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I could tell she was sincere about supporting Israel, but then the cynical caveat “for the moment” passed through my head. She meant what she said, and she always said exactly what she felt, or so her campaign claimed. What Elizabeth Stratton didn’t see was her shadow self, her blind spot. Elizabeth Stratton compartmentalized her feelings and, therefore, her rhetoric. That was how she could seduce people into believing every incendiary word she said. She believed it herself, until the moment arrived when a particular political stance was no longer convenient. Then, like discarding underwear, she donned a new, more crowd-rallying stance and railed on. If it ever served her purpose, she’d put Jews in the crosshairs too. I knew that better than she did.

I let her out my front door and watched her pull her hood over her hair, as protection from both the rain and recognition. Her black SUV waited in the driveway. I could tell by the barely discernable little puff of exhaust trickling out of the tailpipe that it was running. Someone had been waiting for her.

I went back into the living room and stood over the check and flash drive warring with myself. Finally, I took the check, folded it, and tucked it into a small, never-used drawer in the coffee table. I put the flash drive in my pocket.

I flopped down on the couch and thought about Laura Bishop, vexed by how my heart rate increased when I envisioned her face, her eyes as she looked at me with trust, more than trust, during the press conference. I became even more disturbed when I realized that I needed to find her, not for Elizabeth Stratton, not for money, but for me.

*

After several minutes of torturing myself over Laura Bishop, I heard a door slam and movement in the kitchen. I jumped in alarm and then remembered Fitch was around, and I’d sent her on a food errand. Food felt like a great idea.

“Goddamn, son of a bitch, Rosten. What kind of people live around here? What is this, Heil Hitler Land?” Fitch slammed a couple sacks on the counter and squeezed their tops into balls.

“What? What happened?’

“A couple of skinheads, low-IQ goons followed me to the roadhouse. They were driving some fancy black Mercedes SUV. I could tell it was a Mercedes because they practically rode my bumper all the way there, and I could see them in the rearview. The bastards.”

“A black Mercedes?” I was certain the SUV waiting for Elizabeth Stratton was a Mercedes. She wasn’t a Kia kind of woman. “When did they start following you?”

“A little ways down the road, after I left here. And they tailgated me all the way to the roadhouse. I parked the car and watched them park several cars away. I’m not usually scared, not my M.O., but these guys had cruelty pasted all over them, a trait easy for me to spot. They watched me go into the tavern, and I couldn’t resist flipping them off before I went inside. I heard one of them scream ‘cunt’ as the roadhouse door slammed.”

“Oh, Fitch, I’m sorry. I suspect they had something to do with my client, if the cars match.”

Fitch paced the kitchen and waved her arms. “Hey, that’s not all that happened, not by a long shot.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to hear this.”

“Listen, if these guys have anything to do with your client, you’re in deep shit. In fact, I’m probably in deep shit too, just for being here.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.” My hands began to shake with a wild blend of fear and anger.

“When I was in the roadhouse, I ordered a beer and the take-out food. I downed the beer fast, just to calm my nerves. I went into the bathroom to make sure my piece was loaded and ready for action.” Fitch patted the belly bag she always wore when she went out. I had assumed it contained keys, a wallet, and maybe a spare set of nipple clamps.

“Piece?”

“My gun…my pistol?”

“You carry a gun, Fitch? There’s a gun in my house? Loaded?” I staggered back and plopped on a stool.

“Hey, I’m always armed. I know too much about too many important people. As a matter of fact, so do you. You should be armed, Dev. You’re a walking target.”

“I’m a Jewish American girl. What do I know from guns?” I stared at the floor trying to cope with the truth Fitch was handing me. “Tell me the rest.”

“When I went out to the parking lot, carrying our dinner, several people were standing around my car. My beautiful Jag’s alarm was blaring. As I got closer, I could see the passenger window was smashed. Some man said, ‘That your car? Sorry, lady.’ I hate being called ‘lady.’ It’s so condescending.”

“Never mind that. Why was your car alarm blaring?”

“I looked into the smashed window. Those skinhead assholes had stuck a meat cleaver into the seat and left it there.”

“A meat cleaver. Why a meat cleaver?”

“To scare me. I use them all the time for the same purpose, only I never really cleave anything. Anything that’s alive, anyway.” Fitch stopped pacing and leaned against the counter, hand over her belly bag.

