Goodnight Blackbird (12 page)

I
n this age of relentless self-promotion, of vanity plates and personalized ringtones, when every teen girl has a blog and every
American Idol
runner-up has a record deal, when every bargain book table in every Barnes & Noble is piled high with the memoirs of every quasi-celebrity to come down the pike, Darren found it a bit jarring that Kat Shakespeare didn't have her own website.

Most of the psychics and spiritualists listed on the Archangel Society's homepage did. Lots of them even had their own books, usually self-published. One woman offered a $199 DVD course in
Massaging Your Way to Spiritual Enlightenment
(no indication if "full release" was part of the final exam).

Kat Shakespeare of Akron, Ohio, however, seemed remarkably modest by comparison. Her one-paragraph bio on the Archangel site was almost bland:
With over a decade of mediumship experience, Kat's abilities of clairvoyance and clairsentience have made her adept at house clearings and spirit crossings. She embraces a wide range of spiritual beliefs and offers fine insights into our interactions with the Spirit Realm
. This was followed by an e-mail address and phone number.

Darren called her to set up a day for the evaluation: Saturday, July 18. On the phone, her voice was a disconcerting cannonade of enthusiasm and excitement. Darren could feel the exclamation points hitting him like shrapnel.
I'm so excited about this! It's such an amazingly tragic situation! I can't imagine what you've been going through! It's so incredibly, amazingly fascinating and exciting!

"She probably takes amphetamines to calm down," Jacqueline told him at dinner one evening. "I'd love to be there for this travesty. But I doubt Rachel would approve."

"You can meet us for lunch afterwards if you want. Kat wants to debrief me about her findings 'off-site.'"

"That concerns me, too. You've already given her the background of the house. So there's no way to tell if she's really psychic or just parroting back info you've already given her. 'Yes, I'm seeing a young girl, bleeding from a gunshot wound.'"

"I'm not trying to prove or disprove her abilities," Darren said. "I just want the house cleared. She says she offers a money-back guarantee."

"Get it in writing."

"You told me about the website, remember?"

"I bet she's three hundred pounds and makes her own dresses. Oooh, wait, I'm also getting the psychic impression of someone who wears gypsy scarves and lots of plastic beads."

Kat Shakespeare, however, wore no beads of any kind. And she was most definitely not three hundred pounds. When Darren opened the door at two p.m. on July 18, standing on his front stoop was a slender thirtyish woman who looked as if she had leapt exuberantly out of Victoria's Secret's summer catalog. Miles of tan leg issued from hip-hugging denim shorts and her pile of bleach-blonde hair made Darren think of the mane of some mythic horse-beast galloping across the pages of a storybook. Kat's belly-baring babydoll tee was improbably printed with a quotation from Montaigne:
The ceaseless labor of your life is to build the house of death
.

She also had a smile that made you feel as if you had just spent three and a half hours having energetic sex with her. She grinned at Darren and held out her arms, exclaiming, "I'm Kat! I'm here! Hug!"

And before Darren could react, the blonde bombshell was exploding all over him in a big bear hug. She smelled like baby powder and a hundred different exotic flowers.

Darren must have had an astonished look on his face because Kat laughed and adopted an
oh-there-I-go-again
expression. "I'm sorry! I just always like to start these things off with a burst of some good old-fashioned positive energy."

Darren was reasonably certain few of her clients objected. "Thanks for coming. Come on in."

He was about to fill her in on some things he hadn't told her already, things he'd picked up during his own research and which hadn't been in the newspapers—where each of the bodies was found, Rachel's talent for poetry—but Kat quickly put a finger to her lips. From a denim purse the size of a duffel bag, she took out a steno notebook and began wandering through the house like a prospective homebuyer, every now and then making a notation in confident shorthand. Darren trailed after her. He watched her placid expression as she strolled through the dining room, where Jerry McAvoy had shot himself in the head, sitting at a table much like Darren's own. Kat lingered in the sun-drenched kitchen—where Shannon McAvoy had been found, face down by the refrigerator, for some reason clutching her checkbook—but her serene expression did not change, though she scribbled notes for some time. At the foot of the stairs to the second floor—where Rachel McAvoy had been executed, presumably as she ran downstairs to find out what was going on and possibly help her mother—Kat paused briefly, then trotted up to the second floor.

