INTERVENTION (17 page)

"A muddled metaphor, but thine own."

Jamie grinned at the older man. "You poor buggers working under Dunlap are luckier than most. At least you've got me. Not quite as blind as a mole. More in the hedgehog class, maybe."

Weinstein sighed. "And to think I'm basing my doctoral thesis on you! I'd do better to creep back to the family tog-shop on Duke Street."

Jamie said, "I'll quit mucking up, Nigel. Just promise me ... when you do get your degree, stay on at the university. Work with me on
useful
experiments, not this codswallop that Dunlap insists on. You came out to get me tonight knowing exactly where I was. We know what that has to mean. Let's train my clairvoyance and yours, too, instead of stifling it with trivia. Let's show the world that psychic powers are serious business."

"Conceited little twit. All you want is my life, eh? All right—you're on!" Weinstein peered through the windscreen at indistinct blobs of light marking Dalkeith Road. "Now suppose you use your clairvoyance, or your out-of-body faculty, or
some
damn thing to find us a nice pub."

RIVER FOREST, ILLINOIS, EARTH

9
JUNE
1973

A
LDO "BIG AL"
Camastra stepped out of his air-conditioned study into the muggy, music-filled evening and closed the French doors behind him. He was smiling, for the business with the union reps and the party bagmen from Chicago had gone very well indeed. Now he was free to circulate among the guests like a proper host, just as Betty Carolyn had begged him to do. Family business came first, of course; but he wanted to keep her happy on their Twenty-Fifth Anniversary, and besides, there were some people around that he should glad-hand.

Nick and Carlo were patiently waiting on patio chairs, ever alert. Big Al nodded to them. "Party going good?"

"Really swinging, Al," Carlo said. "Joe Porks even brought this broad who sang on the Johnny Carson show. Terrific! Sort of a Cher, but with boobs."

Big Al laughed, adjusted his silk cummerbund, and shot his cuffs so the big gold links just peeked out from the sleeves of his dinner jacket. "Did Rosemary get here?"

"Frankie drove her in from O'Hare about an hour ago," Nick said. "Her plane was delayed. She went to change."

They went down the flagstone steps with Carlo leading and Nick bringing up the rear. The big garden behind the Camastra mansion was lit with skeins of Japanese lanterns in addition to the bronze lamps illuminating the rose beds. A marquee for refreshments had been set up near the west wing and there were throngs of guests moving about inside of it. Another considerable crowd had gathered around the portable dance floor where tables and chairs made an outdoor cabaret flanked by flower beds. The big band was playing "Leaving the Straight Life Behind." Some forty couples gyrated to the music without ever engaging in body contact.

Big Al grimaced contemptuously at the sight of them. "They call that dancing? Everybody doing their own thing, bumping and grinding like a buncha Clark Street hookers?"

The two soldiers guarding the patio steps greeted the Chicago Boss respectfully and stepped aside so he and his bodyguard could enter the crush of the party. The bolder guests began to converge immediately—businessmen and politicians and lobbyists and fellow mobsters and their expensive women. The relatives and smaller fry hung around in the background, clutching drinks and waving.

"Happy Silver Anniversary, Al!"

"Mazel tov, Al baby!"

"Wonderful party, Mr. Camastra. Quite a showplace you have here!"

"Lemme get a glassa spumante for you, Al."

"Mr. Camastra, I think we met in Springfield at the last session—"

Shaking hands, smiling, and returning compliments, he wove expertly through the crowd. Nick and Carlo were always a few steps behind. He accepted the best wishes of a Chicago alderman, kissed his wife's sister, gave a polite brush-off to a hollow-eyed banking executive, told a dapper monsignor that he'd be delighted to contribute to the parish carillon fund, and congratulated a visiting New York consigliere of the Montedoro Family for having beaten a federal conspiracy rap.

Then he was at the edge of the dance floor, and all the well-wishers and importuners were swept away as if by magic. He kissed his wife Betty Carolyn, who looked terrific in clinging white Bob Mackie evening pajamas with silver fringe, topped off with a coiffure like sculptured meringue. And there was his grown daughter Rosemary, laughing as he swept her up in a bear hug.

