Embers (16 page)

"
Why is it,
"
she continued in that wonderfully kind voice,
"
that each of us is here, in the Sunset Room of the Elm Tree Inn, on this particular evening of our lives? What events have led us to be here? Is there some significance to them? Do we exist in some particular alignment to one another, like the stars in the universe? Or are we merely specks in random collisions, glancing off one another like dry leaves on a windy day?
"

She let the questions sink in, and then she said,
"
I for one believe that we are here because each of us has behaved in a particular way up until this moment. We
'
ve made a series of decisions, some big, some small, motivated by either reason or emotion, which have led us to be sitting right here, right now.

"
We know, for example, that
last summer Sylvie had a life-
altering experience in Thunder Hole. Since then, she
'
s managed to convince us all to take the time and spend the money to see for ourselves what greater force may hover there. We all know that as a result of her experience in Thunder Hole, Sylvie left a job she hated as comptroller in a ceramics import company, and opened her own pottery shop. We all know how happy she
'
s been since she took control of her fate.

"
Let
'
s think about that for a few moments. Let
'
s think about the events that have led us to be at this place, at this time.
''

Zenobia smiled on them all, a smile that even Wyler had to admit was positively radiant.

Yeah,
he thought.
Charisma. Aura. Bedside manner.
Call it what you like, all group leaders had it, from preachers to presidents.

He glanced around the room. Everyone was following Zenobia
'
s advice in his or her own way. One of the squatters had folded herself into the classic lotus position and sat with her eyes closed, thumbs and middle fingers touching. The guy standing at the mantel was staring at a pattern in the Persian rug. The elderly woman with the knitting in her lap, the one he
'
d dubbed Miss Marple, was busy clicking her needles in what he supposed was the rhythm of meditation. Some of the others simply looked blank, each in his own little trance.

And Allie? Head bowed, absolutely earnest. It surprised Wyler when she reached for his hand, probably in violation of the rules, and held it. Was it a plea for him to get more involved? Or simply a gentle reminder that a series of decisions, rational and emotional, had indeed led him to be at this place, at this time?

He didn
'
t want to think about that. He shoved the thought aside. No gunfire allowed; this was a bullet-free zone. But the image persisted: sweet, dead little Cindy with the bright blue eyes. Four years old. Shot dead. Her killer dead. Wyler wounded. And all for what? For nothing. It depressed him unutterably. If he was here for any reason at all, it was because he was burned out, emotionally and intellectually. If he was here, it was because he was trying to hide. He stared at Zenobia, resenting her gentle prodding, resenting her kindness.

Dammit,
he thought.
I
won't
let her bring Cindy back.

He
'
d learned a trick of his own for clearing his mind of negative thoughts. A sergeant had taught him, when he was new to homicide, that a negative attitude was the kiss of death to an ongoing investigation. It closed you off from avenues of possibilities. The sergeant had shown him how to clear his mind by meditating on a single syllable, any syllable. Clancy
'
s own choice was the classic
"
ohm.
"
Wyler had laughed when Clancy first said it; but you only got to laugh once at a two- hundred-twenty-pound cop who could toss back a quart of Jameson
'
s and still beat you at arm wrestling.

As it happened, tonight Wyler didn't need "ohm."  The memory of Clancy was good enough to banish negative thoughts.

He glanced at Zenobia. Her eyes were closed. She looked as if she might be asleep. He was wondering how rude it would be if he just slipped away, when suddenly Zenobia tensed up. The next words out of her mouth
—
high-
pitched and feisty and nothing at all like her normal voice
—
jolted him.

"
Hey! Sylvie! About this Thunder Hole business!
"

A shudder of awareness seemed to ripple through the group. They were expecting this, that was obvious. It seemed to bother them not at all that Zenobia was slumped over with her eyes closed and speaking to them in another dialect. Sylvie, in fact, seemed downright pleased to be the first one addressed.

"
Yes,
Arnold
?
"
she said in a thrilled, hushed voice.

Sylvie was a thirtyish woman with the face of an artist, pale and ethereal, with wispy reddish hair roped into a long braid that hung down the back of her flowery, flowing dress.

"
Tell us again about Thunder Hole. For those who
don't
know.
"

Wyler looked around. Who didn
'
t know about Thunder Hole besides him?

"
Oh!
"
said Sylvie.
"
Well, it
'
s a place on the west
shore
of
Acadia
where the waves crash against the rocks into a small cavern near the path. On the day I was there, the wind must
'
ve been just the right direction, because the waves were huge. Crashing, and just huge. There was a group of schoolkids with their teacher there before me, and they were so noisy I thought about moving on.

