Daniel Hecht_Cree Black 02 (4 page)

Cree knew she couldn't hope to fathom the awful twists and coils of their relationship. She'd always suspected they were lovers,
and Mason's treatment of Lupe was among the things that offended her the most about him. And he knew it.

She let her voice get hard: "Okay, now we've done the courtesies, let's cut to the chase. What do you want?"

"There's a situation that will interest you, here in New Mexico. One that I believe requires your talents."

"Mason, I'm due to fly back to Seattle tomorrow. I can't just—"

"Of course you can."

"Sure. And you can cancel your flight to Switzerland and attend to it yourself."

"It's not a matter of travel itinerary, it's a matter of expertise. I was consulted as a neuropsychiatrist. In that capacity,
I have determined that there is no neurological or immediately evident psychological cause for the patient's extreme behavioral
aberrations. This is a matter for a different set of talents."

" Mason—"

"And it involves a
child,
Lucretia. Obviously, I am not the best confidant for a child already suffering from a surfeit of terror." His hand made a
disgusted gesture at his sagging face and squat body.

"Look, I appreciate your thinking of me. But I . . . I got very stressed out this spring. I've had some difficult cases recently,
and I made a pact with myself to take some personal time."

"You?" He puffed air out of his lips skeptically. "What could Cree Black do for 'personal time'?"

She stared at him. "Maybe I was wrong about you not being a monster."

But he wasn't baiting her this time, she saw. His voice was sepulchral and his stare without pretense. "How would you ever
grant yourself a respite? There is no respite. Not for people like you and me."

She almost argued that, no thanks, she was not like him. But his gaze permitted no escape or deflection. And she knew what
he meant.

He looked away to look up at the tram station, where a new flock of visitors was disembarking and fanning out at the railings.
"I had another reason for bringing you up here this evening, beyond showing you a majestic view. I wanted to tell you that
I've already arranged a meeting between you and the client." Cree started to protest, but he overrode her: "Her name is Julieta
McCarty, and she's the founder, president of the board, and principal of a little boarding school for Navajo kids. You'll
like her—a woman on a mission, just like you. No, don't bristle at me! All you have to do is talk with her, Lucretia. Afterward,
you can tell
her
why your taking some personal time is more important than her whole life and the futures of sixty-odd bright and talented
teenagers and the survival of one very special boy in particular."

Cree crossed her arms against the chill wind and looked away from him. "You're laying it on pretty thick here, Mason. The
Dickensian sentimen­tality."

He dropped his voice to an urgent whisper: "You were right that I'd die to know. Just as you would. This situation at the
school—it could be the breakthrough we both want, the one that brings us as close to the other side as we can get without
dying ourselves. I'd love nothing more than to take it on. But I am simply not the right one for the job! It requires your
talents. Beyond the empathic elements needed, this will take someone physically robust and mobile. Don't pass this up, Lucretia!
Don't."

His intensity gave her pause. If Mason Ambrose said it might be a breakthrough case, he had good reason. She felt the familiar
kindling of her senses, the awakening of that ravening curiosity.

But there was no way to communicate how important it was to take the time she needed. Time for
life.
How last spring in New Orleans she'd realized the full extent to which she'd slipped into obsession, into an emotional world
so narrow that she'd become little more than a ghost herself. Preoccupied with death and haunts, with the past. Always looking
through but never
at
the sunlit world of daily, physical life, always straining to see into the twilight that lay beyond. How she was, as Mason
said, married to a dead man, unable to live as a flesh-and-blood woman. That she'd been turning into a kind of ghost herself.

It had nearly killed her, but out of the Beauforte House investigation and her unexpected attraction to Paul Fitzpatrick had
come a hard-won determination to
live.
For the first time in the nine years since Mike's death, she had admitted to herself the need to get over him. To shed the
confusion and guilt she felt whenever she felt drawn to another, living, man. Taking this case now would mean that once again
she was putting life on hold in favor of the afterlife.

"I can't, Mason," she said finally. "I'm not going to do this one. I'm truly sorry."

Mason gave his head a skeptical toss. "Fine. As I say, you can tell it to Julieta McCarty. That's her now. And she's got the
school physician with her—Dr. Tsosie. Excellent!" And he waved to a woman and a man who were descending the ramps toward
them wearing expressions Cree knew only too well: the look of people coping, poorly, with the inexplicable.

