Soul Tracker, page 5
Griffin looked over to the dead bunny lying in the grass. It was important that you always please him.
If David Kauffman didn’t believe in ghosts before, Alcatraz was enough to change his mind. At least that’s what he thought as he stood fighting off the chill in the corridor outside Cell 14-D. Of all the unsettling places on this thirty-three-acre island of rock, the solitary confinement cell at the end of the row was the spookiest, considered by many to have the greatest “negative energy.” Over the years a dozen guards, psychics, and reporters claimed to have felt a sinister evil lurking inside. Several experienced a “breathing cold spot” near the left back corner. And more than one had seen glowing red eyes emerge from the darkness, accompanied by a malicious smile with a silver front tooth.
David glanced up to the wire-meshed windows towering above him—their dirty, opaque glow quickly fading in the setting sun. Everything about this place gave him the creeps. Including its history. Proportionately, Alcatraz had more mental breakdowns and attempted suicides than any prison in the country. In one year alone fourteen men had gone insane here. Hardly the place for somebody who wrote warmhearted action/adventure novels. Unless that somebody wanted to talk to an expert about the possibility of contacting his dead daughter.
Three months ago he would have written off anybody with such ideas as a nutcase. But a lot can happen in three months. Besides, with so many psychics on TV, the radio, and in the papers, maybe there was some truth to it. Of course he figured most of the claims were false, but with all of that smoke, maybe, just maybe, there was the tiniest trace of fire. In any case, that’s why he was here. To talk to an expert. To see if there was some, if there was any possibility of breaking through and communicating with his child.
It had not been difficult to track down the Life After Life people. They were part of the Orbolitz Group, one of the largest media empires in the world and well-known for its charitable outreaches. Its sprawling headquarters were located just outside Los Angeles in the Santa Monica Mountains, practically in David’s own backyard. Tracking them down was one thing, spending time with the right person was another. Those in the department agreed it should be Dr. Gita Patekar. If anyone could help him separate truth from fiction, she could. But the woman was perpetually busy. Nonstop. Still, he continued calling and e-mailing, insisting he would meet her anywhere, anytime that she had a moment. As a result, though they lived twenty-five minutes apart, he was now four hundred miles up the coast, watching her ply her trade, waiting for the event to end. When it was over she had promised she could spend up to an hour with him before jetting off to her next appointment.
“I’m feeling something,” the psychic was saying. “Yes, yes, there’s someone here. Definitely an entity…yes.”
The nervous banter and joking of the reporters quickly came to an end as silence filled the corridor. Now there was only the intermittent ringing of a bell buoy and the distant moan of a foghorn.
David pulled his coat tighter and looked back to the cell.
Just outside the open door sat Morrie Metcalf, acclaimed psychic and host of the nationally syndicated TV show Beyond the Grave. His head was tilted back, allowing his silver-gray curls to rest on his black Dior Homme sports coat.
“Yes, I’m feeling…a him, it’s definitely a him.”
Beside Metcalf, around a clear, Plexiglas table, sat three other people. The first was J. L. Burton, the religion editor from the Los Angeles Times. The second was Janice Strommer. She claimed to be the great-niece of a murderer who was killed a few hundred yards from this spot in an escape attempt that took five lives. And finally, dressed in a white blouse and navy blue skirt, sat the petite and thoroughly professional Dr. Gita Patekar. She appeared Asian, perhaps Indian. And, though they’d only met for a moment, David found her accent as intriguing as her soft-spoken directness.
Several months earlier, in a Times interview, Dr. Patekar had mentioned that Morrie Metcalf was one of several fake psychics who were bilking grieving families of millions with false promises of contacting their dearly departed. Metcalf had taken issue with the article and had challenged her to test his abilities right here, in one of the hottest psychic places of the West Coast. Patekar had readily agreed to the challenge, and now here they were, surrounded by a handful of print reporters, TV lights, and two documentary crews—one from Metcalf’s own show, and the other from the supposedly unbiased Psychic Network. It was a definitive showdown that everyone wanted to document.
