The Yanti (31 page)

The woman looked guilty. “I drink three of the large ones. The liter bottles.”

Ali smiled. “That’s probably not such a great idea.”

The woman headed for the kitchen. “Would you like ice with your Coke? A sandwich?”

“Sure.” Ali scanned the living room. There was a couch, a chair, a TV, a coffee table, a single lamp. That was it—talk about plain living. However, on the walls were two paintings of mountains, both exquisite. Ali recognized Mt. Blanc in France. The other was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

The woman called from the kitchen. “What kind of sandwiches do you like?”

Ali yelled back. “What do you have?”

“I don’t know!” the woman shouted. “They sell them at the store! I don’t know what’s in them!”

“Just bring me whatever you have!” Ali said, studying the paintings closer. They had been done in oil, and they did not
feel
old, less than five years. Neither was signed, which struck her as odd, but both were nicely framed. Indeed, whoever had framed them had spent considerable money. They were covered with nonreflective glass. Plus the wooden borders were finely carved, gold-leafed, worthy of masterpieces. The artistic quality was indeed very high.

Ali lifted the one of Mt. Blanc off the wall, held it to her chest.

She almost dropped the blasted thing!

“Yuck!” she muttered. The painting was gorgeous but carried with it a montage of foul feelings. Ali knew in an instant why. Sheri had painted it. And her mood, her bitterness, whatever, had been imprinted on the work. Even though it was beautiful to the eye, it was a pain to the heart.

So Sheri Smith had been in the house.

How old were the paintings? Why had she painted these particular scenes?

The woman returned with a liter bottle of Coke, two glasses, containing ice, and a basketful of plastic-wrapped store-made sandwiches. Acting like a nervous hostess, she set them on the lone coffee table. All the furniture was appallingly cheap. It must have come from a Goodwill store. Not that Ali was judgmental about such places. Since her mother had died, and money was tight, she had bought clothes at the Goodwill in Breakwater.

“Look through the sandwiches. If you find one you like, just eat it,” the woman said, unscrewing the cap off the Coke bottle. “I’m so glad you wanted Coke instead of milk. I don’t actually have any milk. My doctor says dairy can make you fat.”

Ali sat across from the woman and studied the food, found a turkey sandwich with cheese, lettuce, and tomato on it. She was no fan of mayonnaise. Ali let her hostess pour her a drink. The woman filled the large glass to the rim. It seemed to make her happy.

“You must be hungry and tired after coming such a long way,” the woman said, sort of repeating Ali’s earlier remark.

Ali nodded, took a sip of her drink, opened her sandwich and dug in. When had she eaten last? She was getting as bad as the woman, she could not remember . . .

“How is it?” Nancy Pillar asked anxiously.

“Great.” Ali casually nodded to the paintings. “Did Lucy paint those?”

“Why, yes. How did you know? Oh do you know my Lucy? I thought maybe you just knew Hector. They used to date, you know, before . . .” The woman didn’t finish.

“Before what?” Ali asked.

The woman’s fingers shook as she tried to open her own sandwich. The question had disturbed her. Lines wrinkled her face.

“Before they stopped dating,” she said.

Ali acted nonchalant. “I know Lucy. Saw her just the other day.”

The woman suddenly smiled. “How nice for you! How is she doing?”

“Fine. Hector’s fine, too. I saw him today.”

“Lucky you. Such a lovely boy.”

Boy
, Ali thought. The woman had not seen him in ages.

Then Nancy Pillar got distressed or confused—it was no doubt a combination of the two. Much of her emotional states seemed to swing between the two moods. Ali was not sure what she had done wrong, but the woman’s next remark was revealing.

“She did not
hurt
you with her secret?” the woman asked softly.

Ali knew she had to move carefully. “No. She let me know her secret. The secret that she was still alive. You and I—we share that same secret.” Ali added in a soothing tone, allowing her internal power to strengthen the effect of her tone, “It’s all right.”