In the spare bedroom—Rachel's room—Kat ran her fingers along the windowsill (still stained with Mr. Kanagawa's blood) and spent considerable time just standing there, head cocked as if listening to faint music. She behaved the same way in Darren's room, in the cramped attic, in the drafty basement. In the basement, under the weak bulb by the washing machine, Kat turned and looked at Darren intently, as if she had just asked him a question. He was about to ask her what was wrong when she jotted something in her notebook and then breezed past him, heading back upstairs.

For the first time in more than half an hour, Kat spoke. "Well! Did you get that tape I asked for?"

On the phone, she had told Darren to buy a blank cassette tape—for what purpose, he didn't know. It was on the coffee table, and Kat unwrapped it. From her huge purse she removed a handheld tape recorder, the kind used for dictation, and popped the new tape in and pressed PLAY/RECORD. She set the recorder on the coffee table and then led Darren outside.

"Okay," Kat said, clapping her hands. "I'm hungry. Let's eat!"

They met Jacqueline at El Ranchero, a Mexican place in Richmond Heights. Darren was amused to see Jacqueline struggle mightily to not seem startled by the Helen of Troy before her. Kat's appearance also seemed to inspire a degree of solicitude from the restaurant staff more appropriate to a presidential visit. Diego, the surly busboy who barely grunted at Darren in the five-plus years Darren had been coming here, topped off Kat's water practically every time she took a sip, and the goofy, fixed grin on his face was so alien that at first Darren thought he wasn't Diego at all but some family relation of infinitely sunnier disposition. Even the bartender came over to inexplicably recite the daily specials to Kat personally, although the smirking hostess eventually led him back to his post.

"The service is so wonderful here!" Kat said.

Then it was back to business. "There's definitely the presence of a young woman in your house," Kat said. "A strong presence. I do get a fainter impression of an older woman, most likely the mother, and still fainter is the father. He doesn't come in clearly at all, though. He obviously passed in a state of extreme grief and stress. His energy is very weak, the way it would be for someone who's clinically depressed and turned inwards on himself."

While she consulted her notes, Darren looked at Jacqueline, who was giving him an easy-to-interpret look:
Amazing! I'm sure none of it had anything to do with the information you prepped her with beforehand.

"Rachel, however, is emitting a real strong energy," Kat continued. "She also passed over in a state of stress, and it was such a sudden, shocking passing that she's confused, angry and sad. Sad probably isn't the word, though. Devastated. Imagine a pianist who has to have both hands amputated... that's the sort of feeling of devastation I'm talking about. She wanted to live her life. Rachel is still clinging to the house because it was her home, because it's familiar to her... and because of Darren."

The waiter came with their burritos and enchiladas.

"She has strong feelings for you," Kat told Darren. "I get a protective energy from her. She sometimes gets mad and will take on disturbing forms in order to scare away those she views as threats. I also get impressions of her thoughts: 'I wonder if Darren will like me in this dress. I bet Darren will like my hair this way.'"

Darren felt queasy.

"Wait," Jacqueline said, "she doesn't know that she's dead?"

"Oh, she knows," Kat said. "Intellectually she knows. But she's still clinging to earthly routines and emotions because she doesn't know any better. The best analogy I can give is a woman who's still convinced in her heart that her ex-boyfriend will come back to her eventually—even though he's already married and moved out of state. But the woman will still read his old love letters, still daydream about him. It's comforting. Familiar. Rachel can pass over into the light very easily but she had little in the way of preparation for the exit from her body. It was abrupt and violent. She holds onto the house and to Darren as if they're life preservers."

"You can read her mind?" Jacqueline asked.

"Not exactly, but people and spirits will often project their emotions and thoughts so strongly that I'll get a quick taste of them." Kat smiled sheepishly. "But just a taste. An impression. I guess I'm sort of like those people who are ultra-sensitive to perfumes and can smell Chanel No. Five half a block away. Some psychics are way, way beyond me. Like Michael Percival and some others. With them it's like spirits are downloading very specific, detailed information into their brains. I just get impressions."

