Play Dead (7 page)
“Is Melissa coming tonight?” asked one of the men. The way he asked made me think that saving the planet wasn’t his only interest in the group. Apparently others thought the same, since I caught a few knowing glances thrown between the others.
“No, I don’t think so,” Haley said. “But Cassandra should be here soon. She’s talked to Melissa and she’ll know what the . . . status is.”
She glanced over at me, not too subtly, making it clear she didn’t want it gone into with me there, at least not right now. But I wasn’t interested, anyway. I was interested in Cassandra, though, if she was tight with “Melissa.”
About five minutes later the doorbell rang and Cassandra was ushered in. Again, not what I had expected. She was small, not quite five feet, with a neat afro and light brown skin. A dusting of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose, and when she smiled a greeting at the group, it stretched all the way across her face.
If she knew Jackie, she might well be a practitioner herself. But I got no sense of that; if she was shielding, she was doing it well. I could probe her a little, but if she was a practitioner, she’d feel it and know I was one, too, and that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
“Nothing new,” she said, in answer to the unspoken question from the group. “I’ll find out more by next week.” Her voice had a light and lilting Jamaican accent, just enough of one to fall pleasantly on the ears.
Her announcement didn’t seem to be a big deal, though. Pretty soon they were all working out the logistics of a planned rally at City Hall next month. After that was finished, Haley brought out a little tray of cookies and pastry. Good thing Lou wasn’t here or there wouldn’t have been enough for everyone.
I edged over toward Cassandra, trying to get a line on her, what she was about, anything that would make it seem natural for me to see her again. Apart from the obvious—she didn’t strike me as someone looking to hook up, even assuming I was irresistible. One of the women came up to her and gave her a hug.
“Cass, I’ve just got to thank you again. You were absolutely right—it was a wrong choice, and the wrong person.” I gave an inquiring look, hoping to draw myself into the conversation, and the woman obliged. “Cassandra is a genius at arriving at the truth of a matter,” she said.
“Really? Are you a therapist, Cassandra?”
The woman laughed. “Not likely. Cassandra does readings, and they’re amazing.”
“Oh? What kind of readings?”
Cassandra shrugged. “Life. Love. Relationship problems. Psychic readings. Not the sort of thing you’d be interested in, I’d guess.”
I put on my most charming smile. “You never know.” She looked at me skeptically. “Okay, you’re right,” I said, laughing. “It’s not my sort of thing, But my sister, now, she’s very much a believer, and she’s having some doubts about her boyfriend.”
“I tell you, Cassandra is simply the best,” said the woman. Bless her.
“How much do you charge?” I asked. Cassandra perked up with interest.
“Two hundred dollars, usually. One hundred fifty for members of the group here.”
“And worth every penny,” the woman put in.
“Have you got a card?” I asked. Cassandra shook her head.
“No, but I have some time tomorrow if you’re really interested.”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know where the houseboats on Mission Creek are?”
“I do. You live there? That’s fantastic.”
“It is nice,” she said. “You can’t miss mine—it’s bright red, the only one like that there.” She took a scrap of paper, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. “There’s a gate into where the houseboats are moored. Here’s the combination. About noon, then?”
“We’ll be there,” I said.
I left soon after, promising Haley I’d be back next week. Driving home, I was well satisfied. Already I was one step closer to Jackie. This detective stuff wasn’t turning out to be that difficult after all.
FOUR
I WOKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING WITH another headache, but by the time I’d finished my coffee it was gone. I waited until a decent hour before calling Sherwood to ask for her help a second time.
“Again?” she said. “Why am I supposed to do all the work?”
“This will be easy, and you’ll get a free psychic reading out of it.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted. How did you know? Oh, wait, are you psychic, by chance?”
I explained about Cassandra and how I was supposed to bring someone over for a reading. Sherwood, of course, would play that role.
I drove over to pick her up. Sherwood had finally moved into her new place, a pleasant garden apartment on Potrero Hill. Mission Creek is nearby to Potrero Hill, but closer to the downtown area. It’s a unique place to live, mostly industrial. The new UCSF Mission Creek campus is located there and a large medical complex as well, though they weren’t totally up and running yet.
An odd collection of houseboats sits moored on the channel leading to the bay, inhabited by both bankers and eccentrics. Not far from where the homeless guy once known as Bridge Guy, now known as Rolf, hung out. And where the energy pool was located. The one we’d been unable to so far close off.
“This woman lives on a houseboat?” Sherwood asked as we drove over.
“So she says.”
“I had no idea there was such a thing in the city.”
Fifteen minutes later I pulled up and parked next to the small park that lay alongside the narrow channel. A mud flat ran down to the water’s edge, ending in a jumble of rocks of various sizes. Two well-fed cats prowled cautiously by the water, jumping from rock to rock. Lou’s ears perked up when he saw them, but there was no way he was going into that muck just to see them run.
Ramps led across the channel to where the houseboats were moored, each ramp blocked by a wire cage door with a combination lock. A gated community, though not the usual sort.
The houseboats were more house than boats. Some were small, but most were two stories and a couple of them were three. Right across from where we had parked, a pink three-tiered boat did a credible imitation of a wedding cake, each level slightly higher and smaller than the one below. Another, dark blue with white trim, reminded me of a top hat. All the houses exhibited the same curious mixture of ornate and ramshackle, with junk strewn over the long mooring dock and expensive-looking sailing boats tied up alongside. These houseboats weren’t going anywhere, any more than the double-wide trailers in an RV park.
We strolled up to one of the entrance ramps, which was blocked by the tall wire mesh gate.
“They do like their privacy,” I said, “but I was given the code.”