“Yes…” Metcalf frowned. He rolled his head and whispered, “Yes…yes…” He grimaced then gave the slightest jerk, before his face relaxed into a smile. With eyes shut, he quietly whispered, “He’s here.”
No one spoke. Dead silence—except for the clicking of still cameras and their whirring autowinds.
“Yes,” Metcalf whispered. Eyes still closed, he turned to the group. “He wants to know if anyone has a cigarette.”
“Uh…sure.” One of the reporters reached into his pocket and produced a pack of Camels. “Right here.” Walking over to Metcalf, he tapped out a cigarette. The psychic opened his mouth and took it, then waited as the reporter fumbled for his lighter.
Once it was lit, Metcalf inhaled deeply, savoring the pleasure. He smiled, then spoke. “He says it’s been a long time.” He took another drag. And then another, blowing the smoke out over the table, where it hung in the still air.
More clicking and whirring of cameras.
The Times reporter cleared his throat. “Ask him, ask him who he is.”
Metcalf smiled, then chuckled. “First, he wants to know who the hot dishes are.”
Dr. Patekar and Janice exchanged glances. The young woman spoke first. “My name is Janice Strommer. Ask him if he knew my uncle, Joseph Cretzer?”
Metcalf took another drag and exhaled, thickening the haze over the table. “He says he knows Joey. Sometimes they hang out together. The prisoners from here have like a special fraternity.”
“What about a name?” the reporter persisted. “What is his name?”
Another drag, then the answer. “Burgett.”
Several eyes shifted to Dr. Patekar’s young male assistant, who sat to the side quickly scanning a laptop screen until he found the name. “Edward Burgett?” he asked.
“Aaron Burgett,” Metcalf corrected. Then he chuckled. “He says, nice try.”
Others in the group softly laughed. The assistant glanced to Dr. Patekar, who appeared unfazed. She leaned toward Metcalf. “May I ask Mr. Burgett a question?”
Another smile. “He says anything…from a gorgeous toots like you.”
Ignoring him, Patekar asked, “Is there some way to verify that he really is Aaron Burgett? Is there something he could tell us that only he would know?”
Metcalf nodded, paused a moment as if listening, then answered. “He says he tried to escape in 1958. September of ’58.” He took another puff and blew it out as he listened, then relayed more. “His body was missing for twelve days, and on the thirteenth day they found—”
“Yes,” Dr. Patekar interrupted, “that is very impressive, but it is also well documented. Is there something else, some information that only he would know, that we could verify and—”
Suddenly Metcalf dropped his head forward and groaned. “No…” He rolled it to the left, then to the right. “No…don’t hurt them, don’t—They only want to know…No, don’t hurt…”
Tension filled the corridor.
“Don’t hurt who?” the reporter asked.
“There’s somebody else here,” Metcalf gasped. “Somebody who—” He jerked back his head, his face shiny with perspiration. “Who are you?” he cried, eyes still shut. “What do you want? No! No…”
The group exchanged uneasy glances.
Metcalf continued pleading, shaking his head violently. “No…she didn’t mean for you to—She doesn’t want you to—”
Then David saw it. He blinked, thinking his eyes were playing tricks.
“No…”
As Metcalf continued protesting, a faint orb of light appeared over the table. Indiscernible at first, but quickly taking shape.
Excitement swept through the crowd. Cameras clicked and whirred nonstop, as the video crews repositioned themselves and zoomed in.
The image grew clearer. Though transparent, it appeared to be a head. In the thick haze of smoke hanging over the table, a human head had materialized. The back of it was toward the reporters while its face looked directly at Metcalf.
“Who—who are you?” Metcalf cried. “What do you want?” The thing remained hovering, unmoving, yet apparently communicating. The psychic’s face grew ashen. “No! Don’t hurt these people! No!”
