Afterlife (22 page)

After about an hour of searching, she nearly gave up, but came upon a link to a webpage that didn’t have much on the surface—mainly just a mention that there had been a sleep study for psychic ability in the 1970s in Los Angeles, and it had been completely unsuccessful. In the brief article, the writer referred to the “legendary scandal of Project Daylight.”

Julie saved this page, and opened a new browser window, looking up the words “Project Daylight,” “remote viewing,” and “New York.”

Nearly one hundred references came up for these search terms. It completely surprised her.

She began clicking links into each one of the terms. All seemed to go to conspiracy-theory-type sites. Some of the sites dealt with paranormal phenomena, some with urban legends, some with UFOs. When she found mention of Project Daylight, she found mention of a sleep study of children with sleep disorders—whether “night fears,” or general insomnia. Each website she visited seemed to have a different piece of this puzzle about Project Daylight. Brief mentions. “Nobody really knows about Project Daylight, other than a fire destroyed the house where the research took place.” That was really the most definitive statement she could find. There were at least twenty children in the program, and many of them had come from the foster care system. One of the children had shown what they called an “advanced PSI ability,” and she wasn’t quite sure what PSI meant, other than psychic and a variant on the acronym ESP. In due course, she found its definition, and it did, indeed, refer to paranormal ability such as clairvoyance, telepathy, psychometry, and psychokinesis. She knew the first two terms, but was unsure of psychometry or psychokinesis, but she could take a wild guess.

The Chelsea Parapsychological Institute kept coming up as a connection with the Daylight Project. She looked them up, too, and found that they’d shut down in the early 1980s, although it gave their old address.

It was the building on Rosetta Street.

Sixth floor of the building.

66S. Sixth Floor, Sixth Apartment, Letter S.

And she found out something else about the Chelsea Parapsychological Institute.

It had been run by a retired Colonel in the Army who had once worked in military intelligence. A man named Alan Diamant.

She remembered something in Michael Diamond’s book about his father.

4

She sat at the kitchen table, with Diamond’s books open. She skimmed pages, trying to remember where he mentioned his dad. Then, she remembered. It was the first thing she’d read. She opened
The Life Beyond
, and scanned the introduction.

She found it:

“My own father died several years ago, and if you looked up his name online or through public records, you’d eventually find out that he was a Colonel in the Army, that he served in Viet Nam, that he worked in military intelligence and then as a liaison in Bosnia even in retirement. You’d know the name of his brothers, of his parents, of his children and even how he died, because contributions were made to the American Cancer Society. You’d know his date and place of birth. You’d perhaps have a handful of names to research further, too. The internet today is such that people can trace entire family trees going back centuries if they want to. How easy is that for a psychic? All the psychic has to do is spend thirty minutes or so researching one or two families who are showing up for his audience, and then he gets up in front of the audience and says, ‘I’m talking to someone who says he has a son here. He’s showing me something about—a helicopter? Or a plane? Some kind of military plane? I’m getting the sense that he was a soldier of some kind. An officer? But there’s something about Bosnia, too. Does this sound like anyone here?’ And sheep that I am, I’d raise my hand and gasp and say, ‘It’s my dad!’”

5

Back at her laptop, Julie did a search on terms she thought most likely to come up with an obituary of a man named Alan Diamant. It took her three tries, adding search terms each time. Finally, an obituary from 1982 showed up as part of the online archives for the Journal for Paranormal Research of America. It had all the particulars: Colonel in the Army, Viet Nam, went from military intelligence to applied research to parapsychology to founding—and funding—the (CPI) Chelsea Parapsychological Institute for the decade of its existence. Married, divorced, re-married, divorced again, mention of the closing of the CPI, mention of two children. Mention not of cancer, as Michael Diamond had indicated in his book, but “as the result of an accident.” There was a picture accompanying the obituary of Alan Diamant in his late 20s, in uniform. The obituary turned into an article about founders of various paranormal groups, and there was mention of government supervision of certain programs.

That was it.

