The manitou (8 page)

It was
MacArthur who answered the phone. “Who is this?” he said grumpily.

“Harry Erskine.
I need to talk to Amelia. It’s pretty urgent”

“The Incredible
Erskine!” said MacArthur. “How’s business in the up-and-up field of ripping off
old ladies?”

“Pretty good,”
I told him. “How’s the Engravaplate industry?”

“Not so bad,”
he replied. “It’s not what you’d call a fulfilling career but it brings home
the bacon. Hold on, Amelia’s right here.”

Amelia sounded
her usual soft, husky self.

“Harry? This is
a surprise.”

“
It’s
business, I’m afraid, Amelia. I was wondering if you
could help me.”

“Business?
Since when have you been into business?”

“Cut the
sarcasm, Amelia, this is really important. I have a client who is very ill, I
mean really, urgently ill. She’s been having these terrible nightmares. I’ve
talked to the doctors and they think it might be something to do with
spiritualism.”

She whistled.
“The doctors?
I didn’t know doctors believed in spirits.”

“I don’t think
they do,” I told her. “It’s just that they’re totally baffled, and they’re
willing to try anything to save her. Listen, Amelia, I need to get in touch
with someone who really knows his stuff. I need a clairvoyant who’s really
together, and good. Do you know who could do that?”

“Harry, that’s
a pretty tall order. I mean, there are hundreds of clairvoyants, but most of
them are about as good as you are. And, no offense meant, that means they’re
lousy.”

“No offense
taken. I know my limitations.”

Amelia ummed
and ahhed for a moment, and went through her address book, but after five
minutes of searching she still hadn’t come up with a name In the end, she gave
up.

“I just can’t
help you, Harry. Some of these guys are okay when it comes to fortune-telling,
or putting you in touch with your long-lost Uncle Henry, but I wouldn’t trust
any of them with anything serious.”

I bit my
thumbnail.
“How about you?”
I asked.

“Me? I’m not an
expert. I know I’m a little bit psychic, but I’m not into all the greater
arcana and that stuff.”

“Amelia,” I
told her, “you’ll have to do. At least you’re genuinely psychic, which is a
damn sight more than I am. All you have to do is track down this signal or nightmare
or whatever it is. Just give me a clue to where it could come from. I can do
the rest by ordinary detective work.”

Amelia sighed.
“Harry, I’m busy. I’m going out to a dinner party this evening, and tomorrow I
promised to take Janet’s kids to the park, and on Monday I have to open the
store, and I just don’t have a single moment.”

“Amelia,” I
said, “a girl’s life is at stake. That girl is up there in the Sisters of
Jerusalem Hospital right at this very moment, and she’s dying. Unless we can
find out what her nightmares are all about, then she’s just not going to last
out.”

“Harry, I can’t
make myself responsible for every girl who’s dying. This is a big city. Girls
are always dying.”

I wrung the
phone in my fist, as if I could squeeze Amelia into helping me. “Amelia,
please.
Just tonight.
Just for a couple of hours.
That’s all I’m asking.”

She put her
hand over the phone and talked to MacArthur. They burbled and murmured for a
while, and then she came back on.

“Okay, Harry,
I’ll come. Where do you want me to be?”

I checked my
watch. “Come round to my place first. Then I think we’ll have to go on to the
girl’s apartment. It seems to be there that the dream started. Her aunt gets
them as well, only not so bad. Amelia, I know this is a drag, but thank you.”

“I’ll see you
later,” she said, and put down the phone.

The next thing
I did was dial Mrs. Karmann, Karen Tandy’s aunt
She
was obviously sitting by the phone, waiting for news of Karen, because she
answered almost immediately.

“Mrs. Karmann?
This is Harry Erskine.”

“Mr. Erskine?
I’m
sorry,
I thought it was the hospital.”

“Listen, Mrs.
Karmann, I went to visit Karen today. She’s still pretty weak, but the doctors
think her chances might be improved if they knew a little bit more about her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you
remember I called you yesterday about your dream.
The one
about the beach.
Karen came and saw me and told me that she’d been
having a dream just like yours. The doctors think it’s possible that there
might be something in the dream – some due or other – that could help them to
cure Karen’s condition.”