"Hey, Rosie, my little princess! You look great. How's the art-gallery business in the Big Apple? We were afraid you'd miss the party with your plane delayed—"

"Al, the most exciting thing!" Betty Carolyn squealed. "Rosemary didn't say anything when she called from the airport so's we wouldn't worry, and anyhow by the time the plane landed it was all over, and her wonderful hero of a boyfriend even cooled off the U.S. Marshals so she and him don't even have to make a statement until tomorrow when the skyjacker is arraigned."

"What?" The word was like a soft explosion. Big Al held his smiling daughter at arm's length. "Your plane was
skyjacked
? Jesus Christ!"

"Poppa, I'm all right. No one was hurt and the skyjacker was captured—thanks to Kieran. Kieran O'Connor, a very dear friend of mine."

Carlo and Nick were still fending off guests, and the band was working itself into incipient apoplexy as it approached the climax of "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog." Rosemary drew forward a slender dark-haired man who had been standing behind her. He was about thirty years old, clean-cut and with conservatively styled hair. He wore designer jeans and an open shirt with a gold neck-chain, the usual summer formal wear of his generation. His smile was diffident and his eyes cast down as Rosemary said:

"Kieran subdued the skyjacker single-handed, Poppa. He took away the man's gun and—and somehow knocked him unconscious with a single blow! Karate or something."

Big A1 seized the hand of Kieran O'Connor. "My God! How can I thank you? You gotta tell me everything. My own daughter skyjacked! What's this damn country coming to? Your name's O'Connor? You a frienda Rosie's from New York? Let's find a place to sit down and—"

The band, having brought "Jeremiah" to a rousing conclusion, now blared out a fanfare. People started tinkling their glasses with spoons.

"Ooh," cried Betty Carolyn. "I told the band leader that when you came in, he should quick finish up whatever they were playing and then announce our special dance. Al, you know everybody's been waiting for you to come down. And then we cut the cake—"

"Lay-deez and gentlemen!" The amplified voice of the band leader boomed through the festive summer night. "And now, by special request, in honor of the Silver Wedding Anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Aldo Camastra..."

The opening strains of Big Al's favorite tune, "The Godfather Waltz," throbbed from a single violin. The guests broke into applause and cheers and Betty Carolyn tugged at her husband's left hand. The right one was still in the grip of Kieran O'Connor.

"Al, we gotta dance. Come on!"

But Big Al stood unmoving, his mouth open in an expression of incredulity and his eyes locked upon those of the young man standing before him. Kieran O'Connor's lips were moving, but the noise from the crowd and the now fully instrumented waltz music made his voice inaudible to Betty Carolyn and Rosemary.

Big Al heard every word.

I have wanted to meet you—or someone like you—for a long time, Mi. Camastra. The skyjack was a charade. An introduction and a demonstration. I brought the gun aboard the aircraft myself, and I selected the poor devil who would play the skyjacker role and made certain that he played it. Wouldn't you like to know how I did that, Mr. Camastra? I have a number of other useful talents at my command. If we can come to an amicable arrangement, I am willing to put them at your disposal.

"Malocchio," whispered Big Al. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. "The Evil Eye!" He tried to cry out to Carlo and Nick. The young Irishman's hypnotic voice reproached him.

You don't have to be afraid, Mr. Camastra. My offer is entirely legitimate. I need you, and you stand to profit considerably through use of my special services.

"Al, come on!" said Betty Carolyn.

The voice in his mind was genial. The paralysis that had fettered his body eased, but still that entrancing gaze held him. Malocchio!

I'll let you dance with your lovely wife in just a moment, Mr. Camastra. I just want to assure you that there is no possible way for you to harm me. We are going to be friends. Your daughter and I are already very good friends.

Big Al felt himself being pulled onto the dance floor. Betty Carolyn's body pressed against his and they began to waltz to the sad, lilting melody. Rosemary stood arm in arm with a pleasant, very ordinary looking young man—who still exerted his mental wizardry from more than twenty feet away.

Ever since I finished law school at Harvard I've been researching the economics of the nationwide organization operated by you and your Sicilian colleagues. I found it fascinating. I know every significant detail of the Five Families' operations back in New York, including a maneuver currently being orchestrated to your disadvantage by a certain Mi. "foe Porks" Porcaro of the Falcone Family. We'll talk about it later. Enjoy your dance, Mr. Camastra. It's really a great party.

FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD

I
CONTINUED TO ACT
as the surreptitious confidant of Denis Remillard throughout his early childhood in spite of my brother Don's antagonism. The boy's long-distance farspeaking ability improved with each passing year; and my own telepathic faculty, through our constant interaction and mental symbiosis, also advanced far beyond the level I had previously achieved with Don.

Little Denis soaked up knowledge like a human computer and my role as simple tutor soon became obsolete. Nevertheless I still had an important job to do educating Denis in human relationships. At times he seemed almost like some naive little visitor from an extraterrestrial civilization, overflowing with data about Earth, its science, its culture, and its people—yet unable to fully comprehend how the human race
worked.
I could not help but recall Odd John, who was similarly bewildered. Not that Denis had any of the fictional character's inhuman alienation—far from it. But the murkier ins and outs of human psychology—especially the irrational elements playing a part in human decision making—tended to perplex and bemuse him. Brilliant though he was, he was handicapped by overly logical attitudes, social inexperience, and the inevitably self-centered mind-set of a very young child. It would have been futile to try to form Denis's conscience, for instance, by referring him to treatises on ethics or moral theology; he needed to develop a sense of values by observing the actions of others, analyzing them, and judging their good or evil in a context that was not only social but personal. Practically speaking, it amounted to talking things over with me.

Looking back on our relationship from my present perspective, 140 years later, I can only be grateful that at the time I did not fully appreciate the crucial importance of what I was doing. If I had, I doubt that I would have had the courage to undertake the job—Ghost or no Ghost.

With the birth of Don and Sunny's second son Victor in 1970, Denis was relieved of a good deal of paternal constriction. Don became obsessed with the new child, who was strapping and handsome and the very image of his father, and lifted his earlier prohibition of contact between Denis and me. With Sunny's cooperation I was able to spend many hours each week with the boy. Our meeting place was the old apartment on Second Street, where aging One' Louie still lived with my unmarried cousins Al and Margie.

It was in 1973, when the time came for Denis to enter school, that the next crisis took place. After careful negotiation (and a bit of coercion!) I had managed to wangle a partial scholarship for Denis at Northfield Hall, a prestigious private boarding school in Vermont that specialized in gifted children; but when the time came to finalize the arrangements, Don balked. He was in a precarious financial position. His alcoholism affected his job performance and he had been passed over for promotion. Furthermore, Sunny was pregnant again, and Dr. Laplante predicted twins. Don's share of the tuition at Northfield would entail considerable sacrifice on his part—and he also professed an objection to the philosophical orientation of the school, which was ultraliberal and permissive and not at all congenial to the old-fashioned Catholicism of our family. Don dragged the entire Remillard family into the row. We split into those who wanted the best for Denis (me, Sunny, Al, and Margie), and those who maintained that no educational opportunity was worth "endangering the child's faith at some godless, left-wing school for spoiled rich kids" (Don, One' Louie, and about twenty-five other cousins, uncles, aunts, and in-laws).

In vain, I argued that Denis's religious instruction could be assured by special arrangement with a church near Northfield. Don declared that the Berlin parochial school had been good enough for him, and it should be good enough for his older son—genius or no genius. When I volunteered to share the tuition expenses Don stubbornly refused. A last-ditch attempt on my part to gamer a full scholarship for Denis was shattered when Don made a truculent phone call to the school's headmaster. Northfield washed its hands of us volatile Canucks.

Of course nobody had asked Denis what
he
wanted.

Frustrated and disgusted by the debacle, I decided to go on a weekend backpack in the Mahoosucs to cool off. I could usually restore my spirit by climbing in the mountains, and I have since known many other metas who felt the same way. Perhaps it is merely instinctive for the psychosensitive to ascend as high as possible above the walls and confining rock formations that tend to block the free ranging of our minds; perhaps it is more—a yearning to be where the light is brightest, where the trees merge and the extent and shape of the forest can be known, where mean and mundane concerns are blotted out in flatland haze. I suppose I am moderately devout, but I don't feel impelled to pray in the high places. (I'm more likely to cry out of the depths!) Instead, I climb upward to bask. Skyey energies seem to pour through me when I stand on a peak like a human lightning rod; they renew me, and in some mystical fashion revitalize the Earth I stand upon.