"
But for some reason, I stayed. Eventually they left, and I was alone. The waves just kept on crashing and crashing, and each time, I felt this spray of salt, like they were slaps, you know, across my face?

"
And every wave, every slap, screamed the same thing to me:
'
Wake up! You
'
re sleepwalking through life! Wake up!
'
So I did. I went home, quit my job, and rented a little studio.
"

She was sitting alongside the buffet, and in the flickering glow of the candles Wyler could see her hands as she gestured through her little story. They were the hands of an artist, graceful and expressive; the hands of a potter, dry and cracked and with the nails trimmed short.

"
You think you couldn
'
t have figured this out without the waves?
"

"
Oh, no,
Arnold
. I
'
m sure I couldn
'
t.
"

"
You think the waves have some mystical power?
"

"
To communicate? Yes, of course. That
'
s why we
'
re all here.
"

"
I beg to disagree.
"

A collective gasp of shock echoed around the room. Wyler began to perk up.

"
How do you mean?
"
asked Sylvie in a faint voice.

"I mean, you'
re
from
Cincinnati
! What do you know about salt spray? No more than me, a dust-bowl farmer from
Kansas
. Is there any doubt you'
d be impressed by pounding seas? Sure you woul
d. And you should. But that don'
t make it mystical, not in the way
you
mean.
"

"
I don
'
t understand
...
I don
'
t even agree,
Arnold
. Why would you let us come, in that case? Why are we all here?
"

"
For pity
'
s sake
—
to have a good time. To relax and hike and take in the salt a
ir. To let yourself go. But don'
t expect the sea to hold n
o conversations with you. It ain'
t gonna happen.
"

Wyler tried very hard not to laugh and failed. It came out in one short whoop, just loud enough for Allie
—
still holding his hand
—
to yank his arm nearly out of its socket. He made a wincing face of apology to the scandalized company, afraid that he
'
d offended
Arnold
too deeply for the session to go on.

No such luck. After a moment Sylvie said,
"
I
'
ll try to take your words to heart,
"
and the conversation moved on to other, less provocative ground.

Arnold
had lots of advice for everyone; Wyler found him an opinionated but likable son of a bitch. The farmer wasn
'
t the least bit shy about telling an elderly widow to place an ad in the personals; about warning a couple to pull out their money from a financial planner they disliked; and about urging Julia to seek a zoning variance to build an addition to the Elm Tree Inn.

It was surprisingly specific and mundane stuff. Wyler had always had the impression that séances were more cosmic than this. Obviously the
"
metaphysical
"
in this meeting didn
'
t refer to the subject matter.

After it was over
—
after Zenobia groaned softly and opened her eyes and began speaking in that reassuringly warm voice of hers
—
Julia turned on the lights, and the group dissolved into spontaneous pockets of conversation.

Wyler turned to Allie and said,
"
Arnold
seems pretty savvy for a dust-bowl farmer. Although, personally, I think he gave the retired couple bum advice; they should stick with bonds and utilities.
"

"
You
'
re
horrible,
"
Allie said, exasperated.
"
Meg is right about you.
"

"
Oh? And what does our Meg have to say about me?
"
he asked all too quickly. The fact was, he didn
'
t give a tinker
'
s damn what Meg Atwells had to say about him, because he already knew: She thought his heart was hardened. He remembered quite well their exchange on the town dock. The memory made
him clamp his teeth.

"
My sister said
—
"
Allie bit her lip and looked away, then looked back to him and took a deep breath. Wyler had the sense that this time she wasn
'
t playing up to him, wasn
'
t acting.

"
You really want to know?
"
she asked, lowering her voice.
"
My sister said you
'
re the worst of all worlds: You
'
re from a big city, and you
'
re a homicide cop. She said you
'
ve seen too much violence, too much evil in men, to be able to care about anything any
—
"

"
Well, Mr. Wyler. What did you think? I found it all quite fascinating.
"

It was Julia Talmadge, smiling and diplomatic, ever the perfect hostess.

Wyler was mad enough just then to tell Julia the truth, that he thought it was a scream. Where else would you get a voice from beyond warning people not to listen to voices from beyond?

"
As a matter of fact,
"
he said,
"
I, too, found it fascinating. Where else would you get a voice from beyond warning peo
ple
—
ow!
"

"
Oh, dear; it
'
s your leg again, Tom, isn
'
t it?
"
Allie asked with a concerned look, taking his arm.

"
It
'
s more my foot,
"
he said with a thin smile. The spot where she
'
d jammed her little spike heel was throbbing in pain.