

Lynn watched with interest, tipping her head to catch glimpses of titles and illustrations. "I've been thinking about what
you asked. You're right, I've been around Tommy more than anyone else. And I think maybe I have noticed something that could
be important."

"Oh?"

Lynn darted her eyes at Cree, and a little grin moved her mouth. Then she crossed over to one of the beds against the south
wall and began straightening the blankets, slightly rumpled from Edgar's sitting on it earlier.

"You're so close to your associates," Lynn said. "They really trust you, don't they? And you them. Really, you're more like
friends than business partners, aren't you? It must be nice."

"It's the line of work we're in. Sometimes it can get pretty hairy, and so you kind of have to deal with things. Interpersonal
things, I mean. You get to know each other pretty well."

" Joyce—one very smart gal, isn't she? I asked her how she got to know you, and she said you'd saved her life. What's that
all about?" Her back to Cree, Lynn was plumping the pillow carefully.

"It was some years ago. But it's kind of personal, Lynn. If she didn't offer the details, I don't think it's my place to—"

"And Edgar. Dr. Mayfield. I get the sense he's very devoted to you. Are you and he . . . you know . . . ?"

"Ed and I are very good friends and business partners," Cree answered curtly.

"Hm. So the person you talk to on the phone at night—that's your boyfriend?"

Given that Cree was using the phone in her office, it was unavoidable that Lynn would overhear snatches of conversation. But
for her to deduce that it was the same person, and what the relationship might be, confirmed Cree's sense that she'd been
deliberately eavesdropping.

"Um, listen, Lynn—"

"Oh, I don't mean to pry." Lynn finished with the bed and rounded on Cree. "I'm just curious. You're all such interesting
people. You're so close. I'm just wondering how you all got together. But you're right, you hardly know me. It's inappropriate,
isn't it."

Lynn was watching Cree's response closely. At the corners of her mouth, her grin seemed to tremble. Cree's heart went out
to her: the perpetual outsider, looking in.

"Maybe later," Cree told her. "It's a long story, you know? When we get the time, let's all sit down with some hot chocolate
and they can tell the saga from their own points of view. Right now, I'm anxious to hear what you were going to tell me."

Lynn feigned surprise at herself. "Oh! I'm so sorry! Yes, I thought of a detail that might be useful." She hesitated, as if
debating whether to tease and stall further, then opted to continue: "It has to do with Julieta and Tommy."

That got Cree's attention. "What about them?"

Lynn lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening. "I think it gets worse when
she's around him."

"Tommy gets worse?"

"Oh, yes. Remember the other night, when he was looking at her that way, and then he lunged at her?"

"How could I forget?"

Lynn shivered. "That look! The only time I've seen anything like that was at the zoo. The big cats, when they stare at you
through the bars as if they'd like to—"

"He attacked
you,
too. He bit you!"

"That was different! It happened as I was trying to restrain him. With Julieta, he has this. .
.focus.
I first noticed it during his second crisis, a couple of weeks ago, but it was more ambiguous then. But Saturday night, when
we were at the cafeteria, he was doing pretty well until Julieta sat down at our table. I could see it change him to have
her around. When he lunged across the table, I think he was going for her. I thought you should know."

"Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Why would that be, do you suppose?"

Lynn came toward her, trailing her fingers along the bedcover, then crossed to the foot of Cree's bed where she absently caressed
the tube-steel frame. Reflexively, Cree drew away a step and turned to stack the papers. She wished the old woodcuts and engravings
weren't so lurid.

"I can't imagine," Lynn said. "Except maybe it has to do with something I noticed in a couple of your articles." She pointed
with her chin at the stack of possession materials.

Cree gaped at her, dumbfounded. "You came in here and went through my things?"

"No, no! God, no. I would never do that! I'm sorry! I didn't think they were personal papers, or I would never have presumed,
really. They aren't personal, are they? I would never have looked if I thought it would upset you! I was just checking up
on the room, and—"

"What, Lynn? Just tell me what you saw that was interesting." Cree felt like throttling her, but the clever, overeamest, speck-eyed
face touched a nerve in her chest. "And in the future, just leave my stuff alone, huh? No, they're not personal papers. But
it feels invasive."

"Really, I had no idea it would . . . No, you're right, what was I thinking? How rude and intrusive it must—"

"What struck you? I'm tired, Lynn. I need to charge up my batteries here. Just tell me what you were going to."

