Satan's Mirror Read online

  She moved deeper inside, wondering if she was in the right place. The Parlor was in a residential section and appeared to be a small home. Behind her, Dan sneezed. She looked at him, and he shrugged, sniffling.

  Light flared as a woman lit a candle with a wooden match. Emily gave a slight start—she hadn’t noticed anyone enter.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties with gray, fly-away hair and heavily made-up eyes. She wore a long, flowing skirt and many necklaces.

  Just as a psychic should look. Emily wanted to rub her hands together in anticipation. “Are you Vanessa?”

  “Of course.”

  “My name is—”

  “I know who you are, Emily.” Vanessa glided around the table and took a seat.

  Emily smiled, realizing Dan was right—she liked being recognized. “Then you know I work for a television show—”

  “I know nothing of television. Such pastimes are petty and artificial. In any case, you are not here because of your job.”

  “I’m not?” Emily said, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice.

  “No. You are here to ask about your grandmother.”

  “What?” said Emily, taken aback. “No, I—”

  “You love her dearly, but she had a rather wild youth. Her stories made you laugh. In private, your grandfather called her his little hellion. You worry where she has gone now that she’s dead.”

  Emily bristled. “My grandmother was a good woman.”

  “Do you think good people can’t go to hell?”

  She stared at the fortuneteller, mouth dry, realizing she’d balled her hands into fists. She willed the tension from her shoulders. “I am here on assignment. My story involves the disappearances of Mickey Raynes and Renee Lambert, who were vacationing here from Virginia. By any chance, did they come to see you?”

  “I’ve already made a statement to the police.”

  “Then they were here.”

  Her black-smudged eyes narrowed. “Miss Lambert wished to contact her deceased father. Speaking to the dead is my specialty.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Only that you look the part.” Emily sat at the table across from her. “People often have preconceived notions of what a fortuneteller should be, and I must say you are theatrically perfect. How long have you been in business?”

  “I was sixteen when I found I had the gift.”

  “Really? That long ago?” Emily smiled. “That would account for your collections of books and artifacts. Do you mind if my cameraman takes a few photos? To add flavor to the story.”

  She glared at Dan. “Be my guest.”

  Obediently, he set his camcorder on the table and took out the digital, shooting the wall hangings, the bookcase, the sconces of smoldering incense.

  Vanessa’s gaze darted back and forth as if she were trying to watch both Emily and Dan at the same time.

  Emily pulled out her notepad and doodled importantly. “Did you speak with Miss Lambert’s father?”

  “That is privileged information.”

  “They call it channeling, don’t they? Channeling the dead?”

  “Channeling is when a spirit speaks through the seer. That is not how I work.”

  “What do you do?” Emily asked.

  “I…conjure.”

  “You make ghosts materialize? So if I asked to see my grandmother, you could make her appear right here?”

  “Not here. One needs the proper—”

  “How about in the old house on Weeden Street?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Vanessa said, her expression inscrutable.

  “Did you or did you not take Mickey Raynes and Renee Lambert on a private tour of the Weeden house to see Satan’s Mirror?”

  She hesitated. “I would not take them to see the Mirror, just as I will not take you. I know you’re going to ask.”

  “I can double what they paid you.”

  “That would make no difference,” she said, and then winced as if realizing she’d incriminated herself.

  “I want to see what they saw.”

  “The Mirror will not appear to you because you seek for the wrong reasons. You want to understand it, discredit it if you can. You would not see the phenomenon as a thing of beauty.”

  “Hell is beautiful?”

  “Knowing is beautiful. It can change your life.”

  “So that’s what you were trying to do?” Emily asked. “You showed Mickey Raynes what hell was like so he would mend his ways and live a pious life?”

  Vanessa glared. “I did nothing to harm him or his slut of a girlfriend.”

  “Sure. You just think it’s your job to judge the people who come to see you and decide whether or not they deserve to have the hell scared out of them.”

  The woman stood so abruptly her chair nearly bowled Dan over. For a moment, Emily thought she might order them out of the parlor. But she moved to the side, caressing one of the tapestries.

  “I do not choose them,” she said after a moment. “Joey does.”

  “The guy with the tattoos?”

  Vanessa stared as if she’d seen a ghost. “He spoke to you?”

  “He gave me this.” Emily stood and held out the business card. “Even so, this place wasn’t easy to find. It says it’s called Vanessa’s, not the Psychic Parlor.”

  “Impossible.” She backed away from the card. “Joey only speaks to me.”

  “Is that in his contract as your shill?”

  “When he told me you were coming, I had no idea he had…” Vanessa ran her hands over her face, smearing her make-up. “This can’t be happening. Why would he go to you? He is mine. He belongs to me.”

  “You love him?”

  “Joey is my life. I would do anything for him. Anything. I searched for him for years. I never gave up.”

  “Then you found him.”

  “Six years ago.” She smiled as if remembering the sweetest moment of her life. “He was different than I expected. But he was my Joey. He told me to buy the house on Weeden Street. To keep it safe, he said. To keep it from prying eyes. I did what he asked. I always do what he asks.”

