Strange Girl (23 page)

She nodded to the cards. “I know a few things about you.”

“Who are you?”

She looked at me with her bright, dark eyes. She had the most amazing black hair: long and braided, tied with shiny gold thread. “A visitor.”

“What brings you to Elder?”

She gestured to the students pouring out of Elder High and to the rest of the town. “We’re all here for the same reason.”

“And what might that be?”

“Aja.”

“I take it you’ve seen the videos?”

“I have. I must say you’re much more handsome in person.”

“Thank you. I assume you have a sick relative that needs to be cured?”

“My daughter was sick but she no longer needs healing.”

Her voice had changed when she mentioned her daughter.

“Is your daughter all right?” I asked.

“She’s dead. She died twelve years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“You say that as if you mean it. I’m grateful.” She studied me. “I can see why Aja chose you.”

“Chose me for what?”

“To be close to.”

I shook my head. “Who the hell are you?”

“Call me Angela.”

“Is that really your name?”

“Does it matter? I like the name, and on my better days I like to think I’m an angel here on earth doing God’s work.”

I gestured to her tarot cards. “Are you a psychic? Is that what you do? Readings for people?”

“Yes. But I’m different from most psychics.”

“Your rates are low?”

“Actually, they’re quite high. But that’s not what makes me unique.” She leaned closer. “My readings are accurate.”

“Don’t all psychics say that?”

“Most do. But most are liars.” She paused. “Would you like me to do a reading for you? It would be on the house.”

“Oh, I get it. The reading’s free but in return I have to introduce you to Aja.”

Angela, whoever she was, stared at me. “I’m not here to hustle you. I’ve already met Aja.” She paused. “But it was a long time ago.”

“Did you know her when she lived in Selva?”

“Yes and no. She was a child then. I knew her father.”

“What was your relationship?”

“Far from pleasant. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“If you say so. But you’re in town to see Aja. You already said as much.”

Angela considered. “I confess it would be nice to see the young woman she’s grown up to be. But I understand a lot of people are asking for her time. I’m not here to bother her.” She paused and searched the park. “I haven’t been here in years but it doesn’t look like much has changed.”

“Do you have friends in town?” I asked.

“One close friend.” She pointed to the tarot cards. “Do you want to know what the cards have to say about your life?”

“You’d be wasting your time. I don’t believe in the tarot.”

“But you’re curious, admit it. You keep looking at the cards.”

“They’re beautiful. The paper—it doesn’t look like normal paper. What are they made of?”

“Skin.”

“Skin?”

“Human skin.”

Was she serious? “The colors—they’re dark but they look—”

She interrupted. “Full of life?”

“Yes. Where did you get them?” There were sixteen; she’d arranged them in four rows of four.

“That’s a long story. Let’s just say they came to me after Aja’s parents died. It was only then I was able to give readings.” Moving fast, she picked up the cards and shuffled them as smoothly as a dealer in Las Vegas. She added, “If it makes the reading any more palatable to you, I only use the cards as a tool to channel. My gift comes from elsewhere.” She handed me the deck. “Now hold them, touch them, feel the cards. Let whatever’s on your mind, whatever you’re feeling, enter into them.”

I did as I was told, at least the physical part, although I doubt I gave much of my inner soul to the cards. But when I handed her the deck back she put the cards on the towel and suddenly took my hands in hers. Slowly, she began to trace the lines on my palms with her nails. Besides being long, her nails were sharp; they dug into my flesh as she moved over my hands. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was like she was scratching an itch I’d never been aware of before.

“You’ve led a normal life, up until recently,” she said.

I assumed she was talking about Aja having entered my life.

“Kudos to you,” I said.

She continued to study my palm. But her nails—it was like she was using them to dig lines she couldn’t find. She pressed deeper into my skin; I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d started to bleed. Still, the pain was more than balanced by a strange pleasure. Her touch was almost erotic.

“You have a great soul,” she said. “You’re destined for great things.”

“I bet you tell all your customers that.”