“You use meat cleavers to scare people?”

“Well, yeah, I have this one favorite scene where I’m the butcher and—”

“That’s fine. I get the idea.” I’d been shocked enough for one night and didn’t need Fitch’s graphic description of her BDSM activities. Feeling like a wimpy vanilla wafer, I smelled the broasted chicken and remembered I wanted to eat. “Let’s have some food, and we’ll figure out how to get your car fixed. Did you get the vitamin C suckies?”

Fitch gave me an I’m-going-to-murder-you look. Not only was she armed, she knew her way around a meat cleaver. I let the suckies go.

Chapter Six

My policy was to avoid face-to-face contact with any of the “targets” my clients paid me to divert. But I needed to see Laura Bishop again. My questions about Stratton couldn’t be answered without her. Why was each cell of my body a microscopic magnet tugging toward its anchor in Laura? I wasn’t given to getting the vapors over a pretty woman, so I knew this draw to her had to be investigated. I’d done a reading for her eight years earlier and recently glimpsed her a few times in my visions. Why her? And the genesis of my visions was still unknown to me.

Elizabeth Stratton’s bizarre but lucrative visit created more questions. What was her connection to Laura Bishop? How far could I go with my methods for persuading Laura to not expose whatever it was Stratton was hiding? What did Stratton want to hide? I felt the link between Stratton and Bishop was obvious, hiding in front of me like a refrigerator magnet that becomes part of the kitchen scenery and, therefore, unseen.

I knew somehow it was all related to the macabre High Priestess with no fingernails, but I couldn’t contact her or Pento at will, at least not yet. The video Fitch had made of me while I was visiting the Theater would have to wait. I had other work to do.

*

The morning after the Stratton visit was a Monday. Fitch and I studied the information about Laura Bishop that Elizabeth Stratton had left with me on the flash drive. The facts were remarkably thin with little except education and professional background on the successful attorney. However, there was one piece of pay dirt, the fridge magnet. I was a little angry at myself for not remembering the key piece of information I’d forgotten about Laura Bishop.

“Damn, if I’d remembered that Laura Bishop and Elizabeth Stratton were working in the same firm ten years ago, I could have asked Stratton better questions.” We were bending over my little laptop reading the files together.

“Meyers, Gaines, and Stratton, that’s some high-powered legal firm. It’s now called Meyers and Gaines. They must’ve dropped the Stratton part when she entered politics. Dev, call Stratton and dig a little deeper into the work connection between her and Bishop.”

“Uh, I can’t.” I closed the file and got up to refill my coffee. “Stratton didn’t leave any contact information, and I was too
fartootst
to remember to ask. I normally don’t let confusion cause me to make mistakes.”

“Well, not many people have a harridan of hell show up on the doorstep of their secluded island house. Had I known who it was, I’d never have gone to get that food. I would’ve hid out and spied on her. It’s the least she deserves for causing so much hatred in this country.” Fitch’s eyes had grown dark, and I worried for her slaves when she got back home. Then I remembered they liked it when she got rough.

“Oy.” Fitch looked at me and I felt obliged to redirect my thoughts. “So what do you think Laura Bishop has on Elizabeth Stratton?”

“Well, I intend to find out. Maybe Stratton had some shady dealings at the law firm, and Bishop discovered them. Bishop’s holding Stratton hostage with the information. Stranger things have happened,” Fitch said.

“That’s probably what it is. My question is what should I do about it? Do I just waylay Laura Bishop, or should we find out what the information is that Bishop is holding?”

“Rosten, your job is to deter Bishop, but my job is always getting the information. How about you do your part, and I’ll back you up with what I can find out. If Meyers, Gaines, and formerly Stratton has the usual lame information protection like other law firms, I’ll be into its files in no time. I’ll start when I get back home to my equipment.”

Fitch ate five pieces of butter-drenched toast while I drank my protein smoothie with a vitamin C boost. Then we reviewed the visions I had the previous evening. She was remarkably relaxed with the idea that I was getting information from “elsewhere.” I chalked it up to the fact that Fitch’s world was so out of the norm that she had a high tolerance for strange.

“The first time you saw Bishop was when you did a reading for her about eight years ago. The next time was when you were with that Pento dude. And again last night. She was standing in front of a press conference in your…what do you call it…other-worldly travel? Tell me what she was saying again.”