I punched in the numbers and swung the door open. We passed along the row of houseboats, finally stopping at one of the smaller ones. The number thirty-two was visible over the front door, but it wasn’t needed. There was no mistaking it; no two houseboats looked even vaguely similar, and this was the only one painted bright red.
“What’s our story again?” Sherwood asked.
“You’re having relationship trouble. You want to know if your current boyfriend is really the one.”
“And you’re the boyfriend?” She looked at me critically.
“No, that might be a hard sell. How could you possibly be having doubts about someone like me? I’m the skeptical brother, watching out for poor, credulous you.”
“And Lou?”
“Lou’s a dog.” He threw me a dirty look. “He doesn’t need a cover story.”
I put a psychic shield over both of us. Cassandra might not be a practitioner at all, but on the other hand she might well be a wild talent—people we run into occasionally, those with talent who have little or no contact with other practitioners, sometimes unaware that others like them even exist. Mostly they’re adolescents, when talent first manifests, but sometimes it’s an older person. Generally they’re harmless, but once in a while they have real power, and, being totally untrained, often wreak minor havoc.
Checking them out is part of Victor’s responsibilities. If Cassandra was one of those, she might well sense our power. She might not recognize what she was seeing, but she’d sense there was something different about us, and that might make her uneasy and suspicious. Thus, the shield. Lou didn’t need any shield, of course.
As soon as I knocked, the front door immediately popped open as if Cassandra had been waiting for us right behind it. Maybe she had seen us coming through the front windows.
“Cassandra,” I greeted her. “This is my sister, Rebecca.”
“Welcome, my dear. Welcome to both of you.” She looked down at Lou and a puzzled expression flitted across her face.
“He’s very well behaved,” said Sherwood, following her gaze. Lou sat quietly at Sherwood’s feet, doing a convincing imitation of a well-behaved dog. “I hope it’s okay that I brought him along.”
“Of course,” she said. “All are welcome at Cassandra’s house. Come in, come in.”
When we stepped across the threshold I expected to feel the houseboat move under my feet, or at least have some sense of motion, but it was solid as a rock. The front room was light and airy, with windows that looked out on the bay channel. The widows opened out and a pleasant breeze with the tang of salt air came through.
I didn’t get much time to look around. As soon as we entered, Cassandra led us through another door, heavy, with an iron dead bolt on the outside. A short flight of stairs led down to a basement, but unlike normal houses where the basement is underground, this room was below the waterline instead.
Cement walls, painted white, were another surprise. You’d think they would be damp and clammy with condensation covering the surface, but they were dry as a bone, tight and snug.
One corner of the room was set aside as a sleeping area, a low bed frame and mattress partially concealed behind a wooden screen. It wasn’t somewhere I’d be comfortable sleeping; no matter how warm and dry it was, I’d always be aware I was under the waterline with the chilly waters of the channel only inches from my head.
The room wasn’t cool, though; it was hot and close. Possibly the water acted as an insulator. On a low table at the back of the room a small fan was stirring the air, trying to provide some relief. In the middle of the room a larger table had been set up, with a shallow rectangular pan of water in the exact center of it.
Next to the pan, a small lamp was placed close enough to cast light over it. Several small square glass bottles, each a different color and stoppered with corks, sat next to the lamp. Two wooden chairs on either side of the table provided seating—one for Cassandra, the other for her client.
I looked around for another place to sit and settled on a more comfortable chair in one of the corners. Lou appeared to wander around aimlessly, sniffing at things, but he wasn’t really being aimless. This was a job, and he was checking out the room as thoroughly as he could.
“Sit down,” Cassandra said to Sherwood, motioning toward one of the chairs. She turned on the lamp, which cast a miniature spotlight on the pan of water, and turned off the other lights. Then she stooped down and flicked on another switch. Immediately, the ceiling of the room was transformed into a replica of a starry sky, complete with swirling blue clouds and moving points of light.
It was a laser projector, one of those high-tech toys that places like the Sharper Image used to sell. When I was five, my grandfather gave me his old planetarium projector. Actually, it was nothing more than a plastic globe covered with pinpoint holes, so that dots of light were thrown on the ceiling and walls, but I loved it. This was similar, in the way an Indy car is similar to a Model T. Technology has come a ways.
It was quite impressive, and had I been five again, I’d have been awestruck. But it also reeked of a carny scam—setting up the mark with a pretty display to distract them so they wouldn’t notice the wires behind the scenes. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Cassandra sat down at the table and took Sherwood’s hands in hers.
“So,” she said. “Your boyfriend. You want to know if you two really belong together, yes?”
Sherwood nodded.
“Concentrate on him. What he looks like. How he holds you. What you love about him. Then, what you don’t like so much—the things that make you wonder.”
Sherwood concentrated; then she relaxed and a faraway look appeared on her face. She closed her eyes and sat motionless. At one point a small sigh escaped. She was really playing it up, living in the moment.
But if it was method acting, it was also real. Sherwood believed in being fair, and was giving Cassandra every chance to show her stuff. Maybe there wasn’t any boyfriend at the moment, but whoever Sherwood was envisioning had meant something to her at one time. It might have even been me—though that had been ages ago.
I took the opportunity to cast around, looking for evidence of true talent. It was there, faint but unmistakable, lurking in the corners. I focused in on Cassandra, and again I felt something. So she had talent, no doubt about it, but it was so faint as to be essentially useless to her. But maybe that was what had drawn Jackie to her, apart from the eco agenda they seemed to share. Maybe it flared up at random moments, giving her some real insight and a flash of power. That might explain why she was attracted to her psychic profession, and would also explain why her clients sometimes got real results.
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