“I’ve never told anyone that.” She pointed to a line just below my pinkie. “Your heart line. Note how it breaks at the end of the first quarter. That signifies a great change will occur in your life when you’re seventeen or eighteen.”

“Just looking at me you’ve got to know I’m that age.”

Angela ignored my sarcastic remarks. She continued. “You pretend to believe in nothing when you secretly believe in everything. Yet you want proof. You feel you need it.”

“Proof of what?”

“Your destiny.” She let go of my hands and turned over the top card on the deck of cards. “Perhaps this will help you find it.”

I felt a chill in the center of my chest.

I recognized the card. It was the only tarot card I knew.

“Is that the devil’s card?” I asked.

She seemed surprised at the card I’d drawn. “Some call it that. Others call it the card of death.”

I snorted. “So I’m going to die soon? Is that it?”

She hesitated before answering. “I’d rather not say.”

I stood. “Thanks for the reading. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit.”

Angela nodded sadly. “I thought the same thing.”

• • •

I walked home in a foul mood, annoyed with the woman. Yet by the time I reached my house I realized I was more upset with myself. I’d let her get to me. It had been her remarks about Aja’s past that had drawn me in. Still, I suspected they were nothing but lies; that she’d just been scheming to get to Aja.

When I got home, I finally read up on DID—dissociative identity disorder. Except for possibly suffering a major trauma as a child, there was nothing in the literature that linked Aja to the condition.

“Except for the Big Person and the Little Person,” I said to myself.

I was not seriously worried.

She was too sane.

And she sure as hell was too happy.

Later, Aja called and that brightened up my mood. She asked me out for Saturday night: dinner and a movie. I liked her chasing me. She said she wanted to return to the same restaurant in Balen—Benny’s. I begged her to reconsider—to no avail. She insisted she liked their food, then taunted me by asking what the chances were of her getting belted in the jaw again.

The next day we drove to Balen in a brand-new car Bart had bought her—a Mercedes C-Class, with the incredible 4.0L AMG biturbo V-8 engine. Aja let me take the wheel; she said she didn’t have a driver’s license. For that matter, she said she didn’t know how to drive. I offered to teach her.

The night ended up mimicking our original date. We talked so long over dinner we missed the movie and ended up checking into the Hilton for another dip in the Jacuzzi and another round of fantastic sex. The only difference this time was Aja didn’t mention the Big Person. I was hoping it was because she was enjoying what pleasures us little people had to offer.

The storm hit on Sunday, figuratively and literally. We’d just checked out of the hotel at noon and were driving back to Balen when thunder ripped the sky and it began to rain so hard I had to struggle to keep the car on the road. A stream formed on our right, in the overflowing gutter. On top of that Janet texted me. Her note said it was an emergency; that I had to call her immediately. I pulled off at the next exit.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Janet when she answered. I had her on speakerphone so Aja could hear. I figured it was probably about her.

“We need to talk. But first—watch,” Janet said, before linking us with a video on YouTube. It showed a nurse being interviewed by Casey Morall. I assumed we were in for a rerun of what had happened with Mike. Except this nurse sat hidden in the dark and her voice had been distorted so she couldn’t be easily identified.

Worse, much worse, this time Casey had X-rays of Lisa Alastair’s head. MRIs of Lisa’s brain. CAT scans. The unidentified nurse provided most of the vocal commentary while the images flashed on the screen. The theme of the video was simple—a running stream of images of Lisa’s tumor before and after Aja’s healing.

When Lisa’s father had told me his daughter had a brain tumor, I had never imagined it was the size of a golf ball. How could such a thing fit inside the head of such a small girl? But there it was in black and white.

It was still there two days after Lisa’s father spoke to Aja and was told his daughter would be fine. Except by then the tumor had shrunk to the size of a walnut. A week later it was the size of a pea. Finally, two days ago, the nurse reported it had vanished altogether.

At the end of the visual display and the nurse’s commentary, Casey wisely kept her remarks brief. Why talk when her pictures were worth a million words? Indeed, studying the number on the bottom of my cell screen, I could see they were worth over twelve million hits on YouTube.

And it was still early.

