Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(3)
The draperies continued to flutter in the breeze, the fire stayed sullen. The lamplight, however, seemed to dim, then brighten, and dim again. Zoltan’s face was now in shadow. She said in the same gentle voice, each word slow and smooth, “Keep talking to him, Rebekah. I can feel a presence hovering close, and it’s familiar.”
Rebekah didn’t feel anything different. Well, except for the dimmed lamplight. Zoltan’s right hand held Rebekah’s, and her left hand lay palm up on her lap. Rebekah knew she should feel like an idiot, but she didn’t. She felt relaxed, curious to see what would happen. “Perhaps it isn’t really Grandfather you’re feeling, Zoltan—”
Zoltan suddenly raised her left hand, and Rebekah stopped talking. “Is that you, Congressman Clarkson? Are you here?”
The draperies grew still, though the fan continued to churn the air. The fire suddenly sparked, shooting up an orange flame, then the burning wood crumbled, making a soft thudding sound. The lamplight grew brighter, then flickered and went completely dark.
Only the dying fire lit the room.
All tricks, she’s pressing some magic buttons with her foot—
She felt Zoltan’s hand tighten ever so slightly around hers. “Someone is here, Rebekah,” Zoltan said calmly in her soft, even voice. “I can’t be certain until the Departed talks to me, but the feeling of his presence is, as I said, familiar. Do you know of a nickname your grandfather was called? Or did you yourself have a special name for him as he did for you?”
She remembered her grandfather’s face, clear as day, saw him throw back his head and laugh at something she’d said. She whispered, “Methodist, that was his nickname. He told me his cohorts in Congress called him Methodist, too. The name got out, and even his own staff began calling him that—‘Methodist believes this, Methodist said that.’?” She swallowed tears again, hating they were so close to the surface. “I remember hearing Grandmother say he’d made up the name himself. When I asked him, he admitted it, said he didn’t want anyone else making up a name for him, particularly the opposition, and Methodist practically made him a poster boy for God, full of probity and sheer boring honesty. A lot of people called him that before his first stroke.”
“Call him by his nickname.”
Very well, play along, why not? At best, it’s entertainment, but you’re here, so why not go along with it? But is it only entertainment? Grandmother would believe it, maybe, but not me.
She felt foolish, but she cleared her throat. “Grandfather—Methodist?—it’s Rebekah, your granddaughter. If you are here, tell me what’s so important.”
A puff of dense black smoke plumed up from the fireplace embers, making an odd sucking sound. The lamp brightened, then darkened again.
Rebekah’s throat was dry, and she drank some more tea, then placed her right hand back into Zoltan’s. She knew the lamp, the fire, the billowing draperies were simple stage props, but she didn’t really care, it wasn’t important. She had to know what her grandfather wanted to tell her or what this woman wanted her to believe he did. Rebekah was surprised how calm she felt, her body and mind relaxed. Still, how could any of this be true?
Zoltan said, “I’m not sure if it’s your grandfather I feel. Is your grandmother alive, Rebekah?”
“Yes, she is. Her name is Gemma Clarkson. She’s in her late seventies. She continues to run all of Grandfather’s businesses in Clairemont, Virginia, west of Richmond, where she and my grandfather lived all their lives. Clairemont was in his district.”
“Did your grandfather and grandmother have a strong bond? Would speaking about her to him perhaps make him come through the Verge? That’s what I call the threshold the spirits have to cross back over into our reality.”
“No,” Rebekah said, nothing more. It was none of Zoltan’s business. Even Rebekah couldn’t remember a time when her grandparents had shown any affection for each other, and her memories went back a very long way. She’d never seen her grandmother at the Mayfield Sanitarium during those sixteen long years her grandfather had lain there helpless, his only sign of life his still-beating heart. She’d asked her grandmother once, back in the beginning when she’d been young, why she didn’t visit Grandfather. Her grandmother had merely said, “Perhaps I will.” But Rebekah didn’t think she had.
“I think my grandmother was glad when he died. She did go to his funeral, but she had to, didn’t she? I doubt she’d want to be here in my place if she thought her husband would show up. Even though she’d believe it.”
“Your grandmother is a believer, then?”
“Yes, but she’s always careful because she thinks most mediums are frauds. That’s what I heard her tell my mother.”
She wanted to ask Zoltan if she was a fraud, but when she looked into Zoltan’s eyes, darker now in the dim light, and felt her intensity, she let the thought go.
“Your grandmother is perfectly correct. There are many frauds.” Zoltan began to hum softly, then she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Congressman Clarkson? Methodist? Are you having trouble coming through this time? If you are, reach out to me, and I will speak for you to Rebekah. Come, I am open to you. I am your conduit. You’ve already connected with me, you know you can trust me. Your granddaughter is here. You must try again.”