“I don’t think she spoke while I was there. What I saw were reporters, some hostile and some just salivating for a great story, who were questioning the veracity of whatever she had announced. She looked pretty beaten up, but she looked directly into my eyes. Then everything switched, and I saw her on that beach in the Theater. She was tied and blindfolded with some crazed robotic knight-type swinging a sword at her.”

“My kind of action. And this took place when?”

“That’s just it, Fitch. These are always visions of future possibilities, if things aren’t redirected. So no press conference has taken place, and Stratton wants me to make sure it doesn’t. I’m beginning to think the things I experience in the Theater are something other than real. I’m missing an obvious piece of information about them.”

“Something other than real? Like a metaphor or clue? She’s in danger, but then again, maybe not. I’m betting this Laura Bishop has something apocalyptical on Elizabeth Stratton. How delicious. I know a lot of dirt on a lot of important people, but most of it isn’t any worse than what I do in my own dungeon. Any scandal on Stratton, well, that would be worth some serious influence. It could be dangerous, given the stupefied loyalty of her followers.”

“Yeah, it’s worth influence and money. You should see the wad she left me. Of course, you’ll get your share if you want to work with me on this.” I always paid Fitch, even if she was one of the richest women in the universe.

“Don’t need the money, honey. I want the information. So where do you think I should start? Want me to investigate Laura Bishop while she was at Meyers, Gaines, and Stratton? Do a serious deep excavation on Elizabeth Stratton? You tell me and I’ll do it.”

“Stratton, for sure but not immediately. Let’s focus on Laura Bishop first. You do the whole workup like you usually do for me: family and its skeletons, Bishop and her secrets, whatever you can find. I want to wade straight into the lion’s den. I’m going to visit Laura Bishop.” I was hoping Fitch wouldn’t notice how excited I became at the thought of meeting Laura.

Later, Fitch and I swept the shattered chunks of glass from inside her car. Then we taped some heavy plastic over the window gap. When she was ready to leave for her dungeon and one-woman spy operation, I promised her I’d pay for her car damage. She just smiled as she engaged her ignition.

“Worry not. I’ll take it to my dealer. The secretary there is one of mine. She’ll make sure the window is replaced, the seat repaired, and my boots are licked. It’ll be an errand of pleasure.”

“Oy, you leave me with no comebacks,” I said. She backed out the car and left me to my own muddle.

With Fitch gone, I packed my belongings and closed down Tranquility until I could return. I made arrangements with my usual housekeeper and a local security company to take care of the house. My instincts told me that when my business arrangement with Elizabeth Stratton was completed, I’d need Tranquility more than I ever had before.

As I rode the forty-minute ferry back to the mainland, I nestled my exhausted body into one of the comfortable chairs inside the indoor observation deck of the ferry. Determined gulls flew next to the rain-spattered window, trying to attract the attention of any passenger willing to step outside, risk drenching, and share a potato chip. Ocean smells wafted through the doors accessing the promenade deck. The rocking hum of the ferry relaxed me, and I realized my body muscles had been wound tight for days.

I shifted position in the chair so I could lay my head on the back rest, something I rarely did because the thought of some lice-covered nature hippie having used the chair previous to my claiming it usually gacked me.

Though my body was exhausted, my mind continued its incessant churn. Eyes closed, I pondered my ethical dilemma, an unusual and uncomfortable task for me.

I had taken Stratton’s money and assured her that I could derail whatever path Laura Bishop was on. Normally, that would take a few strategic phone calls, or text messages, or vague threats couched in phony solicitors’ letters. Sometimes I would use Fitch’s hacker skills and cause just enough cyber havoc to waylay a target. That usually entailed some fiddling with social media or posting damaging altered photos or videos. Nothing seriously harmful, unless my targets ignored the message. They never did.

In the case of Laura Bishop, could this be the mission the High Priestess had conscripted me to execute? What was Pento’s role in my current circumstances? Was Elizabeth Stratton connected to Malignity or was Laura Bishop?

“Maybe,” I murmured to myself, “but probably not.”

Then I remembered Laura’s eyes when she looked at me over the heads of the reporters. She was afraid, desperate even. She had looked to me for help, yet we had only met once. A chaos of emotions: desire, compassion, even anger welled within me. I heard the scratchy laugh of the High Priestess, and my rage ignited when I felt the familiar impossible squeeze upon my skull. When the constriction eased, I opened my eyes and found myself on the cold marble floor before the High Priestess’s dais.