Obviously afraid, Janice and the Times reporter leaned as far from the table as possible. Dr. Patekar, although surprised, seemed more intrigued than frightened.
Slowly, the head started to rotate. The crowd fidgeted. The thing continued turning until it faced the Times reporter, who stared wide-eyed in fear, unable to move. But it did not stop. It continued rotating until it looked directly at Janice—who wasted little time rising to her feet, kicking over her chair, and stumbling to get away. And still it turned, until it finally came to a stop, directly facing David and the reporters…with its white, transparent face and glowing red eyes.
The crowd braced themselves. One or two stepped back. David tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
The lips of the face curled, parting into a malicious sneer. The front left tooth gleamed of silver.
“Aaaaah!”
David spun around to one of the video engineers wearing a headset not far from him. He was swatting at some invisible force. “Stay away!” he shouted. “Stay back! Stay—No! Nooo!” His entire body convulsed, raising him onto his toes as if lifted. He gave a chilling scream, then dropped back to his heels. But when he did, his entire countenance had changed. Slowly, he lifted his head. Now, like the floating face, he was also glaring.
“Bobby?” one of his colleagues called out. “You okay, bud?”
But he did not seem to hear. Instead, his arm shot out and he yelled, “You!” His finger pointed directly at the psychic. “What do you know of Burgett?”
Metcalf’s eyes widened.
“What do you know of any of us?” Ripping off his headset, the engineer approached Metcalf, his face glowering, his voice guttural. “You are a fraud!”
Metcalf rose unsteadily to his feet. “What…what’s going on here?” Turning to the video crew he asked, “Who is this man?”
“Bobby,” someone from the Psychic Network called out. “Bobby Green.”
“Fraud!” the engineer roared. “Liar!”
Fighting back his fear, Metcalf turned to Dr. Patekar. “You put him up to this?”
Dr. Patekar did not answer but slowly rose, keeping a careful eye on the engineer as he approached. “Mr. Green? Mr. Green, what are you doing? Mr. Green, stop right there.”
The engineer slowed to within five feet of them.
“Mr. Green?” she repeated. “Bobby?”
Still looking at Metcalf, the engineer sneered, “Bobby can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and he’ll get back to you. Beep.”
Metcalf took a half step closer, his voice unsteady. “Who are you?”
“You know who we are,” the engineer growled. “You brought us up.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
The engineer turned from Metcalf to the head floating above the table. “Do you hear that? He doesn’t understand.” He burst into a taunting laugh.
And then, to everyone’s astonishment, the head opened its mouth and joined in the laughter, its voice an exact duplicate of the engineer’s.
Metcalf spun to the head, staring in disbelief.
“What’s the matter?” the engineer seethed.
Metcalf jerked back to him.
Then the head spoke, sounding identical to Green. “I think we’ve startled him.”
Both the head and engineer laughed again.
“Who…who are you?” Metcalf demanded. He was trembling now.
“You don’t know us,” the engineer taunted, “but we know you…Don’t we, Mr. Metcalf? Or should I say…Tubulardude.”
Metcalf’s jaw dropped. Barely audible, he gasped, “What?”
“Isn’t that your password when logging onto the kiddy porn site?”
The head broke into more laughter. The engineer joined in.
Panicking, Metcalf cried out as much to the cameras as to the ghosts, “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
More laughter.
“Who are you?”
“Nothing is hidden from our world,” the engineer snarled.
“But this…this is not possible!”
“We know everything,” the head agreed.
“No!”
“Like those thank-you gifts you never mention to the IRS.”
“What are you—”
“You don’t think they’re interested in that twenty-eight-foot cabin cruiser?”
“This isn’t possible, it can’t be happening!”
The head laughed, exactly as before.
“You’re not real. I…” He pointed at the head. “You can’t be real, we programmed you ourselves!”
“Programmed?” the engineer asked.
“Yes, yes!” In desperation Metcalf stepped forward and waved his hand through the head. “You’re an image! A holographic image that we programmed three days ago!”
