Daniel Hecht_Cree Black 02 (5 page)

To Cree's surprise, the whole banana didn't prompt another skeptical comment or semirhetorical question. On the contrary:
Tsosie turned back from the cliff, his eyes seeking Julieta's, and Julieta faced him with a guarded expression that seemed
to caution him to silence.

Half the sun's disk was below the distant mountains now, and the lovely light on the near rocks and trees dimmed as if absorbing
darkness from the growing shadows. Far below, another tramcar was sliding up its invisible wire.

"Look, I can't package the whole thing in twenty-five words or less," Cree said, "any more than you could explain education
or medicine. If you're not going to believe me, and you're not going to tell me anything about this boy, we should get back
to the station. Is that the last car for the night? It's getting cold."

"Just one more question, Lucretia, please," Mason said. "
Where
do ghosts occur? Why do they appear in a given place?"

Cree glared at him but went along with it one last time. "We're not entirely sure. They often appear in the place where they
died, or in a place that figured importantly in their lives. Some are very limited, able to manifest only in a single house
or even just a single room or patch of ground. My partner believes they manifest where local electromagnetic or gravitational
conditions are favorable. He has shown a correlation between cycles of manifestation and fluctuations in geomagnetic fields,
such as those caused by tidal forces. The living human brain and nervous system is an electrically mediated organ and creates
electromagnetic fields—that's what we measure when we take an electroencephalogram. I have a more complex view of it, but
Ed believes that the strong emotions of the dying create fields that imprint on local geomagnetic fields, like tape recordings
that play back when conditions are right."

"So these favorable conditions," Mason said, "according to Dr. Mayfield, they're electromagnetic fields that support or reinforce
the energies of the ghost? Functionally, ghosts come into being when conditions exist that amplify or . . .
host
the ghost's feeble or latent fields?"

"Exactly."

Mason's face, bilious orange in the dying light, smiled hugely. "And, of course, it makes sense that another human brain and
nervous system—a living one—would create just the right fields, correct? Would make the perfect amplifier? The perfect host?
Isn't that concept entirely congruent with Edgar's thinking? Doesn't it jibe also with your own belief that ghosts manifest
when they encounter a supportive neuropsychological or psychosocial environment?"

Oh my,
Cree thought, seeing it at last.

They all watched her expectantly as she sorted through it.
Of course.
The history of it went back forever and ever, through every tradition of psychology and spirituality and medicine from the
dawn of time. It was just too horrible to contemplate.

She was speechless for a moment before she tried the word. "You mean . . .
possession.
You think this boy is—"

Mason nodded minutely. Julieta and Dr. Tsosie, their faces in shadow now, just watched her.

Possession:
The word seemed to linger in the air, a pollutant that hung like smoke between them. Whatever skepticism they'd felt had given
way to ambivalence, and in only a few moments the dynamic had changed. It struck Cree that they were sincerely looking to
her for answers, for help. Now she understood what their terse questioning really was. The effect of an intense paranormal
experience was much like dealing with the death of a loved one: Witnesses went through a predictable sequence of denial, negotiation,
anger, and resignation. People who came to a parapsychologist demanding "Prove it!" were actually people who'd already had
a deeply convincing experience and were seeking assurance that there was some rational foundation for what they'd already
been forced to deal with at an emotional level. That these two were already in the negotiating phase meant they'd had a tough
time of it.

The sun had dwindled to a blob of molten magma at the horizon. Nearer now, the tramcar turned on its interior lights, and
in the twilight the row of disembodied bright windows flew upward toward the station. Cree was freezing.

Possession: a being that lived inside you, laid its energies along your nerves, invaded the circuits of your brain, and took
up residence in your thoughts. Reports of such occurrences stretched from oral traditions come down from prehistory to the
Bible to well-documented cases in the present day. Of course, she and Ed had talked about it, but in ten years of paranormal
research, Cree had avoided the concept, hoping it was just another example of sensational folklore or Hollywood horror hoopla,
like zombies, werewolves, and witches on broomsticks.

But Mason was right, the local field of a human nervous system would create the perfect home for an errant, bodiless being.
As would the proximity of a human personality going through parallel psychological processes. Possession was the ultimate
affirmation of what Cree had always believed: that it was
people
who were haunted as much as places.

