“Over four hundred,” said a voice. Mr. Donahue. He was standing in the corner of the room, and the way he looked at her made her shiver. As if her body were a pale thing in his hands, and he was turning her over and over while gazing down at her from the dark, searching for a place to bite. “Over four hundred,” he said again, “In six hours. That’s about sixty belts an hour. One belt a minute.”
He stepped forward, and Maya shrank back into her seat. She wanted to shake her head. The light was hurting her eyes, the endless shimmer. People were murmuring now. Mr. Donahue was staring at her, his lips wet where he’d been running his tongue over them, his gray, receding hair brushed back and gleaming with gel. “A belt a minute. Incredible,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out and run his hand over her hair, pet her like one might a prize dog. “Incredible.”
Maya looked about the tiny room. Nobody would meet her eyes. Everybody looked away, including Sarah. Everybody looked away except Mr. Donahue. Words came back to her, from earlier in the night.
I can help you
, the man in green had said.
I can help
.
Maya shook her head, tried to rise to her feet. Mr. Donahue reached out, placed his hand on her shoulder, and pushed her back down. “Shhh,” he said. “There’s no rush to go anywhere. Stay still. Shhhh.”
Maribel wrapped her scarf once and then twice around her neck and then tucked each end into her coat which she zipped closed, right up to her chin. It was getting colder in New York, as if the city were settling in for a big freeze, a premature ice age of its own, each day a premonition of the frozen centuries that were to come. Stepping out of the building’s front door and into the street, she paused like a hound arrested by a new scent, and lifted her face to the wind that moaned down the building canyon. There was a charge in the air, a metallic tang mixed with the noxious smell of exhaust bled into crusted snow. Suppressing a shiver, she walked quickly to the end of the block and stopped at the avenue. Extended her hand, and waited for the first cab to pull up to the curb. For the first time since she had moved in, she had a place to go.
She’d spotted the small store two days ago, and spent the intervening time debating the wisdom of going. A red palm had been lit in bright red neon in the window front, and gaudy curtains of the kind one might expect to find gracing a gypsy’s caravan filled in the rest. Ms. Silestra’s Psychic Readings, had read the sign. The sight of the small store had fallen on her like a depth charge, not making any impact at first, only detonating later that day while she had sat in her corner café, chin resting on her palm, gazing out the window at nothing.
Why not? She had felt nothing but disdain for psychics all her life, considering them charlatans, but now the decision to go made a clinical, logical sense. Something had coalesced out of the air, taken Sofia and left in her place a dead log of tissue and bone. If that was possible, then it required no leap of faith on her part to accept that a psychic might be able to help. And any psychic that could afford to operate in the West Village must be very successful indeed.
Stepping out of the cab, she absentmindedly handed the driver twenty dollars and turned to face Ms. Silestra’s shop. The red palm glowed like warning sign.
Halt
, it seemed to say.
Do not advance further. Danger lies within
. Straightening her dove gray coat, Maribel raised her chin and opened the door. It was too late for such warnings.
Soft music was playing. The door opened into a small lounge, two couches set around a coffee table, both broad and inviting. A bookshelf reared up behind each couch, and the colorful curtains were pulled open so that clear light fell angled perfectly across the open book that a young woman was reading as she sat on one of the couches. Maribel paused, glanced at the closed door that led deeper into Ms. Silestra’s domain, and then at the young woman who was rising to her feet, a smile on her faced.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Ms. Silestra. Come in, please.” She was older than she had seemed at first, mid-thirties, a little older perhaps than Maribel herself. Her hair was cut close to her scalp, but was so thick and luxurious that it seemed more the pelt of a black panther than human hair. A handsome face, broad cheekbones, and dark eyes that smiled as she set the book down on the table.
“Hello,” said Maribel. “I don’t have an appointment.”
Ms. Silestra smiled, and walked around the table to take her coat. “I know. That’s not a problem. I have time to see you now, if you like.”
“Yes,” said Maribel, allowing her coat to be taken and hung from a series of pegs on the wall. There were no crystals in evidence, no New Age posters. She couldn’t decide if this was a good or bad sign. “Yes, that would be good.”