The woman relaxed, nodded to herself. “It’s all right.”

Ali tried to move gently forward. “When was the last time you saw Lucy?”

Unfortunately, the woman stopped again and frowned.

“It’s been some time,” she said.

Ali smiled. “But she must stop by at holidays?”

The woman mimicked her smile. “Lucy loves Christmas! Sometimes she stops by then!”

“Did she stop by last Christmas?” Ali asked.

Nancy nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t remember. Last year, I didn’t buy a tree, so I wasn’t sure when Christmas was. Without a tree and presents, it’s hard to tell.”

“I know what you mean,” Ali said, her mouth full of food. Boy, was she hungry! It would be interesting to compute how many calories flying burned per minute. She pointed to Nancy Pillar’s ring, added, “Did Lucy give you that emerald?”

“Yes!” Setting down her sandwich, she held it out for Ali to admire. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Ali said, although it had an awful vibe. “May I see it, please?”

The woman drew back her hand, frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Can I hold it?”

Nancy Pillar suddenly stood, angry. “You may certainly not! What are you trying to do, steal my ring? Is that why you came here?”

Ali looked up in surprise. The transformation in the woman was shocking. Yet Ali tried to keep her voice and expression friendly. “I’m sorry, it was wrong of me to ask that. I just liked it so much. It’s so pretty. But of course you should be careful with it.”

The woman continued warily, “Why did you come here?”

“I told you. I know Lucy and Hector, and I was in the area. I just wanted to meet you.”

Slowly, the woman sat down, nodding to herself. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry,” Ali said.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You’re a nice person, I can tell. Your ugly scars are not your fault.”

Ali had never before been called ugly.

She nodded. “I got them not too long ago.”

Nancy Pillar put a hand to her mouth. “Poor dear. What happened?”

“Oh, it was my fault. I was making some tea, and I tripped and pulled the boiling pot down, and it spilled on my face.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for you. Did it happen at Christmas?”

“Closer to Easter.” Ali nodded to the paintings. “Did Lucy just paint those? Or was it a long time ago?”

“It was some time ago. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“I love them. Are there any other paintings of hers in the house?”

“Yes. There are other mountains. Do you like mountains . . . Alice?”

“Yes. Very much. May I see them, please?”

“Of course.” The woman stood, but not before she took several swallows of her glass of Coke. “The others are in her bedroom.”

Ali followed her down the hall. “You keep a room for Lucy here?”

“You know Lucy. Never know when she’s going to stop by.”

“Does she call much?”

“She calls.”

“Does Hector ever call?”

“No! I wish he would. Such a lovely boy.”

Nancy Pillar turned on the light in the last room on the right. Again, the furniture was sparse, cheap. A bed, carefully
made up, and a desk with a chair that looked as if it might have been used by a teenager, not a grown woman.

However, there were five paintings on the walls. Each of a different mountain. Ali recognized Pete’s Peak, along with Mt. Fuji, from Japan; Mt. Kilimanjaro, from Tanzania; and Mt. Shasta, from California.

The fifth and last painting—like the one in the living room—she did not know, but she made a point to commit both to memory. Later she would find them on the Internet. The mountains might be significant.

Besides the seven doors inside Pete’s Peak, there were six tunnels. Ali had only explored one, which had led to Kilimanjaro and Ra, in Africa. She would have laid odds that these other mountains were where the other five tunnels led. If she had time, Ali told herself, she would try to confirm her theory. The mountains might be the spots through which the elementals planned to invade the Earth.

Lucy had painted each mountain with extraordinary care and detail.

Mt. Shasta, which in Ali’s humble opinion was one of the most beautiful mountains on Earth, was directly above the bed. The other four hung opposite the bed. Each had been handsomely framed, and left unsigned.

Were these places Lucy still regularly visited? Or had she lost her attachment to them long ago? The latter was probably the case, for why had she left them here, with a woman who hardly knew her own name?