"Yes, that's what I was thinking, Cree," Mason said gleefully. "This boy is, in conventional parlance, possessed. And if I
were you, I'd call your colleagues tonight. Tell them you've got what you've always wanted—a paranormal entity in a bottle,
just waiting to be studied."

5

CREE PACED the carpet of her hotel room, waiting for the phone to be picked up in New Orleans. From her fifth-floor window,
she looked down at the lights of the cars oozing along Central Avenue, the downtown artery better known to visitors as Route
66. Resonances of James Dean and Bob Dylan were few and far between now, but Cree had found them—not so much in the restored
Historic 66 sections with their retro restaurants and clubs, but the dingy strip of older motels and greasy spoon diners.
Somehow she felt more comfortable there; the restaurant where she'd grabbed a burger on the way back from the mountain was
just the kind of place Pop used to like.
Once a daughter of a working stiff,
she thought,
always.

Paul Fitzpatrick didn't pick up, but she got his answering machine. "Hi, it's me," she said, feeling awkward about the message
she needed to leave. "I'm in Albuquerque. At the Hotel Blue—I don't know why it's named that. My talk went really well. I
ran into my old mentor, Mason Ambrose." Pause. "Well, I didn't run into him, he showed up and kidnapped me. He sandbagged
me completely. Brought a woman to meet me? A client? I kind of agreed to look into a problem at this school she runs over
near the Navajo reservation."
Kind
of was inaccurate: She'd already canceled her flight back to Seattle and arranged to ride with Julieta McCarty to the school
tomorrow. "She was desperate, and it looks like it could be a really important case. There's this kid who . . . Well, I shouldn't
really talk about it. But I won't be showing up this week after all. I'm hoping we can reschedule my visit, maybe put it off.
. . oh, three weeks? Can you get some time free then?" With all her hesitations, this was becoming a lengthy message, and
it was all wrong anyway, no emotional weight. Hurrying, she tried again: "I'm really disappointed. I was really looking forward
to seeing you sooner. I miss you. I hope you've had a fabulous day. Call me, okay?"

Bleep.

Relationships in the technological era!
she cursed.

She put down the phone and got a can of Coors from the minibar. Back at the window, she popped it and took a cold swig. If
only she'd taken an immediate dislike to Julieta McCarty. If only Mason hadn't piqued her curiosity despite her fury at him.
If only it didn't involve a kid whose life really did seem to be on the line.

Down on Central, a police car sparked as it swerved through slower traffic, turned onto a side street, and finally disappeared
into the maze of neighborhood streets. A moment later, an ambulance sped from the other direction and turned onto the same
street. Some desperate human situation out there in the sprawling city. It was a lonesome view.

She put down the beer to dial Deirdre's number. Nine o'clock on a Thursday night—no, eight in Seattle—they wouldn't be in
bed yet at her sister's house.

One of the twins answered. Hard to tell which on the basis of one word.

"Hi," Cree said tentatively.

"No, this is Zoe."

"I didn't mean 'Hy' as in Hyacinth, I meant 'Hi' as in 'hello.'" This was ritual vaudeville they went through whenever Cree
got Zoe. When she got Hyacinth, the stock response was, "How did you know it was me?"

In the background, Cree heard the cacophony of some TV show. She could picture Deirdre and Don and the two girls, sitting
in their snug Craftsman home, the lights warm on the nice fabrics Dee had done their living room in. A low-key Thursday night,
some family time. Probably watching the Discovery Channel—it was something about crocodiles—and munching microwave popcorn.
The image offered an unsettling contrast to the blank, black hotel room window and the naked urban sky.

"Are you still in New Mexico?" Zoe asked.

"Yeah. Actually, the reason I called was to tell you guys I won't be able to make your birthday party on Tuesday."

"Just a minute," Zoe ordered. "Can you guys turn it
down?
" Back to Cree: "What did you say?"

"I said I've got to stay on here for a few days, maybe longer. Kind of an emergency. I won't be able to get there for your
birthday party."

"Oh, man. Mom's going to be p—. . . um, peeved." Zoe muffled the receiver, but Cree could still hear the scowl in her voice
as she called out to her family, "Great! Aunt Cree isn't coming to the party!"