Yet Casey did take time to remind viewers of the mystery surrounding Mike Garcia’s healing, and the healing of the soldier at the Roadhouse. For the first time, Casey stated that Aja was from Selva, Brazil, where she was well-known as the
Pequena Maga
, the “Little Magician.” Casey closed her presentation by showing Lisa playing in the front yard of her house with other kids her age.

Janet’s voice came back on my cell. “It was posted at four in the morning our time. I just found out about it now. We’re lucky Casey wasn’t able to interview any doctors, and the nurse refused to give her name. But it’s weird the nurse was able to get hold of so many X-rays and pass them on to Casey. Medical records are supposed to be confidential.” Janet paused. “Unless Mr. Alastair broke his word and just gave Casey the pictures.”

I had a different take on the situation. “It’s no surprise Lisa’s parents would take Lisa to be examined after Aja worked on her. Especially since she seemed so much better. I’d do it if I was her dad. But I don’t think Mr. Alastair broke his word. He seemed like an honest man and you remember how grateful he was to Aja—to all of us.”

“Then where did the MRIs and CAT scans come from?” Janet asked.

“Money,” I said. “Casey’s father’s been supporting his daughter’s investigation of Aja from the start. I bet the nurse we heard on the video stole the images and was paid a pretty penny for them.”

Janet was interested. “That could be a good thing. The whole video could be illegal, an invasion of privacy. YouTube might be forced to take it down.”

“That won’t help,” I said. “You can bet a million people have already made copies of it by now. It will keep circulating. But what might help are the holes in Casey’s story. It’s sloppy reporting at best. She doesn’t identify the nurse. She doesn’t identify the hospital where the X-rays were taken. She doesn’t even say what Aja did when she worked on Lisa.”

“Because Aja never met her!” Janet cried.

“That’s right. We need to get that fact out there.”

“No,” Aja interrupted. I’d almost forgotten she was listening.

I looked at her. “This could be the beginning of the end. If this video doesn’t get discredited, immediately, you might never have a minute’s peace for the rest of your life.”

Aja didn’t respond right away. Janet took it as a sign she was hiding something. “Do you want the publicity?” Janet asked, speaking to Aja.

Aja shrugged. “All this is inevitable. If Casey Morall didn’t post these videos, someone else would have weeks from now.”

“This video will alert the national media,” Janet warned. “Are you ready for that?”

Aja acted indifferent. “I’d prefer to be left alone. I’m used to solitude. But moving to America—I knew crowds would come. There’s no point fighting it.”

I spoke to Janet. “I take it you still don’t believe in miracles? That Aja can heal people?”

Janet took a long time to answer. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

I could tell by her tone she was shaken up.

“Let me get back to you later,” I told Janet.

We exchanged good-byes and I sat with Aja for a few minutes while the rain pelted the roof of the Mercedes. The muddy water on the road was up to our hubcaps. If the downpour continued we’d flood the interior of an eighty-thousand-dollar car. But I was no more worried about that than I was worried about Aja’s mental health. A girl who could erase a brain tumor was not suffering from a multiple personality disorder.

“So you knew this would happen?” I said.

“Yes,” Aja said.

“When I first spoke to you—you knew then?”

“Yes.”

“You should have warned me.”

Aja smiled. “You still would have chased after me.”

“Is that the little you or the big you talking?”

She leaned over and kissed me and reassured me in her usual way. “It will be okay, Fred,” she said.

• • •

At six that evening, three hours after I’d dropped Aja at her house, I broke my vow to let Aja be Aja and leave her unprotected. At dinnertime what most people call the “real media” arrived in Elder. A reporter and film crew out of Rapid City appeared first. The reporter wasn’t Casey Morall. Her name was Dana Sharone and everyone knew her. She was our capital’s biggest and brightest face when it came to TV news.

It didn’t take long before Dana was knocking on Aja’s door. Bart answered and lied and said Aja wasn’t at home and he didn’t know where she was. I got the news from Bart, who called while the reporter was still standing on the porch. It was the first time he had ever called me.

“I think we got a problem,” Bart said.

“I know you do. Is Aja there with you?”