“Would a holographic image know about your sweet young thing in Orlando?” the engineer sneered.
Metcalf spun around to him.
The floating head joined in the laughter.
“My what—”
“What is she, fifteen?”
“Stop it. You’re not real, you’re a fake!”
“Too young to have a baby. At least that’s what you keep telling her.”
“Stop it! This isn’t real! This isn’t—”
“Too bad she’s not listening.”
“Please, stop!”
“Maybe you should tell your wife—”
“In the name of God—”
“—maybe she can convince her!”
“Stop it! Whatever you want. Just stop!” Turning to his young producer, he ordered, “Mel, stop tape. Guys, this isn’t real, this can’t be—”
Then, before everyone’s eyes, the floating head started to morph. It began sprouting ears, then an animal’s snout. Soon, it looked very much like a famous, all-American icon. And, should there be any doubt of its identity, it began to sing, “M-I-C…”
Metcalf watched in terror and confusion.
The engineer joined in. “…K-E-Y…”
Then the rest of the Psychic Network crew finished the song. “M-O-U-S-E!”
When they ended, they broke into applause. Suddenly, the engineer relaxed. Returning to his old self, he grinned while being slapped on the back and congratulated by his fellow crew members.
Realizing the ruse, Metcalf shouted, “You think this is funny? Do you?”
No one paid attention as more congratulations were shared and the cameras continued running.
“You won’t think it’s funny when my lawyers slap a suit on you. All of you! Defamation of character, destruction of livelihood! You play one foot of that tape and I swear to God…”
Ignoring him, Dr. Patekar produced a remote control from her coat pocket. She clicked it at a case very close to the Plexiglas table, and the entire projected image of the head vanished.
Metcalf’s face grew beet red as he sputtered. “But that’s—that’s our holograph! That was our, our—”
“Your what, Mr. Metcalf?” she quietly asked. “Your fraud? Your lie?”
“But how did you reprogram it? How did you get it to—”
Dr. Patekar’s assistant spoke up as he closed his laptop. “Let’s just say one of your technicians has recently become a devoted Orbolitz Group employee…with a very enviable raise in pay.”
The engineer grinned at her. “So what did you think of my performance, Dr. Patekar?”
For the first time during the encounter, the petite lady broke into a smile. “I think you may have missed your calling, Bobby.”
“How so?’
“Perhaps you should have pursued a career in front of the camera instead of behind.”
More laughter as someone messed his hair and others taunted with good-natured quotes: “You don’t know us, but we know you!” “Sweet young thing from Orlando…”
Finally understanding the ruse, David smiled at the camaraderie then glanced over to Dr. Patekar, who had turned to gather her papers. He was deeply impressed. Not only by her quiet beauty and gentle modesty, but by her intelligence. If she could detect and expose such a complex fraud, then surely she would know if there was someone who could help him make legitimate contact. He continued to watch, silently. And, as he watched, for the first time since his daughter’s death, he began to hope.
Anight wind had kicked up, putting a slight chop to their return ride from Alcatraz. But Gita barely noticed. She sat at the thickly varnished table in the cruiser’s galley sipping hot Darjeeling tea and unwinding from the evening’s event. All had gone well—except for the total destruction of a man’s career and his personal life. She took little pleasure in that part of her work. But she had accomplished her task. Truth had again prevailed and that was the bottom line. For her, truth was always the bottom line.
Across the table sat David Kauffman, a ruggedly handsome, unkempt writer in his midforties. The years had treated him well, and it was clear he worked out just enough to make sure they kept doing so. But the faint stirring she felt inside of her had little to do with his looks. There was a tenderness about the man, a vulnerability that she found both touching and unnerving.
“This is, uh…” He fumbled with a photo and carefully pulled it from his shirt pocket. “This was her junior picture—taken at the beginning of the school year.” He passed it to her. She noticed his hands trembling slightly. It may have been the cold, but she doubted it.