“I still don’t
see what you’re getting at, Mr. Erskine. Why didn’t Dr. Hughes call me
himself?”

“He didn’t call
you because he couldn’t,” I explained. “He’s a medical specialist, and if any of
his superiors found that he was messing around with spiritualism, they’d
probably sack him on the spot. But he wants to try everything and anything to
help Karen get well again. And that’s why we need to know more about that dream
you’ve both been having.”

Mrs. Karmann
sounded confused and anxious. “But how can you do that? How can a dream give
anyone a tumor?”

“Mrs. Karmann,
there are plenty of proven connections between people’s minds and their state
of health. I’m not saying that Karen’s tumor is psychosomatic, but it’s
possible that her mental attitude toward it is making it more difficult for the
doctors to cure her. They aren’t
operate
until they
understand what it is, and why it affects her so badly.”

“Well, Mr.
Erskine,” she said quietly, “what do you want to do?”

“I’ve already
contacted a friend of mine who’s something of a medium,” I told her. “What I’d
like to do is hold a seance in your apartment, so that my friend can see if
there are any vibrations around.”

“Vibrations?
What kind of vibrations?”

“Anything, Mrs. Karmann.
Anything at all.
We don’t know what to expect until we find it.”

Mrs. Karmann
chewed this over for a few moments. Then she said: “Well, Mr. Erskine, I’m not
at all sure. It somehow doesn’t seem right to be doing something like that
while Karen’s so sick. I don’t know what her parents would say if they found
out”

“Mrs. Karmann,”
I said. “If Karen’s parents knew you were trying everything within your power
to help their daughter, then I don’t see how they could possibly object. Please,
Mrs. Karmann.

It’s that
important.”

“Well, all
right, then, Mr. Erskine. What time do you want to come round?”

“Give us an
hour. Thank you, Mrs. Karmann, you’re terrific.”

Mrs. Karmann
sniffed. “I know that already, Mr. Erskine. I just hope you know what you’re
doing.” She wasn’t the only one.

It was half
past ten by the time we had all gathered together at Mrs. Karmann’s apartment
on East Eighty-second. It was a big, warm place, decorated in a wealthy but
anonymous style – big upholstered armchairs and settees, thick red velvet
drapes, antique tables and paintings. It smelled of scent and old ladies.

Mrs. Karmann
herself was a fragile-looking woman with white bouffant hair, a pinched but
once-pretty face, and a liking for floor-length silk dresses and lacy wraps.
She gave me her soft and ring-laden hand to hold as I came in with Amelia and
MacArthur, and I introduced everybody: “I just pray that what we’re doing won’t
make things worse for Karen,” she said.

MacArthur, with
his big bearded face and his worn-out denims, went round the apartment bouncing
on all the chairs to see how soft they were. Amelia, who was all dressed for
dinner in a long red-printed kaftan, stayed quiet and withdrawn. She had thin,
haunted-looking features, with big dark eyes and a pale full-lipped mouth that
made her look as though she were going to start crying at any moment.

“Do you have a
circular table, Mrs. Karmann?” she asked softly.

“You can use
the dining table,” said Mrs. Karmann.
“As long as you don’t
scratch it.
It’s a real genuine antique cherrywood.”

She led us
through to the dining room. The table was black and glossy, with a deep shine
you could have drowned in. Above it was a glass teardrop chandelier. The walls
of the room were decorated in dark green figured paper and there were gilded
mirrors and oil paintings all around.

“This will do
very well,” said Amelia. “I think we ought to begin right away.”

The four of us
sat down around the table and looked at each other rather self-consciously.

MacArthur was
used to Amelia’s spiritualism, but he was as skeptical as ever, and kept
saying:

“Is there
anyone there? Is there anyone there?”

“Quiet,” said
Amelia, “Harry, can you douse the lights please?”

I got up and
switched off the lights, and the dining-room was plunged into total darkness. I
groped my way back to my seat, and reached out blindly for the hands of Mrs.
Karmann and MacArthur. On my left, a hard male hand. On my right, a soft
elderly female hand. The darkness was so complete that I felt as if a black
blanket was being pressed against my face.