"I'm really sorry, Zoe. I've got some presents for you girls, though. I miss you like crazy. Hey, you should have seen where
I went today—this tram ride that went up the mountain here? Like being in an airplane. Zoe, seriously, you'd have loved it."

Zoe didn't answer. Cree heard the noise of the receiver being handled and then Hyacinth was there. "Hi, Aunt Cree. Why can't
you come?"

"Oh, there are some people who need my help here. It's an emer­gency."

"A ghost emergency?"

"Yeah," Cree said, wondering if that was quite the way to describe it.

"Well, I hope it turns out all right for them. Do you think it's significant?"

The two girls were identical twins, yet they were as different as the Fourth of July and Easter. As always, Hy had gone to
the heart of the issue, instantly feeling concern for the client. Just going on eleven years old but so adult. "Significant":
She'd heard Cree use the word before.

"Could be, yes. I should talk to your mom now, Hy. Sorry I can't make it Tuesday. Have a great party. I love you girls like
a pile of elephants, okay? Big love, right? Tell Zoe for me."

When Deirdre came on, she wasn't peeved but concerned. Cree would have preferred peeved. Dee was two years younger than Cree
and, Cree had always thought, much prettier and more grounded, in enviable control of her life. Her voice was smoothly modulated,
the tone of a mother and middle-school teacher habituated to setting a good example.

"Everything all right?"

"Sure. Just a case coming up suddenly. You know."

"An important one, I take it."

"It involves a student at a school for Navajo kids. It's urgent or I wouldn't bag out on the party. I know you could have
used my help."

"We could have used your
company.
We'll miss you." Dee hesitated. "But what about New Orleans? Weren't you going to go see Paul?"

"Yeah. Well. I'll probably go in a couple of weeks." Deirdre had kept the question casual, but Cree knew the concern was there
and it pissed her off that everything she did scared people. That any change of plan might signal a problem in her relationship
with Paul. Her relationship with the world of the living.

She injected some briskness into her tone: "Anyway, I'm here looking out over the infamous Route 66, and I've been having
a great time. The food here is terrific—I could get addicted to the green chili. Everybody you meet is really nice. And the
landscape is truly majestic. I don't mind the idea of spending more time here."

"Sounds great," Dee said, a little distantly.

They were quiet for a moment as Cree figured out what she'd wanted to ask. "Dee, I have a question for you. About kids. I
feel like I'm kind of out of my league with them, the only ones I hang out with are yours? So I was thinking about this boy
I'll be dealing with, what my underlying priority should be. I thought you'd be a good person to ask. As a mom."

"I can't claim to be any expert at that. But give me a try."

Cree thought about how to phrase it. "What's the main thing you do for your kids?"

"I don't understand."

" Well—what do they need most? What's the most important thing you do for them? Not to feed or clothe them, but emotionally.
Developmentally. To, I don't know, prepare them for life."

"Oh,
that.
And here I thought you were asking me something weighty and complex!" Dee joked. She thought about it for a long moment, and
Cree could hear the TV in the background again:
The female crocodile will guard her nest fiercely, but once her eggs are hatched these baby crocs are on their own in a hostile world.
"Well, when I have a moment to even think about this without noise and distraction and pressing needs, I guess I think of
my main job as helping the girls know who they are."

"Explain."

"Maybe I emphasize that because I've got twins, and I don't ever want to treat them as interchangeable personalities? But
any mother will agree. A child should know who she is. What she wants, what she
doesn't
want. What she believes in, what her values are."

"Mmmm," Cree agreed.

"She should know the difference between what comes from inside herself, what she gets from her family, and what she absorbs
from popular culture. If a kid doesn't know that, she can't make good choices. Right now, for my girls, it's differentiating
between personal values and peer pressure—like, oh, whether to try smoking or not, even if friends are. Soon it'll be how
far to go with a boyfriend. Then it'll be what career she wants to devote her life to, or what man. Or what values to fight
for. So I see my job as laying that foundation of self-knowledge. I'm always kind of asking them to look at who they are,
to make decisions based on what they see in themselves." Dee cleared her throat. "That is, if I'm doing my job right. Which
I manage, oh, about ten percent of the time."

