Double Take (20 page)

“Déjà vu?”

“Yep. When I was little, I never thought about it, it was simply the way things were. It happened with friends sometimes too. I already knew what everyone was going to say.”

“So your guide was what—asleep—until you came along?”

Bevlin shrugged, came gracefully up to his feet. “More like he was simply there, maybe not fully aware of who he was, or what he was intended to do.”

Julia tossed him a bottle of water. He snagged it out of the air, opened it, tilted it back, and drank the entire thing straight down.

“This sort of thing would make me thirsty too,” Julia said to Cheney.

When he was finished with the bottle, Bevlin arced it toward the single wastebasket in the far corner of the room. It banked off the wall and fell neatly in, gave a small bounce, and settled.

Cheney said, “So you have no thought at all about who killed Dr. Ransom?”

“Of course I asked him when he warned me about you. I've also asked my other guides. Neither he nor any of the others seem to know. That, or none of them wants to tell me. I'm not sure which. Maybe they don't think it's my business, maybe they don't think I can handle it. August didn't see who it was, he told me that, just as he told Wallace.” Bevlin shuddered. “He said it all happened really fast, but he still felt the horror of it, knowing he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. He said he didn't feel all that much pain, a blessing, he supposed, thanks to the gift of cocaine.”

Julia said, “I wasn't aware August used cocaine until the police found a stash locked in one of his desk drawers and the medical examiner found cocaine in his system. I thought I could always tell if someone was high on drugs, but he kept it a secret from me, and he did it well.”

“All his close friends knew he used cocaine,” Bevlin said. “It never occurred to me to mention it to you. In any case, he said he sort of let go and then he was on the other side and he realized his knees wouldn't ever hurt him again. That pleased him.”

Cheney said, “Bevlin, I've been wondering why your guides don't make you filthy rich.”

He scratched his armpit. “The thing is, the guides don't know everything. When I was young I wanted to bet on a horse whose name was Second Sight—I asked my guide and he said he had no clue which horse would win, but he didn't like the name. Too cutesy, he said. Funny thing—Second Sight won. My guide made himself scarce for a while after that.”

Cheney said, “You knew Dr. Ransom for what? Seven, eight years?”

“Yes, something like that. He was a great man. I'm hoping he'll help me focus, help me see more than I've seen before.”

Cheney said, “You mean he'll be another guide?”

“Hmm, I hadn't thought of it like that. Perhaps so.”

“Who do you think killed him? Not what the guides think, what do you think?”

Bevlin said matter-of-factly, “If you asked me to pick someone in the profession, I'd vote for Soldan Meissen. He's a real fruitcake, has all these silly affectations. I hear he's into dressing Far East now, wears silk robes and smokes a hookah, plucky bugger. The man is disturbed, and he's greedy. Julia knows his history.

“You can forget Wallace. He's harmless. As for Kathryn Golden, I call her a TV whore. She sure hates that, gives me the evil eye. She's a very good TV whore, in fact. Her name was Betty Ann Cruther. She changed it about twelve years ago. It's no secret, she tells anyone who asks. It's odd though, no one ever asks. I wonder why Kathryn picked Golden—why such a ridiculous color?”

“Ask a guide,” Cheney said.

“Good one, Agent Stone. I will tolerate your company so long as you are of use to Julia.”

Julia said, “You didn't say if you thought Kathryn could have killed August.”

“Nah, Kathryn wouldn't ever hurt August. She was in love with him.”

“I didn't know that,” Julia said. “Surely you're wrong about that, Bevlin.”

“No, I'm not. Why would you know? No one would ever say anything about it to you. Fact is, babe, devious old Kathryn wanted August for years. They go back fifteen years at least. I don't know if he ever slept with her, none of my business. Of course August wouldn't say anything about it. He liked Kathryn and he wanted you to feel at ease around her.

“She once got drunk with me and Wallace. I think Soldan was there, looking down his nose at the three of us, and she prattled on about how she and August were kindred spirits.

“I'll tell you, the more big-name clients she latches on to, the more it goes to her head. She's a bit like Soldan, who's turned into an even bigger ass since he got his skinny little foot on TV. Thinks he's better than all of us now.”