I pushed myself to a sitting position and gave her the most disgusted look I could muster while groveling on the floor. I supposed it was fruitless and made no impression on her. It was then I realized what she reminded me of. Her face was like one of those silly movies where someone spies on people by peering through eyeholes cut into a walled painting. The face doesn’t move, but the eyes follow the quarry. Something was
in
her. The facade I was allowed to see was a shell, a grim costume. Something else inhabited the form.

“And this is the most you’ll ever see, human half-wit. It is all you could tolerate.”

“Then tell me,” I said as I hobbled to my feet, “is this place real? Am I really here, or is this a vision?”

“Let’s just say it’s real enough for our purposes.” She scratched out another chuckle. “We can’t tell you how to respond, but we can send you in the proper directions. Offer signposts and maybe, miraculously, you’ll make the proper choices.”

“First of all, if you keep treating me like a schmuck, I’ll respond like a schmuck. Secondly, why not just tell me what you want me to do and be done with it? I carry out whatever chore you want this dumb human to complete, and we can both be on our cheery way. I really hate that transition torture you make me go through every time I have to see you or Pento.”

“Pento?” Her unwrinkled, nail-less fingers were twitching slightly, like a puppet someone was trying to learn to operate.

I looked away from her perverted hand. “Yeah, the guy who smirks, makes useless comments, and shows me bizarre tableaus.”

She stared at me for a long moment then her eyes, somehow, darkened or intensified. “Now, I have something to say to you, so clear the moldering cobwebs from between your ears and listen.”

“My three cells of gray matter are at attention.”

“I suppose that was human sarcasm. Typical. But since we need you, I won’t punish you for insolence. Hear this: the Malignity has advanced swiftly during this time. As usual, it wields the double-edged sword of dogma and fear. The areas of your world we thought the Malignity couldn’t assail are now under siege, and you bumbling humans have no idea. However, we have many warrior lines and a few meddler lines like you. The warriors are overt, but the meddlers, by necessity and nature, work alone and behind the world stage.”

“Look, your, uh, Highness, I’m not really cut out for saving myself, much less the world. I have no idea what you mean by ‘lines.’ And something called the Malignity? That sounds like a disease, and if there is anything that scares me off, it’s disease. One time in college, I got a roaring case of mononucleosis and since then—”

“Enough!” She did a convincing, if jerky, eye roll. “You have no choice in this matter. Everything is in motion. Remember, human, what the cards have taught you. Go away. Use your skills for what they were designed.” I saw her hand flick. I was hurled again against the pillar behind her, and everything went dark for a couple seconds.

Then I was standing, facing a stone wall. Actually, my nose was only an inch from it, and I stumbled backward. I tripped over a large loose stone and fell with a vicious bang on my tailbone. I lay groaning and stared at the fake blue sky of the Theater. Convinced I had cracked a vertebra or two, I yearned for an icepack.

The synthetic blue sky was partly obliterated by the wall that rose above me the distance of maybe ten or eleven stories. It was old, or at least it was manufactured to look old. There were green and orange fuzzy lichen patches dotting the wall. The structure replicated an ancient keep where castle residents would gather for protection and fight off invaders.

“It is one of my best creations, damsel. What do you think? Does it pass for the real thing?” Pento was standing over me with a proud grin.

“So help me up, already, and I’ll give your work a critical review.” I held my hand up, and he grasped it with his gloved hand. When I stood, I inspected his glove for a moment and asked, “Hey, Pento, do you have fingernails?”

“Do I have fingernails? I did not need any to build this tower. It is completely stone…or like stone.”

“No, not construction nails, fingernails, like these.” I held up my hand to show him my usually bitten nails and lurched. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“What is troubling you?”

“Where are my fingernails? Goddamn it, Pento, I need my nails. I can’t touch anything without fingernails. It gives me the willies.”

“I cannot create what I have not seen. I am not sure what you mean by ‘willies.’”

“Is everyone in this…this Theater like us? No fingernails, no breath, no whatever is supposed to make us alive? Make us human?” I was holding my hands straight down at my sides, avoiding the possibility of seeing my nauseating fingertips again.