"Uh-huh," Cree said skeptically. Dee was a terrific mother. In her mind she tried on the question for size:
Who are you, Tommy Keeday?

"I don't know if any of this applies to your kid out there," Dee went on. "But you need it all your life, right? How can you
do
anything
if you don't know who you are?"

So very true,
Cree was thinking after they'd said good-bye. Life was indeed an ongoing quest to discover who you were. Or maybe that was
just the perspective of the metaphysically inclined, widowed sister, an inadvertent empath who was constantly exploring the
nebulous interface between self and others and almost always discovering only uncertainties.

The night scene out the window was bothering Cree, but still she didn't draw the drapes. She looked down at her address book,
the list of names and numbers. Why was it that the first thing she did when she took on a big investigation was
this
—this ritual of cutting off contact? Every significant case seemed to demand that she cancel something, put family and friends
on hold, postpone things. Make excuses for why she wasn't a normal human being. Say good-bye as if she might not be coming
back. Give hollow assurances she was being smart and taking care of herself. It was a rite of making ready. Like an ocean-voyaging
ship, casting off the ropes as it got ready to leave shore, she had to sever her ties with the normal world. A way of isolating
herself. Of becoming a woman alone.

On one level, that sounded scary, but in fact she liked the feeling. She couldn't deny that it gave her a sense of strength
and self-sufficiency. It was like the feeling she used to savor on stormy days when she was a little girl: putting on her
big yellow raincoat and rain hat, borrowing Mom's umbrella, and going out to sit in the pouring rain. That feeling of solitude
and tidy self-containment. Everything sopping and wild around you, but you were dry and safe in your glistening yellow armor.
Everything you really needed, right there.

She dialed Edgar's home number, and he picked up after two rings. She was glad to hear his voice.

"It's me".

"Hey, Cree. How'd it go?"

"The talk? Really well. The other presenters were great, too."

" But—?"

She'd said, what, a dozen words to him, and he already could tell she was off balance. Suddenly Cree missed him painfully,
missed his lanky body and wry grin and the way it felt to be around a man who knew her so well. She wished she could tell
him that, but it was best to keep away from the complex of feelings there. Since last spring, when she'd begun an unexpected
and still largely undeveloped romance with Paul Fitzpatrick in New Orleans, Ed had pulled away considerably. It was his way
of giving her room to explore it without pressure from him. But though she had accepted the necessity of distance, she hated
it, and in the last few months she'd learned just how deep her ambivalences ran. Maybe it wasn't just Ed who felt more than
friendship. If Ed were here tonight, they'd go out and explore Albuquerque and have a good time. They'd drink and dance—he
was a knockout dancer—and confide and tell bad-taste jokes as they walked the night streets together. The thought confused
her and she put it away.

"A case dropped into my lap," she explained. "No, it was
thrown
there very deliberately. By Mason Ambrose."

"Ambrose! That old bastard. No kidding."

"Yeah, and it's a doozy. There's a boy with . . . well, with something wrong with him. Mason calls it 'a ghost in a bottle'
for us to study."

Ed paused, and she could imagine his long face frowning. "Like what—the kid's
possessed?
"

"Something like that, yeah. So I agreed to go look into it, starting tomorrow. I was thinking you and Joyce should get down
here."

"Jesus, Cree—"

"I know."

"Do you really?" The condescension, she knew, was just the sound of Ed's protective reflexes kicking in. "Hey, Cree, let me
spell something out for you. You're the most vulnerable person I've ever known. You almost
died
in New Orleans last spring. You're like a psychic petri dish, okay? An entity that can move right in on a normal person's
nervous system is going to find
you
a pretty tempting little—"

"Not necessarily."

"Oh, come on! Even a
nice
ghost puts your sanity at risk. You get 'possessed' by our goddamned
clients!
"

Of course, he was right. But, as always, she felt an unreasoning flash of resentment at him for pointing it out.

"This isn't
The Exorcist,
Ed," she said witheringly.

"How do you know? You haven't been there yet. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

Cree would have retorted sharply, but a shiver took her, as if her body recognized the danger her mind refused to accept.
She opened her mouth and shut it again and listened to the hiss of the telephone line for several moments.