“Well, Soldan is richer, Bevlin. So is Kathryn. Actually, so is Wallace. He's got a butler, for heaven's sake.”

“Ogden has always been with Wallace, even when he was poor. I just hope Wallace pays him more now that he's raking in the money.”

Cheney said, “On the other hand, Julia, Bevlin is much younger than the rest of them. Give him time.”

“Thank you, Agent Stone, but the truth's the truth. I can take it. Did you know that Kathryn's latest book sold forty thousand more copies than mine? Mine was better, but hers hit the public pulse just right. I suppose I'm a bit jealous, and my guides really frown on that.”

Cheney said, “Is Kathryn Golden a legitimate medium?”

Bevlin shrugged.

“How about Soldan Meissen? He's all over TV.”

“I forced myself to watch Soldan—sounds like a magician's silly name, doesn't it
—
The Great Soldan
—
anyway, I watched him once on an afternoon talk show. He did this cold reading on the studio audience. That means he's never met any of them before. He did the usual shtick—you know, ‘I feel a W, yes, a W, a W, or an F, that's it, it's either a W or an F—and the month of June, that's important, real important to someone.'

“He spoke fast, that's real important to keep the potential marks moving with you. He was smooth, and sure enough, someone shouted, ‘Yes, yes, I was married in June, June the nineteenth, and George almost made it to June, died May twenty-seventh.' There's always someone married in June, right? So Soldan moves to the stand right in front of her and leans close. ‘Yes, it is George, I can see that now. Perhaps we can talk to him.' And blah blah blah. He was good, impressed the hell out of most people in that audience. He moved so quickly it was hard to tell he didn't have all that many hits. I mean an F and a W—and the woman yells it's really a G for George, not remotely close, but no one notices. You see, if you're fast enough, charming enough, and silky smooth, it doesn't matter what you're selling.” He shrugged again. “All it takes is one person to connect to what you're throwing out there and you've got your hook in. That's what Soldan's best at.”

Cheney said, “That's called a cold reading?”

“Yeah, as opposed to a hot reading, which is fraud, you know, getting information about people without their knowledge before the fact.”

“So,” Cheney said, wanting to sit down but not about to fling himself onto one of those beanbags, “this Soldan is a con artist?”

“Maybe.”

“And Kathryn Golden?”

“She's good-looking, you know, and uses that well. But I can tell you for sure she's a psychic. I've seen her fall into a vision and I know it was for real. She told Wallace once that he'd left his jockey shorts in Violet's backpack. She was this young woman Wallace was seeing at the time. I thought Wallace would belt her, especially since he didn't know if he really had left his shorts there. And Kathryn's about the best I've seen at reading people, especially those who don't realize what she's doing.”

Julia said, “But you think she made that up, you know, to tease Wallace?”

“Hey,” Bevlin said, “in this business you can say you spoke to Oswald and who's to say otherwise? You can look at a photo of Sonny Bono, claim he's singing all over heaven wearing bell bottoms, that he hated being a politician but he really loved skiing and just look where that got him. Or you can say that when John Jr. hit the water, his mom Jackie was first in line to welcome him into the light, whatever. Again, if all you're interested in is entertaining, or getting an emotional response, there's little to stop you. Who's to say you're making it up?”

Anyone with half a functioning brain,
Cheney thought. He was feeling the mire creeping up to his knees. Time to refocus. “You think Kathryn might have murdered Dr. Ransom because he refused to leave Julia for her?”

“Nah, Kathryn wouldn't ever be into that sort of thing. Also, she knew August really loved Julia, so there would never be a question of his leaving her for any other woman.”

He smiled at Julia. “No, August wouldn't have left you even if the famous Madame Zorastre from nineteenth-century Prague had come back and offered herself. August really admired Madame Z, as we refer to her. I never heard him say that about any other psychic. Hey, he's probably met her by now, don't you think?”

“Why not?” Cheney said.