4

AFTER OUTRAGE at Mason's presumption, Cree's first response was surprise at the woman's appearance. Julieta McCarty was tall,
narrow waisted, dressed in snug jeans, cowboy boots, a man's blue work shirt, and a denim jacket with cuffs rolled one turn
to reveal silver and turquoise bracelets. She had enviably big black hair that tossed freely in the wind, flashing almond-shaped
blue eyes, and a tan augmented by a touch of bronze coloring that suggested Native American or Hispanic blood. Cree's first
thought was,
stunning.
Movie star stunning. Definitely not anyone's idea of a typical high school principal. Too curvaceous, too young—no older
than her midtwenties.

Seeing her at close range changed Cree's first impression somewhat. Nearer, her real age was evident in her face: closer to
forty than thirty. The skin around her eyes and mouth was etched with a skein of fine creases that told of a life in the dry
high-desert air and hard sun. Her eyes held a searching look full of wariness, worry, fatigue, doubt, determination.

It was a look Cree had seen in other people trying to deal with an incomprehensible experience, to live when their every belief
and expectation had been called into question. It was also a look she saw far too often in the mirror.

The eyes made a twang in Cree's chest, a feeling of such poignancy that she forgot her anger at Mason. In one glance the connection
was made, so real Cree could almost
see
it, a shimmering golden cord arcing between them and binding them together.

Remaining a pace behind Julieta, Dr. Tsosie was a Native American man in his midforties. He wore khakis, jogging shoes, a
blue nylon windbreaker parted to reveal a white shirt and a belt cinched by an ornate silver buckle. A beeper and cell phone
clipped on the belt marked him as a physician. The brown eyes that shone from under the brim of his cowboy hat were somber
and appraising, and though he maintained an impassive face Cree sensed that the root of his current caution was a protective
urge: He was looking out for Julieta, determined to help her through whatever crisis she was enduring.

Meeting them, especially Julieta, had a fated, inevitable feel. As they shook hands, Cree inwardly cursed Mason, hating that
he could tell exactly how she'd react. That he'd known her for the soft touch she was, that her immediate and overpowering
empathy for Julieta would compel her to take the woman's problems as her own.

Mason made only a halfhearted effort to keep the pleasure off his face. Cree wanted to kick him.

"Thank you for coming, Julieta. Joseph, it's a pleasure to see you again." Mason had conjured his public persona of charm
and authority. He pushed back his cuff to glance at his watch and then smiled up at them. "Shall we stay outside and catch
the sunset, or would you like to confer over dinner? I took the liberty of making reservations at the High Finance here—their
strip sirloin is quite splendid. In either case, I know Lucretia is eager to hear the specifics of your situation."

Julieta McCarty admitted that she was too tense too eat, so they opted against dinner. Instead, Cree rolled Mason's chair
down another series of ramps to the ridge trail below the restaurant, where they strolled slowly as they talked. The wind
had died, but the air was turning chilly; Mason took a blanket from a pouch and arranged it over his legs. Back on the deck,
Lupe found a position that allowed her to keep an eye on them, opened a paperback, and pretended to read.

The sun was swelling as it descended, a bloated red balloon just above the horizon. On Sandia crest, the light that saturated
every west-facing feature had turned a succulent orange-pink, startling in its contrast with the blues of evening infiltrating
from the east. The light had named the mountain, Mason explained:
sandia
was the Spanish word for watermelon.

Mason lectured them as if they were a postgrad psych class and he was putting forward a case study for them to solve: "A fifteen-year-old
boy, presenting intermittent but extreme symptoms. Two rounds of exhaustive testing show no cranial abnormalities and no seizure
activity. Blood chemistry good, no indication of chronic disease or drug abuse. Good general health history. Psychological
tests show a fairly normal adolescent male profile: issues with status and self-esteem, resistance to authority—the usual.
Appears to be an active, healthy young man with a higher-than-average IQ and a notable talent at visual art, which brought
him to the attention of Oak Springs School. Like many kids his age, he has a minor history of trouble—graffiti, a little
vandalism, one arrest for underage driving and one for possession of marijuana at the age of thirteen. But he has no drugs
in his system now and he claims he hasn't taken anything for two years. The hospital's initial diagnosis is dehydration and
stress. After the second and third episodes and the diagnostic batteries that followed, their psych staff conclude he's faking
it—this is a desperate bid for attention by a child deeply troubled for reasons not yet understood. They prescribe Prozac
and talk therapy on an outpatient basis—"