“Now
concentrate,” said Amelia. “Concentrate your minds on the spirits who occupy
this room.

Think of their
souls, wandering through the ether. Think of their wants and their regrets. Try
and imagine them as they float around us on their spiritual errands.”

“What the
hell’s a spiritual errand?” said MacArthur. “You’re telling me they have
ghostly newspaper boys too?”

“Quiet,” said
Amelia gently. “This will be difficult, because we don’t know who we’re trying
to contact. I’m trying to find a friendly spirit who will tell us what we need
to know.”

We sat tight
with our hands clasped while Amelia murmured a long incantation. I was trying
desperately hard to think about the spirits who were moving through the room,
but when you don’t really believe in spirits, it’s not exactly easy. I could
hear Mrs. Karmann breathing right next to me, and MacArthur’s hand was
fidgeting in mine. But at least he had the sense not to let go. From what I’ve
heard, it’s dangerous if you break the circle once the seance has begun.

“I am calling
any spirit who can help me,” said Amelia. “I am calling any spirit who can
guide me.”

Gradually, I
was able to concentrate more and more, directing my mind to the idea that there
was really something or somebody around, some vibration in the room that would
answer us. I felt the pulse of our whole circle go through my hands, I felt us
join together in a complete circuit of minds and bodies. There seemed to be a
current that flowed around and around the table, through our hands and our
brains and our bodies, building up strength and voltage.

“Kalem estradim, ikona purista,”
whispered Amelia. “Venora, venora, optu luminari.”

The darkness
stayed utterly dark, and there was nothing but the strange sensation that
coursed through the four of us, the pulse that throbbed through our hands.

“Spirita
halestim, venora suim,” breathed Amelia.
“Kalem estradim, ikon purista venora.”

I suddenly had
the feeling that somebody had opened a window. There seemed to be a cold draught
in the room, breezing around my ankles. It wasn’t enough to make you feel
uncomfortable, but there was a definite sensation of stirring air.

“Venora, venora, optu luminari,”
chanted Amelia softly.
“Venora, venora, spirit
halestim.”

The realization
that I could see something in the darkness came so slowly and gradually that at
first I thought it was just my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. The
shadowy forms of Amelia and MacArthur and Mrs. Karmann clotted into shape
through the blackness, and I could see their eyes glittering. The table was
like a bottomless pool between us.

Then I looked
up and realized that the chandelier was glowing, with a dim and greenish light.

The filaments
of the bulbs seemed to crawl and flicker with current, like fireflies on a
summer evening. But it was colder than summer, and the invisible draught made
it colder and colder all the time.

“Are you
there?” asked Amelia quietly. “I can see your signs. Are you there?”

There was an
odd rustling sound, as though there was someone else in the room, shifting and
stirring. I could swear I heard breathing – deep, even breathing that wasn’t
the breathing of any of us.

“Are you
there?” asked Amelia again. “I can hear you now. Are you there?”

There was a
long silence. The chandelier continued to glow dimly in the darkness, and I
could hear the breathing more loudly now.

“Talk,”
insisted Amelia. “Tell us who you are. I command you to talk.”

The breathing
seemed to change. It grew harsher and louder, and with each breath the
chandelier pulsed and flickered. I could see its green reflections in the dark
pool of the cherrywood table.

Mrs. Karmann’s
hand was digging deep into mine, but I hardly felt it. There was a persistent
chilliness around the room, and the draught blew uncomfortably up my legs.

“Talk,”
repeated Amelia. “Speak and tell us who you are.”

“Christ,” said
MacArthur impatiently, “this is...”

“Ssshhh,” I
told him. “Just wait, MacArthur,
it’s
coming.”

And it was
coming. I stared at the center of the table, and there seemed to be something
shivering in the air a few inches above the surface. I felt the hairs on the
back of my neck prickle and creep as the air twisted and flowed like smoke,
then began to form itself into some sort of shape.

The breathing
grew deep and loud and close, as though someone was actually breathing in my
ear. The dim light of the chandelier faded altogether but the pouring snake of
air in front of us had a luminescence all its own.