Suddenly Bevlin walked away from them and over to the big front window. He looked down. “I thought so,” he said over his shoulder. “My fuzzy old doll's here and I've got to convince her that her husband wants her to listen to what his son has to say about this trust scam. Please find out who killed August, Agent Stone, and keep Julia safe.”

Cheney and Julia passed the fuzzy old doll on the stairs going back down to the street. She paused, a little bird of a woman dressed in frilly pale blue. She looked them both up and down, and slowly nodded. “I can see that Mr. Wagner has helped you. You're wonderfully attuned to each other. How lovely to be young and want to bundle all the time. Now it's going to be my turn. Mr. Wagner will be so pleased for me—I'm going to marry my sweet young man.” And up the stairs she went, her step light, her pink scalp showing through her fluffy white hair.

“Oh dear,” Julia said. “This isn't going to make Bevlin's day.”

“Or Ralph's. I feel like I've fallen down the rabbit hole. Bundling? Didn't that go out in the eighteenth century?”

“No, it never does.”

CHAPTER 31

Xavier Makepeace stood at the window of his hotel room in downtown Palo Alto and sneered down at the people scurrying about like pointless lemmings, none of them going anywhere, none of them worth anything. He imagined picking up his Kalashnikov and mowing a wide swath down the middle of that unending noisy herd, thirty rounds so fast it made your teeth sting. It would put all those useless cretins right out of their misery.

His Kalashnikov, his favorite assault rifle, was cheap and simple, and it never let him down. He always spoke its full name, liked the way it flowed on his tongue when he whispered it aloud, not the ridiculously shortened AK-47. Too bad he'd had to leave it tucked it away in his home in Montego Bay. But still, he enjoyed thinking about how it would feel to spray bullets from his open window—he could almost hear the screams, suck in the smell of terror, and the odor of gunshots and death. It always revved him like nothing else.

Nothing revved him at all right now. He turned away from the window.

He thought back to the years before he'd gotten his Kalashnikov, the years of his youth when he'd gathered young Jamaican men around him with bribes of the very best, the most potent ganja, their spiritual aid and, it seemed to him, their only escape. He'd believed he could lead them to do almost anything at all, and what he wanted was to rob the pasty-faced Brits, break their wills, send them scurrying back to that cold, benighted island of theirs. He thought he'd convinced some of the young men to put their future in his hands, to rebel against all the Brits' stupid laws and tedious education, their bloody imperialist history and foppish speech, the greedy thieves. His father included. His father, who'd been sent to what he thought a dismal little island as a civil servant to improve the locals' lot. Yeah, like he had cared whether that was going to happen.

Xavier had realized before his father had that the young men hadn't wanted to be improved. They wanted to spend their days sprawled in the shade, wallowing in the numbing bliss of their ganja. They stayed polite to his father and had backed away from Xavier, like he was crazy and they might catch it.

Xavier thought of his father's endless rules and regulations, that supercilious way he looked down his nose at those he considered his inferiors, and that included anyone who hadn't attended Sandhurst.

And yet his father had lowered himself to bed a local, and Xavier was the result. The old man eventually sent him to England for an education he said would rival the prime minister's. Xavier had hated the relentless cold, the bone-numbing damp, and the rain, always the rain, snaking down his neck, making him so miserable he'd wished he'd die.

And how he'd hated the Brits. At school they rigorously caned their rebellious young to make them strong, and he was no exception. He'd heard them say more times than he could stomach that it was for his own good. He thought he might bomb Sandhurst out of existence one of these days. It was something profoundly pleasant to look forward to.

Xavier realized he'd clenched his hands so tightly they were cramping. How could that old bastard still twist him up?

Bad memories, he thought, that's all. His old man was well and truly gone, ever since Xavier had squeezed three neat shots into his chest on a sodden black night in Belfast, years and years ago. His father was there to negotiate with those hate-filled blighter Irish, and ended up sprawled on the street between his two dead bodyguards. Xavier had watched the life fade out of his pale icy eyes, filled first with disbelief, and then final awareness. He leaned down and told his father that a lowly Siberian peasant had invented the Kalashnikov and what did he think of being shot with that? His father hadn't answered, he'd died instead.