Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [60]
D.D. didn’t know what to say. She set down her coffee. “Mr. Lightfoot—”
“Andrew.”
“Mr. Lightfoot,” she repeated. “What exactly do you do?”
“In colloquial terms, I am an expert in woo-woo.”
“‘Woo-woo’?”
“Woo-woo. You know, sixth sense, spiritual powers, other planes of being. It’s been my experience that cops are also adept at woo-woo—you just don’t call it such. Detective’s instinct, gut feel. It’s that little extra that helps get the job done.”
D.D. regarded him skeptically. “So you sell … woo-woo, and”—she gestured around the airy living room—“that earns you all this?”
“Before woo-woo,” Lightfoot provided easily, “I was an investment banker. A very good investment banker. I drove a Porsche, fucked women based on their cup size, and screwed over my rivals. I amassed tens of millions of dollars in materialistic wealth. And achieved total spiritual depletion. Money is not happiness, though I’ll be the first to say it was fun trying for a bit.”
“So you just walked away?”
“One day on my way to work, I passed a fortune-teller. She grabbed my arm and demanded to know why I was wasting my talents. I should be healing lost souls, not working Wall Street, she said. Naturally, I shook her off. Crazy old bat. But a week later, I had dinner with a college buddy who’d just been diagnosed with skin cancer. On a lark, I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. I felt searing heat. Like my hand was on fire, then my arm, my chest, my face, my hair. By the time I managed to let go, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I staggered out of the restaurant, drank eight glasses of water, and went to bed.
“Next day, my friend called. He’d gone to his doctor to discuss treatment options, and the growth on his back was gone. They tested four other places on his body. No cancer cells. All gone. I quit my job the next day.”
D.D. arched a brow. “So you traded in your crass, materialistic life in order to selflessly share your gift with mankind. All right. How does mankind find you?”
“Word of mouth. The Internet.”
“You have a website?”
He smiled. “AndrewLightfoot.com. You might enjoy signing up for the online meditation. I link together thousands of consciousnesses via the Internet and channel all of their energies toward a common goal. Powerful, powerful stuff.”
“What’s the common goal?”
“Enhancing the light. Defeating the dark.”
“‘The dark’?”
“Energies work both ways. For every positive, there is a negative. Common sense can agree on that much.” He paused, eyed them expectantly.
“I’ll grant that much,” D.D. concurred. Beside her, Alex nodded. He was munching his second croissant with the dog still nestled on his lap.
“Can you also agree that each of us radiates our own energy, some more strongly than others? Perhaps you think of it as force of personality, or natural charisma. We choose friends because their mere presence makes us joyful or relaxed. We avoid others because being around them is hurtful to us or ‘brings us down.’ We consider them negative—whether angry, or fretful, or generally hateful. Everyone emits energy, and on one level or another, we respond to that.”
D.D. shrugged, “Positive energies and negative energies equals positive people and negative people. What do you bring to the table, Mr. Lightfoot?”
“I have a variety of skills,” he offered.
“Dazzle me.”
“I am a fifth-generation healer, passed down through my paternal line.”
“Lightfoot?” She glanced dubiously at his sun-bleached hair. Not exactly a walking advertisement for Native American.
“I returned to using my great-great-grandfather’s Indian name,” he explained. “Seemed more appropriate for this line of work. Sadly, I can’t do much about my fair features, a gift from my Irish mother.”
“How do you heal people?”
“It’s a matter of becoming receptive to the energies. I put myself in a higher state, then I open myself up to the negativity. Illness