Standing in the center of Lucy’s bedroom, Ali turned and stared deeply at the mother. Catching the woman’s eye, she let her field expand and placed the woman in a deep hypnotic trance. Ordinarily she did not like to use such power on people.
It felt like an infringement of free will, something the Entity might do. Yet Ali was certain a spell had been placed on the woman and hated to leave her in her present condition.

Nancy Pillar stared at her without blinking.

“Can you hear me, Nancy?” Ali asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you understand I’m a good person and I’m here to help you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you understand that? How do you know that I’m good?”

“Because you are a high fairy.”

“You know about high fairies?”

“I used to know about them.”

“You used to know about them and then you forgot?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you forget about them?”

“She made me forget.”

“Lucy made you forget?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she make you forget?”

Nancy hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Why do you think? If you had to guess?”

Nancy winced. “She did not die in the fire. I thought she died in the fire. That is what they told me.”

“Who told you that?”

“The police. They said . . . Lucy is dead.”

“But they were uncertain at first, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why were they uncertain?”

“Because they could not find her body.”

“Because she was still alive.”

“I don’t know . . . Yes.”

“You know she is still alive because she visits you sometimes?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time she visited you?”

“Years ago.”

“How many years?”

“Four . . . Five. She came to show me her baby.”

“She had a baby?”

“Yes.”

“Was the baby named Nira?”

“Yes.”

“Was she happy to show you the baby?”

The woman hesitated. “I don’t know. The baby . . . made me happy.”

“How long after the fire did Lucy first visit you?”

“Years.”

“Do you remember how many years?”

“Two . . .Three . . .”

“Were you shocked when you saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Were you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Was Lucy happy, too?”

Nancy hesitated. “I think so.”

“Did she tell you to keep her visit secret?”

“Yes.”

“Was she burnt? Did she have scars?”

“No.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yes . . . At first.”

“But then you accepted that her scars were gone?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What did she do that made you accept that her scars were gone?”

Nancy hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“What did she do that made you keep secret the fact that she was still alive?”

“I don’t know . . . She asked to me to keep it secret.”

“Did she do anything else to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“When she visited you—the first time after the fire—did you feel different after she left?”

Nancy winced. “I don’t . . . think . . . I don’t . . . know.”

The woman had begun to wobble on her feet. Ali told her to sit on the edge of the bed. When the woman was comfortable, Ali knelt before her, maintaining eye contact. She was in a hurry to get on with her many tasks, but knew it was dangerous to rush what was nothing less than psychic surgery.

“Think back to that first visit after the fire. Did Lucy just show up at the door here?”

“Yes.”

“Did she drive a car here? Did you see her car?”

“I saw . . . no car.”

“Did she say why she had come to see you?”

“She came . . . She said . . . she missed me.”

“Did she act like she had missed you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it hard to keep her secret? The secret that she was really alive?”

This time the woman did more than wince. She shook in pain. Yet she continued to stare at Ali, although Ali had to exert more power to maintain control over her.

“I wanted to tell . . .” Nancy began.

“Who did you want to tell?”

“People.”

“You wanted to tell other people that your daughter was alive?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to tell Hector?”

“Yes.”

“But Lucy said you must keep it a secret that she was alive?”

“Yes.”

Ali moved near. “When she told you this, did she come close to you?”

“Yes.”

“Did she stare in your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Did she order you to keep her secret?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try to fight this order? This command?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fight it because you knew you were a high fairy?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know she was putting a spell on you?”

“I didn’t know . . . no.”

“But still, you fought her.”

“Yes.”

“Was it then she slipped the ring on your finger?”

The woman did an odd thing then. She shut her eyes. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and she panted. Ali could feel she was losing control, but feared to force her to open her eyes and stare at her again. God, how she hated using this ability! But not so much as she hated what the witch had done to her own mother.

Nancy Pillar began to weep.