"Can you communicate with the spirits?" Darren asked.

"Again, not as easily as some mediums. I can discern them, sense them, and communication is possible, but it's a lot like trying to talk to someone underwater. But some rituals are designed to improve the lines of communication. I think that's what our next step should be."

"Are you really descended from William Shakespeare?" Jacqueline asked. Darren heard the trace of mockery in her voice.

Kat laughed. "Oh no! This is just sort of my stage name. My real name is Jankowski. But I just love the Bard, don't you? 'And he will make the face of heaven so fine/That all the world will be in love with night.' It's just so darn rich, don't you think?"

"I'm sure some people can be a bit put off by a psychic with an alias," Jacqueline said. "Especially in a field that's ripe for dishonesty and fraud."

Kat's expression was unoffended. "I'm sure that's possible, but for me it was kind of necessary. This is just a sideline for me and I didn't want to bring any unnecessary attention to the folks at my real job. Best to keep the two separate, you know?"

"And what's your real job?" Jacqueline asked.

"I'm an attorney with Edwards, Baumberg and Kline. We do a lot of environmental and class action litigation. Now, if you'll excuse me a sec, I have to use the little girls' room. Back in a flash!" Kat leapt up in a flurry of blonde tresses and tan skin, and it seemed as if half a dozen waiters and busboys were there to give her directions to the bathroom or provide an escort.

"Are you buying any of this stuff?" Jacqueline asked.

"She hasn't said anything I haven't already thought myself."

"I'm sure she's not really a lawyer. She's probably just a paralegal."

"Are you all right?"

Jacqueline poked at her rice and beans with her fork. "Sorry. It's not entirely jealousy. But girls like that certainly get the red carpet treatment, don't they?"

"If you smiled more, so would you." He flicked a grain of rice from the corner of her mouth.

Kat sat down again. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Jacqueline and Darren like a poker player trying to guess the opposing hands.

"I heard what you said about her clinging to something familiar," Jacqueline said, "but I just don't get it. I mean, a spirit has the opportunity to move into a better plane of existence. The light, heaven, whatever you want to call it. Wouldn't that logically be more appealing than staying here?"

Kat nodded. "Sure. But logic doesn't always motivate us, does it? It's like a woman who's weighted down with bitterness and anger and hopelessness. She doesn't see that by just letting go of that negativity she can have so much happiness and love and opportunity in her life. All she has to do is let go." Her eyes lingered on Jacqueline for a moment. "With Rachel, though, we can try to make her see things more clearly, make her finally let go of this world. I have some rituals in mind. I'll e-mail you the details once I get clear in my mind about the best way to go." She squeezed Darren's hand. "I'm so sorry it took so long for me to get back to you. I didn't realize Rachel's behavior would have escalated so much. It's just been such a hectic month for me."

"The house clearing business must be booming," Jacqueline said. "Nice to know someone's making money in this economy."

"No," Kat said, "it's not that. My father passed away."

Darren offered his condolences. Jacqueline, looking pale and humiliated, murmured, "I'm sorry."

"It was Alzheimer's," Kat said. "It was expected." Her face did not darken—Darren suspected she was adept at keeping her sadness on the shortest of leashes—but it did grow thoughtful for a moment before brightening as the waiter came by to freshen their drinks.

Kat leaned forward and touched Darren's hand again. "I have to say I'm so excited by this challenge! Rachel's virtuosity is very impressive. Manifestations, telekinesis, electrical disturbances... didn't you say you had gotten some e-mails from her?"

Darren elaborated on that, although he was still not one-hundred percent sure they had come from Rachel. Khabir had been known to have his fun with Darren's work PC—on more than a few occasions Darren had returned from lunch to find that his screen saver had been changed into something that would have made Larry Flynt blush.

"I don't understand why she would disrupt phone conversations between me and Darren," Jacqueline said, "but not when you and Darren spoke on the phone. Is it because sometimes she's there in the house and other times she's not?"