"Diagnosis completely unsatisfactory to school administrators," Julieta interrupted. "This infuriates me—nobody could fake
what he was doing! He—"

She cut herself off as Dr. Tsosie lightly touched her elbow. They exchanged a short glance and Julieta calmed herself with
an effort.

"Diagnosis fails," Mason went on, unperturbed, "to consider the severity of symptoms or reliable observations of their anomalous
nature by the residential staff, the school nurse, and the school physician. At which point Dr. Tsosie sought me out. I then
spent two days at the school, during which I reviewed the patient's medical records, observed him while full symptoms were
presenting, and conducted interviews. After which I decided that a further referral was necessary. By serendipitous good fortune,
my first choice for that referral was soon to be in the area for a speaking engagement at UNM." Mason shut his eyes, tipped
his head, and for a long moment let the rich light play on his skin. "Which brings us to Sandia Ridge for a sumptuous sunset
and the joint contemplation of a most unusual and dire neuropsychological phenomenon."

They had stopped at the end of the ridge path. Beyond stood a forest of ponderosa pines, now a shadowy cathedral shot through
with shafts of light that cut the tree canopy into an intricate lattice. A few sightseers clung to the rail far behind them,
snapping photos. On the lower path, just back of the crest, other visitors had begun returning to the tram station, chattering,
clutching sweaters and windbreakers tightly around them.

"I still don't know anything about the boy's condition," Cree said. "From what you've told me so far, I can't see why you
think I might be of any help. What—he claims he's seeing ghosts?"

"I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here," Dr. Tsosie interposed. He'd stayed quiet throughout their conversation, maintaining
a reserve that he seemed to overcome only with difficulty. "Dr. Ambrose, you have an impressive reputation. But I'm here because
I need some reassurance that we're doing the right thing. I don't know anything about Ms. Black and I'm skeptical of supernatural
explanations. That we're up here talking to a . . . I don't even know what you call Ms. Black . . . a medium?"

"A parapsychologist," Mason said contentedly. "With a Ph.D. in clinical psychology."

"That we're talking about a supernatural origin for Tommy Keeday's problems, and consulting with a
ghost buster
—my God, Julieta, if the board hears about this—"

"I think the way to address both issues," Mason cut in, "is to begin with Cree telling you something about her theories and
her process. That will allow me to explain precisely why I sought her out and will perhaps allay some of your concerns as
well, Joseph."

Arms folded against the chill, Julieta nodded. Frustrated, Dr. Tsosie stooped to pick up several stones from the edge of the
path. He pitched one hard at the low red sun and watched it disappear into the abyss before he grudgingly dipped his head.
"Okay."

"Your skepticism is justified," Cree began. "Movies, horror novels, and urban legends usually portray paranormal events in
ways that are sensational and wildly inaccurate. My colleagues and I take a scientific approach. We don't claim anything like
an objective understanding of what consciousness is, or the spirit or the soul, or what happens after death. But we do apply
a range of investigative techniques that include seeking physical evidence by technological means, historical research, medical
testing of witnesses, and psychological analysis. I don't like the word 'supernatural,' because what we study is entirely
natural—it's just a domain of complex phenomena that few people have made systematic attempts to explore. We founded Psi
Research Associates in 1997 with the goal of researching paranormal phenomena, but people usually come to us only when they
have a problem with something inexplicable and troubling, and want to get rid of it. So in that sense, the term 'ghost buster'
is not inaccurate. We prefer to say we 'alleviate' or 'remediate' hauntings."

Tsosie grunted as he winged another stone far out into the air. The sun was setting fast now, flattening on the bottom as
ifbeginning to liquefy. "If there's any real science to parapsychology, why hasn't it become accepted in the mainstream? We
know the inner workings of the atom, we've mapped the human genome. Why don't we have reliable information about ghosts?"