“It doesn’t mean it’s his father,” Joe Perrin told her when she called him up. “Even if it is…”

“If it is, he might know about Hut. If Hut was there. If any of this matters,” she said. “Joe, you told me you believe in this kind of thing. I’ve experienced something recently.”

“A ghost?” His voice carried with it a half-joke in the word, as if he were uneasy mentioning it.

“I don’t know. A phenomenon of some kind that would make any sane person start drinking and any insane person start jumping out windows,” she said, completing his joke to keep it light.

“I believe in ghosts,” Joe said. “And I know our government backed programs for remote viewing. I’ve read too many articles about it not to believe it. It’s tough thinking they might’ve used kids, but if it was a sleep study, maybe.”

“I’m going to ask him.”

“You got balls,” Joe laughed, but she didn’t. His comment reminded her too much of something Amanda Hutchinson said to her.

“Well, if it’s not his father, he’ll laugh. He told me that I should come talk to him. Maybe he’s psychic. I just am beginning to push to that side of things.”

“Belief?”

“Belief. Or being open to this. Now. Given everything. And if Alan Diamant, well, maybe he knows something. Maybe he was there. If your dad runs a parapsychological foundation, it’s pretty likely that you may grow up to be a psychic,” she said. “Right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But Diamant is a different name than Diamond.”

“I don’t know. It’s not so different,” she said. “Maybe he’s ashamed of his father. Or maybe the name Diamond is just more…”

“
Hollywood
,” Joe completed her thought. “He’s cubic zirconia. Diamonds are not always a girl’s best friend.”

“Ha,” she said.

“Don’t forget me when you’re in the city,” Joe said before they hung up on each other. “I’ll do some snooping around in all these books and magazines I’ve got piled up. Do you want a psychic reading? I can ask my friend Lauren. She’s excellent.”

6

She decided to tape one more night. She went to Matt and asked about his camcorder. Could it be set up with a timer? Yes. Could he set it up so that it could shoot reasonably decent video in the dark? Yes. Could she then take the DVD and put it right into the computer without him seeing it? Yes. This time she intended to be drugged out of her mind with whatever substance could knock her out. She had an old bottle of whiskey in the liquor cabinet that she and Hut never drank, but she knew it was the good stuff. She took a few swigs before going to bed, very late, and then lay down on her bed. This time she kept her clothes on—her shirt and jeans and a sweater.

She drank three small glasses of whiskey and sat up too late, and then sleep came and it was deep.

In the morning, she took the NannyCam tapes and watched them, and there was nothing. Same for the camcorder’s tape. She tried it three more nights. Nothing. Nothing.

And then, the fourth night was a charm.

7

Although the visuals were too shadowy in the NannyCam tapes, Matt’s camcorder had night vision technology, and she saw the dark of her room with greenish glows. The green-black figure of a man. His face so much like Hut’s it made her gasp.

And then, as she watched, she had the strangest feeling she’d ever experienced. It was as if he was looking at her, watching him. Knowing that she would watch him hours later. Knowing that she would see this videotape.

He went to where the camcorder was set on the tripod, and looked directly into the camera. It was Hut. The video was dark and glowing green and grainy, but there was no doubt about it. He seemed to be trying to say something, but there was no sound on the video. Then, he fumbled with the camera. He lifted it up, and now, he had it in his hands and was filming the bedroom. Filming her. With one hand, he unbuttoned her sweater, and then, beneath this, unbuttoned her shirt. He spread the material apart, and pressed his hand in the brief gap between her breasts. Then he kept the camera focused on where his hand went. He delicately drew back each side of her shirt, exposing her breasts, and then put his fingers around the nipple of her right breast, and twisted it slightly. He cupped her breast in his hand, then drew the camera back.

He continued to undress her with some dexterity, filming each movement he made.

When he had her completely naked, he put his hand between her knees and pushed them apart. Then, he put the camera there, close enough that she could see herself—and he began stroking her there, between her legs, all the while keeping the camera focused where his fingers played.

She couldn’t watch it anymore. She shut it off. Covered her face in her hands. She couldn’t even conjure tears.

