Afterlife - Douglas Clegg [76]
She closed her eyes, made a brief wish, opened them. His face seemed open and warm and unassuming.
It was like stepping off a cliff, stepping into his world of psychic “reading.”
A world of illogic and mystical crap and all the things she’d fought her whole life never to believe.
“Can I trust you?” she asked. “I mean, really trust you?”
He nodded, without hesitation.
“I saw his wounds when he died. I was at the morgue. He is dead. But I see him. I think…I think I’m being haunted by him. Look, I’ll pay you whatever it takes just to find out if I’m sane or not.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said.
5
His apartment was less impressive than she’d expected. It was a three-flight walk-up on Perry Street, in the Village. When he opened the door, she saw a place that looked like it had only been lived in for a few weeks.
“Most of my money goes to organizations I believe in,” he said, noticing her raised eyebrows. “It’s the main reason I write the books and do the show. That’s the carnival aspect of Ability X. My income mostly goes to nonprofits that deal with, oh, the usual.”
“Animal rescue groups and homes for wayward girls?”
“Something like that. When you live mainly in your mind, you have modest needs.”
6
“On the table,” he said, directing her to what looked like a massage table near the window.
He drew the shades. He stood over her. For a moment, in the shadows, he reminded her of someone else.
Then, he sat down in a chair beside her.
“This’ll seem awkward. Just try to relax. All right? This is called body work. Just think of it like a massage. I need you to loosen your shirt. Would you mind taking it off?”
“Why?”
“Trust me or don’t trust me. You’ve had massages, I assume.”
“Yes. But usually…in a spa.”
“Tell you what, keep your cell phone on autodial for 911 if you’re afraid of me.”
She was about to pull out her cell phone. Everything had begun to frighten her, but she’d begun feeling a certain numbness inside. She remembered the video of watching Hut looking at the camera, saying something, and then filming her in the most obscene way. Is this what insanity is? Is this what Amanda Hutchinson felt like? Is this how it crawls inside you? Finally, she said, “I’m not afraid of you.”
The look on his face was of utter seriousness.
“Clothing interrupts the Stream.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she felt as if any threat had been removed.
He wasn’t even interested in her, in that way. She could sense it.
“If I were a doctor, you’d have no problem removing your clothes. If I were a masseur, you’d be naked before I could say, ‘get on the table.’ Think of me like that.”
She fought an internal battle, wondering if she had gone off the deep end. But finally, she unbuttoned her shirt, and drew it off.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he said. “For modesty.”
He got up and went toward the bathroom. When he returned, he tossed a large white fluffy towel at her. It smelled fresh, as if he’d just done his laundry.
“I’ll go make some tea,” he gestured toward the boxcar kitchen.
After he’d gone over to the sink, she slipped out of her skirt, but kept her underwear on. She wrapped the towel around herself, and it managed to cover most of her, breasts included. She had an awful feeling that she was stepping into a trap. That she had let a dream rape her, and now she was setting herself up for a man who was a virtual stranger to do the same. And yet, she had to see where this went. She had to know what was in his mind, his memories. She had to know more.
After he poured himself some tea, he returned to the living room, and sat down beside the table.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Mmm.” She stared straight ahead: her view was the bathroom door, with its mirror. She saw her face, and Michael Diamond as he sat down in a chair beside the massage table.
“I want you to know that you are safe. I won’t be touching you, but your mind will think I am. Have you ever gone to a Reiki therapist? They hold their hands just so, above certain points of the body. They believe they’re