"Why?" Cree snapped. "How about asking why belief in ghosts has existed in remarkably consistent form in every culture throughout
the world and throughout history? And why people keep reporting encounters with them today, more than ever, despite skepticism
and ridicule from family, community, scientists, religious authorities, news media—"

She stopped, regretting her tone. These people were coping with something deeply upsetting, she reminded herself, something
that had challenged their beliefs and made them desperate enough to come here for this meeting. Her heart moved in her chest,
and she reached out to touch Julieta's arm before going on.

"There are many reasons why the phenomena I study aren't well understood. Not the least of them is that there's a powerful
stigma attached to reporting them. A moment ago, when you mentioned your concern about how your board would react? That's
a good example of how information about paranormal events gets repressed. People keep a lid on what they experience. As a
result, we don't communicate data, we don't collect and correlate it. We tend to ignore what we see because it doesn't fit
in with expectations, or will cause us problems. Scientists dealing with inexplicable anomalies fear for their reputations
if they talk about them. In the old days, religious orthodoxy repressed data. You could be burned at the stake if you showed
interest in whatever was deemed 'supernatural' at the time—much of which, I should point out, we now call 'science.' Nowadays,
scientific orthodoxy just kills careers, but it's a powerful disincentive. So witnesses of ghosts often do a lot of self-censoring."

Of course, that was just the tip of the iceberg. But a full explanation of her theories of psychology and the ways of the
universe wasn't something you could unload on people you'd just met.

Frustrated, Cree found her anger at Mason's manipulations growing. "Look, I'd be happy to skip all the explanations and justifications.
Just tell me how any of this relates to your Tommy Whatshisname. I can't see that—"

"What is a ghost?" Julieta McCarty asked. Though she tried hard to control it, her jaw was trembling, teeth beginning to chatter
from the cold. Her question seemed as much a challenge as an inquiry.

Cree took a breath to reclaim her patience. " 'Ghost' is a lousy word for a whole set of phenomena we don't understand. There
are many kinds of noncorporeal entities. Most of the ones I deal with are fragments of a once-living human personality that
somehow keep manifesting in the absence of a physical body. We have several theories as to how this can occur. The most common
ghosts or revenants are what we call 'perseverating fragmentaries'—not so much whole beings as disconnected mental and emotional
matrixes that replay independently of a corporeal self. Usually, ghosts are compulsively reliving important experiences, often
the moment of their deaths—the perimortem experience—or crucial memories of their lives." She paused to gauge their reactions.
"Look, I know this sounds like gobbledygook to you. It's impossible to—"

"How do you 'alleviate' ghosts?" Julieta asked.

Cree was getting increasingly impatient with the whole exercise, with Julieta's probing, Tsosie's skepticism, Mason's veiled
amusement.
Might as well give them the whole banana,
she thought.
And if they don't buy it, maybe I can get my butt off this freezing mountain and go home.
"It goes back to theory," she said. "Ghosts don't appear to just anyone. There's always a link of some kind between the ghost
and those who experience it. It might be a direct link—a relationship from the past, say—or a purely psychological one,
a state of emotional vulnerability that primes the witness's mind for perceiving the ghost. Edgar Mayfield, my partner, thinks
the link sensitizes the witness's central nervous system to the electromagnetic emanations of the ghost. I have a somewhat
different theory, but in any case, that link is the reason most ghosts are perceived by only one or at best a very few people.
Ghosts can be manifestations of any strong emotion or yearning, positive or negative, but they're almost always feelings that
are
unresolved.
What I do is try to find that connection between ghost and witness, try to understand the issues that they have in common,
what's unresolved for both of them. One of my clients called me a psychotherapist for ghosts, and that's not far wrong—except
that I do it for the witnesses as well because ghost and witnesses need to progress in parallel toward resolution. Dr. Mayfield
looks for physical evidence of ghosts and uses various technologies to try to identify the mechanisms of their manifestation.
Our assistant, Joyce Wu, supports our work with historical research and forensic investigation. I use psychology and a special
set of. . . sensitivities that Mason calls a variant of projective identification. I just call it
empathy.
All it means is that I intuitively mesh with people's feelings. I take on their states of mind, which helps me to see and
understand the ghost they've seen. And helps me find the link between them."