8

“I’d like to speak with Eleanor Swanson,” Julie said, holding the cell phone close to her face.

Eleanor’s assistant told her that she was out for a few days. “Just a brief holiday,” he said. “If it’s an emergency, I can make sure she has your message before the end of the day.”

Julie paused, and then said, “No, it’s all right. I’ll call her when she gets back.”

9

She remembered Matt’s video that had struck her as odder than odd: the one where he’d videotaped her sleeping. She went to the desktop computer in the den and pulled up his videos. They were numbered, but not otherwise labeled. She knew there was one of her sleeping, and then the very strange one of the girl that was probably from his school. It had been in the back of her mind to ask him about them, but she hated to push him on anything after what he’d gone through. Eleanor had told her to expect that he’d be like stone about his mother’s death for at least a few months until he got through a protective layer inside him. “And then expect Niagara Falls and some yelling and maybe some well-placed anger,” Eleanor had said, suggesting several therapists he could see if he still didn’t want to talk to her again.

Julie tried to open some of the videos, but none of them would open, and she wasn’t technologically advanced enough to figure it out.

Then she made a call to Michael Diamond’s office. They gave her the runaround and put her on hold (twice). She made sure all the doors were locked, windows closed and locked, checked the burglar alarm and got in the Camry and drove to the city.

In the backseat of the car, she’d tossed copies of
The Mind’s Journey
and
The Life Beyond
.

1

“I’m sorry,” the woman at the front guard desk said, looking at her with what Julie assumed was the kind of sizing up a security guard needed to do if they smelled a stalker. “His show tapes Mondays and Tuesdays. If you’d like to get tickets, the ticket window is—”

“I’m not here to get tickets,” she said, and then left abruptly. She got a bagel and bad coffee from a street vendor, and stood on the corner of 53
^rd
and Sixth Avenue, wondering when she had transitioned from a widow to a stalker.

On her cell phone, she dialed the studio, got a recording, and on the recording was an eight-hundred number for buying Michael Diamond’s books and tapes. She called it, and got an operator.

“I need to reach him,” she said.

“I’m sorry. We’re a warehouse fulfillment service,” the man said on the phone.

She hung up.

Then she opened the book, and looked at the last few pages. Diamond was shilling his tapes and books and seminars and…consultations.

She called the number listed for the consultations. “I’d like a consultation. But I want it immediately.”

“I’m sorry,” the young woman said, her voice practically a chirp. “Mr. Diamond has a waiting list. The consultation price is $2,000 for one hour, and I can put you down for…how’s October 12
^th
?”

“Listen. I don’t care about his schedule. You tell him—or his handlers—that this is Julie Hutchinson. The woman he had on the show recently. The one who he told that someone would die. That person died. You tell him that if I don’t see him, and fast, I’m bringing a lawsuit down on his head that will ruin him forever.”

2

He agreed to meet her at a restaurant called Pastis that was just outside the Village, toward Chelsea, in the meat-packing district. They sat outside, the restaurant’s awning shielding them from the sun. She ordered steak frites, and he ordered beans on toast and a glass of white wine.

“So, you’re threatening me,” he said.

“I had to see you.”

“I know.”

“What…what was that all about?”

“In the studio? It’s what I do. I viewed you.”

“Viewed?”

“I go inside people, sometimes. It’s like possession, I guess, only I’m not a ghost. It’s my mind—it’s not magic. It’s a genetic mutation, I think. My grandmother had this, too. One percent of the population has it. You know, I thought you hated my guts after our session.”

“I did. But…you said things that…well, they were accurate. I had buried them, but they were true. I’ve never admitted them to anyone. Not my mother, my sister, not my kids.”

“I know.”

“You know all?”

“No, I don’t. I know very little, in fact. What you consider normal intuition—I’ve got zero. Truthfully, if I didn’t have this ability—we call it Ability X—I’d be a bum in the street. In fact, I was, for several years. It goes in and out, depending on a host of factors. But it’s come on strong in the past six years, so…well, I’ve had to make hay while the sun shines. So, you need my help with something you don’t really understand. Is that right?”