Ms. Silestra turned back to her, and quite naturally reached out and took her hands in her own. The skin of her hands was rough, warm, as if she spent her time handling concrete. Their hands hung between them like an inverted suspension bridge as Ms. Silestra searched Maribel’s face. The smile faded from her eyes, and her mouth pursed into a line. “Oh,” she said, and shook her head. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She reached out, with the same lack of self-consciousness, and cupped Maribel’s face with her rough hand.
As if her touch had broken something, Maribel’s eyes flooded with water. Clenching her jaw, suddenly furious, she stepped back, and drew her sleeve across her face. She wasn’t wearing make-up, thank god, but still, how dare she? Maribel felt as if Ms. Silestra had espied a crack in the field of ice that held her together, and, without thought, simply pushed her hand through it to touch her.
“Come,” said Ms. Silestra before she could remonstrate, turning and walking to the closed door. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” She opened it, and stepped out of sight, leaving it ajar. The quiet music played on, and Maribel found herself blinking rapidly and suddenly, terribly adrift. What had just happened? It had been like a jolt of electricity. Had Ms. Silestra remained in the room, she would probably have said something cutting and left, but now she had no choice but to follow, reluctantly curious, a curiosity more real than her previously abstract interest.
Could she really know something that might....?
Beyond the door was a short hallway. Several doors were closed off of it, but the one at the end was ajar and soft light from a lamp poured through, illuminating the dark hall. Tentative, Maribel walked toward it, and reached out to open it slowly. A square room lay beyond, dominated by a circular table covered in a black cloth. A large plate was set in its center, painted an arterial red and filled with still water. Candles were arrayed along shelving that circled the walls, and a soft scent of incense pervaded the air.
Ms. Silestra was seated across the table from her, having donned a long robe of pale blue silk. She looked almost foolish wearing it, as if she had purchased it from a Chinese store with a mind to look mysterious and ‘psychic’, but for some reason this helped Maribel relax, took the edge off her apprehension so that she stepped inside.
“Now, my services cost $225 for the first consultation, and the price is negotiated thereafter,” said Ms. Silestra. “Each session usually lasts about half an hour, but there is no guarantee of that duration, nor is it unheard of for one to last much longer. I never know quite what to expect. I accept all major credit cards, but don’t like checks. Okay?”
Maribel lowered herself into the seat opposite her, and set her purse on the table. “That’s fine,” she said.
“Good. All right.” Ms. Silestra leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table edge, brows raising as she gazed frankly at Maribel. “Now, please, tell me your name, and how I can help.”
“My name is Maribel Martel,” she said, and it was as if the voice were coming from another throat. She felt pinned by Ms. Silestra’s eyes which gleamed dark and hard like buttons. “My baby was stolen from me by a thing that appeared in the air and disappeared in the same way. Everybody says I’m crazy, but I’m not.”
Ms. Silestra held her gaze, and then shook her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she finally said. “I’ve never had a child, so I can’t imagine how much it must hurt.”
“I didn’t come here for your pity,” said Maribel. “If you can tell me something that can help, say it. Otherwise I’m going to leave.”
The psychic didn’t seem to take offense. “Of course. I’ll see if I can help. Give me your hands, please.”
Maribel reached across the table cloth, encircling the large plate, and Ms. Silestra took her hands once more and then closed her eyes. She took a sudden breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly, slumping down in her seat. Sat still, with no air in her lungs, and then took another sudden breath, rising up with it, released it quickly, and then sat still again. Maribel watched her dispassionately, curious about what theatrics might now ensue. But Ms. Silestra simply sat there. There were no knocks, no thuds. No calling out to the spirits, no dimming of the lights. There was in fact a disconcerting lack of atmosphere altogether. Only a look of fierce concentration on the psychic’s face.
Several minutes went by. Ms. Silestra suddenly frowned, as if she had heard a piercing and unpleasant sound. Her frown remained, eased away, and then came back, her brow growing furrowed, her mouth hard, pinched. Her grip on Maribel’s hands grew tighter.
Maribel opened her mouth to ask something, but then closed it. Slowly Ms. Silestra forced her eyes open, but where before she had met Maribel’s eyes, now she stared down at the plate of water, and what she saw seemed to scare her, repulse her, for her face became a mask of fear and disgust.