  “I’d like to speak to Joey,” Emily said. “Is he around?”

  “You don’t understand,” Vanessa told her. “Joey is dead. He was taken from this world twenty years ago.”

  SEVEN

  As Emily and Dan left the Psychic Parlor, she muttered, “My daughter has more psychic ability than that woman.”

  Dan grinned. “Then you don’t believe the tattooed man is a ghost?”

  “Please,” she scoffed as she climbed into the van. “I think it’s clear she had something to do with the disappearances, though. Should we go to the police?”

  “Because she called the Lambert girl a slut? That isn’t evidence. We’d be run in for interfering in a police investigation.”

  “I wasn’t going to interfere. I would simply suggest they interview her again.”

  “Sure. Just tell them what to do.”

  “Okay, you’re right.” She started the engine and allowed the van to coast several feet along the curb.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t want to sit in front of her place where she can put a hex on me.” Emily left the motor running as she reached behind her seat for her computer case. “I thought I’d search public records to see which of the houses on Weeden Street is owned by Vanessa. Hopefully, we can hack the wireless signal from the park.” She opened the laptop and waited impatiently for the screen to light. “Too weak. Darn it. I didn’t want to drive all the way back there.”

  “You should buy one of those EV-DO cards and surf through your cell phone.”

  “Tried it. The service is slow and unreliable. I’ll just wait until technology catches up with Star Trek.”

  “In the meantime.” Dan opened the glove compartment and produced a brochure. He checked a local map printed on the back. “No matte
r how old the city, there is always at least one wired coffee shop. Turn right ahead.”

  Emily laughed. “Good thinking. I knew I kept you around for something.”

  She pulled from the curb and turned at the corner. Dan rode with her computer on his lap, monitoring the signal strength. He motioned, and she made another right, entering a main thoroughfare with quaint shops on either side. Among several antique stores, florists, and bathing suit emporiums, she saw window signs for henna tattoos, chair massages, and hair wraps. Three blocks down, they came across an Internet café. A tattooed figure stood at the door.

  “It’s him,” Emily cried. “It’s Joey.” She swerved to the side, slammed the gearshift into park, and leapt out. A passing car honked.

  Joey looked up. His expression hardened as he saw her. He hurried away.

  “Stop!” called Emily.

  She crossed the street,dodging traffic, and sped down the sidewalk as Joey ducked between two stores. He ran down a narrow alleyway.

  She pelted after him. Why was he running? What did he have to hide? She remembered their first meeting when he kept looking over his shoulder as if nervous to be seen with her.

  He jumped a fence surrounding a loading dock and disappeared behind wide bay doors. On his heels, Emily swung her legs over the chain-link barrier and dropped onto concrete. She hurried into the storage room.

  Darkness enveloped her, made even blacker by the contrasting daylight. Dust and a whiff of mildew permeated the air. Emily stumbled around crates and metal shelving.

  “Joey,” she said, “I know you’re in here.”

  She stepped through the shadows, eyes wide, arms outstretched. Perhaps Vanessa was innocent, as she professed. Maybe Joey was a killer. Maybe he lured Raynes and Lambert into the house—just as he lured her in here.

  For the first time, she realized Dan wasn’t with her. A chill swept her sweat-damp skin. She turned to leave.

  A whisper sounded all around. “Are you following me?”

  Emily froze. Ahead, she saw the open doors—a square of bright daylight. Safety. But the story was here in the dark.

  “Your girlfriend thinks you’re a ghost,” she said.

  “I am,” said a voice close behind her.

  She jumped and spun about, bumping into Joey who stood mere inches behind her. She shoved him, stepping back. “You feel solid enough to me.”

  “There are many degrees of death.”

  In the scant light, his face looked waxy and unnatural, his eyelids thick, his lips stiff. As if he’d been burned.

  No, not burned—scalded. She remembered scalding her arm with the steam of a teapot. It left a shiny patch of thickened skin. His face looked like that—vaguely disfigured. And yet he looked young, not much older than she, certainly fifteen or twenty years younger than Vanessa.

  “She told me you two were lovers,” Emily said.

  “Again, there are degrees of love. As for Vanessa, I would go to hell and back for her.” He chuckled—a gravely sound. “Speaking of which, have you planned your tour?”

  “She refused to take me.”

  His eyes flashed. “Oh?”

  “She said I search for the wrong reasons. I think I posed my questions to the wrong person.”

  “Questions?”

  “What do you know about Satan’s Mirror?”

  He grinned. “Everything. And nothing.”

  “Can you tell me the everything part?”

  “Why do you want to know?” He moved closer, towering over her. His nicotine-laden breath sprayed her face.

  She backed into a carton, stammering. “In-Investigation.”

  His smile fell. “You’re with the police?”

  “Of course, not,” she said. “I’m Emily Goodman. I’m doing a story on Satan’s Mirror.”

  He looked at her as if she were a pariah.

  She cleared her throat. “Will you take me on a tour of the Weeden house?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You knew about it when you thought I was a tourist.”