Lynn came around the foot of Cree's bed to the table, took the papers and leafed through them.

"It was part of a book on the psychology of superstition. Here. This one."

The set of stapled pages she handed to Cree was a photocopy of a chapter analyzing features of the old literature on possession.
Cree scanned it quickly to refresh her memory.

"What about it?"

"Who they always blame. For possession."

Right,
Cree thought.

The author had pointed out a constant in the European history of possession: The possessed was believed to be the victim of
a human persecutor—an enemy, usually a witch, who "called" or "cast" the demon into the victim. Often the supposed perpetrator
was someone already unpopular in the community, or old, or living alone. The accused was invariably tortured and killed by
religious authorities or by lynch mobs of fearful citizenry.

"I was going to say, it's the same in the Navajo tradition. They often think of illness or spirit possession as being inflicted on the victim by a Skinwalker. Like a curse. And then this part"—Lynn reached across Cree to put a forefinger to the right paragraph—"here. Where he talks about how they knew who the witch was? I was thinking of . . . well, of Tommy's reaction to Julieta."

Cree resisted the urge to sidle away from the silver head leaning so close to her cheek. She read the paragraph again. The
basic technique was the supernatural equivalent of the modern police lineup: parade a bunch of likely suspects past the victim.
The possessed person would invariably be seized anew, attacking or cowering, when in the proximity of the "real" witch.

If it were true that Tommy's symptoms intensified when Julieta was around him, Cree thought, it affirmed her sense that the
problem was related to the connection between them—the instinctive sense of recognition between mother and child. But what
did it reveal about the entity? The best she could do was that maybe Julieta was correct, that the entity was Garrett's revenant,
driven by a dying urge centered on his ex-wife.

If Lynn was correct, this could be important. Watching Julieta and Tommy together might help her figure out what was going
on. In Cree's view, accusations of witchcraft and demon casting were nothing but superstitious scapegoating or deliberate
malice that victimized yet another innocent party. But Tommy's possession did fit the classic on-and-off pattern of "fits"
and remission; if his crises resulted from any external catalyst, Cree could learn a great deal about the entity from what—
or who—awakened or energized it.

On the other hand, Lynn's observation could be just another example of the inexplicable ill will she seemed to harbor against
Julieta.

"It's a good point. Thanks for bringing it to my attention." Cree turned to her and locked eyes. "So what's your interpretation?
Think Julieta's a witch?"

"Well, we're not exactly the
most
compatible personalities, but I wouldn't go quite
that
far."

"I'm serious, Lynn. You've got something against her. I'd like to know what it is."

Lynn appraised her sourly. "You know, you can be kind of confrontational sometimes."

Cree didn't break eye contact. "I think you keep information to yourself because you like feeling you've got an edge on other
people. Because you habitually feel at a disadvantage and think you need something to even things up. But right now there's
a boy who desperately needs our help. He doesn't need people playing games, Lynn!"

"How lovely to be so
thoroughly
understood," Lynn said drily.

"What else? What else about Julieta?"

Lynn's face took on its prim, clever look. "There you go again, tempting me into indiscretions!" Then her facade faltered
and revealed the anger just behind: "Let's just say I think her obsession with Tommy might be more complicated and less healthy
than people like you want to admit. I thought you'd be grateful I'd pointed out his reaction. I thought I was being helpful."

Cree almost stamped her foot in frustration. There seemed no way to break through the nurse's defenses. Part of the problem
was that this transaction was just what Lynn wanted, an intense exchange serving as a bitter surrogate for intimacy. She started
to plead with her but then heard noises from the front hall: Ed had arrived.

"I'll watch them carefully from here on in. Okay? But if there's something else you think I should know, for God's sake
tell me.
And in the meantime, I still want you to respect my space, my stuff! How would you like it if I went into your room and rummaged
around?"

"Well. I'd probably be a little upset. But I might be kind of flattered, too."

" Lynn—it was intended as a rhetorical question."

The nurse's mouth made a surprised O, then smiled. "Yes. Of course it was."

Cree turned half away to stack the papers again and go on packing for the night's work. She hoped Lynn would get the message,
but still she hovered there with her purse-lipped smile. And then Ed was bumping through the doorway with a pair of equipment
cases, apologizing for being late, and Cree turned to him with relief.