“Ms. Silestra?” asked Maribel.
This was part of a rehearsed act. This was how she gulled her customers
, part of her stammered. “Ms. Silestra?”
“I can hear you,” said the psychic. “I can hear you, Maribel, but I can’t see you. Hold my hands. If you let go, I’ll lose my way.”
“What… what do you see?” asked Maribel. Her hands were beginning to ache where Ms. Silestra was holding them with the strength of a vise.
“Darkness. A tunnel, perhaps. There are pipes. They’re going by—no, I’m moving past them. Like I’m running, or floating quickly through the tunnel. It’s very dark. I can only make out some details. It feels heavy, deep. Underground, perhaps.”
Sweat was beginning to bead on the psychic’s upper lip, across her forehead. Her face had grown pale. “This place—it’s under the city. Or, no, a place under the city leads here. A land of death. And. Something is down here. No—there are many things down here, but one thing, one thing. That I am being drawn to. It’s pulling me in.”
Maribel tore her eyes away from Ms. Silestra’s blank eyes, and looked about the room. So normal, so plain. The solid red plate, the pure water, the smell of incense. The shelves, the candles. Nothing here beyond the normal. But her face. The intensity of her expression.
“Wait. The tunnel is opening up. A large room. It’s here. It’s here.” Her voice was growing taut, fierce. Her lips began to pull back from her teeth as if she were a dog snarling. “Oh shit, it knows I’m here. It sees me.”
“Ms. Silestra?” Her grip was hurting her. Fingers buried into the back of her hands, digging down between her tendons. Twisting and crushing the joints of her fingers. “What? What is down there? Sofia?”
“No. No.” She was breathing hard now. Sweat had sprung out across her brow. “The thing that took your baby. Let go of my hands. Maribel, break the connection,
let go of my hands.
”
“I can’t,” said Maribel, shaking them, trying to dislodge the psychic’s fingers. “I can’t! Let go!”
“Maribel,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice rippling with terror as she fought for control. “Please let go of my hands. Please let go.”
“I can’t!” Standing, Maribel began to smack her hands down against the table top, smashing the psychic’s wrists hard against the wood. Pain was lancing through her fingers where they twisted sideways against the joints, gnarling in Silestra’s iron grip. “Stop it! Let go!”
Then, as if a light switch had been hit, Ms. Silestra slumped over to one side, eyes rolling up just as they closed, hands turning nerveless and letting go. Maribel stepped back, knocking her chair over, panting in the sudden silence, the candle flames rising still and calm, the silence thick and cloying. “Ms. Silestra?” She massaged her hands, which were pale and clotted with red splotches where deep bruises were surely going to surface.
The psychic was still seated, but only arrested from falling by the table’s edge. Rounding it, Maribel approached her slowly. Crouched down next to her. Ms. Silestra was breathing in short hitches which smoothed out even as Maribel watched. Her eyes were fluttering behind the closed lids. Reaching out, Maribel pushed Ms. Silestra back into her seat. Placed her hands on the table. Should she call for help? Get her a glass of water? Standing, she began to stride around the table for the door.
“Holy shit,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice shaky, low. “My god.” Turning, Maribel saw her passing her hands over her face, and then stare at them, as if noticing them for the first time. She glanced up at Maribel, but then her gaze skittered away as if she were afraid of meeting her eyes. “My hands feel broken. Did you—or was that me..?”
“That was you,” said Maribel, drawing herself up. “You almost broke
my
hands.”
“Oh,” said the psychic softly, blinking again. “Dear god. Please, could you get me some… some tea? In the kitchen, second door to the left. I need… I need to gather myself.”
Maribel nodded, and stepped out and into the kitchen. It was small, painted a faded yellow with ornate porcelain plates set against the wall, each depicting scenes of woods and animals. The kitchen itself was old fashioned, and clearly much used; taking the kettle, she set it on the stove top. Turned on the burner, and then simply stood there, watching it, staring through it. Underground. Something calling her. What had the psychic seen? Being here, in Ms. Silestra’s shop, had caused all kinds of misgivings to arise despite her earlier certainty. But now, here in the kitchen, she felt her doubts fall away. Ms. Silestra
had
seen something. She believed that with a dull certainty. But what?