  He stepped backward into shadow. A match flared, and the red tip of a cigarette appeared. “You are mistaken.”

  “Fine.” Emily walked away. “You can go to hell.”

  “I’ll do that.” Laughter rang through the storeroom. “I’ll tell your grandma hello the next time I see her.”

  That’s how Vanessa got her information. He must have been hanging around in the park, listening to her conversation with Dan. But then, why hadn’t he known she was a television personality? Emily retraced her steps and quickly got back to the Internet café.

  The van was parked across the street where she’d left it, but she could not see Dan inside. As she peered through the restaurant window, she noticed him sitting at a table.

  Ire rose like bile in her throat—anger that she had done such a stupid and impetuous thing as chase Joey into a corner. In a dark storeroom, no less. And anger that Dan hadn’t been dumb enough to follow. She yanked open the door.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she said, approaching.

  He looked up from her laptop. “There you are. I was beginning to worry.”

  “I expected you to be with me.”

  “Well, I intended to catch up, but by the time I turned off the motor and got the van locked, you were gone.”

  “You couldn’t have looked very hard.” She sat at the table. “That man is insane. I might have been in real trouble.”

  His voice dropped. “I’m not your bodyguard.”

  She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and was surprised to find she was trembling. “No. But you are my cameraman. Now I have no photos, no story, nothing.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “While you were away, I located Vanessa’s house. It’s in an old part of town.”

  She looked at the computer screen. “This whole city is old.”

  “The house next to it is owned by the Preservation Society. Worth a lot of money.” He leaned forward. “You aren’t thinking about trespassing, are you?”

  “Ross can get us out of any trouble we get into.”

  “I’m not ready to spend another night behind bars.”

  “You talk like it happens every time.” She snapped the computer shut. “Come on. Finish your coffee, and let’s get out of here.”

  She led him into the slanting afternoon sun. Despite the lateness of the day, the heat was unbearable. The stench of passing cars added to the miasma.

  Tired of waiting for a break in traffic, she crossed the street in fits and starts. As she reached the van, she heard a whoop and saw flashing lights as a police cruiser pulled close behind.

  “That’s called jaywalking, Ms. Goodman,” the policeman said as he got out of his car. He was older than the first officer she met. His gray eyes were decorated with laugh lines.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” Emily muttered as she unlocked the van.

  “This yours? There’s no parking along this stretch.”

  “No parking?” she wailed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Do you see anyone else parked on the street?”

  She glanced up and down. “No.”

  “But you’re special.”

  “I was in a hurry. To get coffee.”

  He pulled out his book of citations. “I’m afraid I’ll have to write you up.”

  She opened the door, and then closed it again. “You know, you’d do better to knock off harassing me and do some real investigating.”

  Beside her, Dan winced.

  The officer continued writing the ticket. “For instance?”

  “There is a woman named Vanessa who knows more than she’s saying about the Mickey Raynes disappearance. She all but confessed that she lured him and his girlfriend to an abandoned house because she thought the girl was a slut.”

  “Is that right?” He tore off the paper and handed it to her. “I suggest you leave investigating to professionals, Ms. Goodman. You don’t want t
o get yourself into trouble.”

  “I am a professional,” she said, her voice rising.

  “Vanessa has been a part of this community for as long as I have. She has never been accused of a crime.”

  “Yet you’ve had unsolved disappearances for the past six years. I’ll bet all of those people were looking for a psychic.”

  He blinked in obvious surprise, and then said in dismissal, “Have a nice day.”

  She got into the van and slammed the door. “Parking,” she growled, tossing the ticket on the dashboard.

  “Six years,” Dan said as he sat beside her. “That’s what those college students said. The disappearances have been going on for six years. Vanessa said Joey returned to her about six years ago.”

  “To hell and back,” Emily muttered as she pulled into traffic.

  Behind her, the policeman stood framed in her mirror, looking at her.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Dan asked.

  “We’ll wait for dark. Then we’ll take our own private tour of the house on Weeden Street.”

  EIGHT

  Dusk shrouded Weeden Street as Emily pulled to the side and parked. Three houses away, she eyed the property Vanessa owned.

  “You’re right about these places being old,” she said to Dan. “I feel like we’re doing a spot on the History Channel.”

  “You can tell which homes are occupied and which are vacant,” he said. “Look at the yards.”

  Emily nodded. The grounds were spacious, some well tended, others not so much. Vanessa’s house, although obviously empty, did not stand out as a derelict building. Perhaps she had a lawn service come in once or twice a month.

  The property next to hers, however, looked overgrown and forgotten. An old-fashioned wrought iron streetlamp lit the yard with yellow light, showing scraggly bushes and tufts of unkempt grass. If this was the place owned by the Preservation Society, it was past time for them to start preserving.

  “Well, well,” Dan said. “Isn’t that Joey the friendly ghost?”

  Emily sat forward. A dark figure left the sidewalk and skulked along an iron fence separating the two properties. She couldn’t see his face, but she would bet it was Vanessa’s dead boyfriend.