The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel Page 23

  Boz looked over sharply, but Trace shook his head, warning him to silence.

  “Seldom have I encountered such a soul.” Kieler’s eyes had gone misty, faraway. “Such strength, such passion for life. He drew the gifted to him, and he loved us like children. We toured for heads of state, for the wealthy, the powerful. We made him wealthy, and he made us famous.”

  “What happened?” Boz asked. “Why ain’t you workin for him now?”

  Kieler’s face darkened as if a candle had been blown out. “My gift left me,” he muttered, and his gaze slid toward Trace with such sudden and naked avarice that a prickle went down Trace’s spine.

  Then abruptly the predatory look was gone and Kieler was all smiles and cordiality again. “But my life is unimportant. I am a has-been. Your friend here is the now is. Tell me, Mr. Tracy, have you any experience with spirit-walking?”

  “Like the Indians do?” Boz asked.

  “Perhaps,” Kieler said. “Many faiths, many peoples have similar practices. It is a letting-go of the body, a freeing of the soul to venture into the spirit realm. The more gifted of our kind may see visions there, and thus uncover the mysteries of the universe.”

  That phrase again. Trace and Boz exchanged glances. “Can’t say I’ve tried it,” Trace said cautiously.

  “It should be a simple thing for one such as yourself,” Kieler said. “I should be glad to instruct you. The first few times can be strange and frightening, but—”

  “Why do it, then?” Boz asked.

  Kieler looked at him as if not comprehending the question.

  “I don’t know what the spirit realm is,” Trace said. “I mean, the Spiritualists talk about the Summerland as if it were some kind of heaven—”

  “No, no, no,” Kieler said. “I am speaking of the reality that lies over and around and between ours. The space between all material objects, where the spirits move. The world where time and distance are without meaning.”

  “Then how do I get there?” Trace asked.

  Kieler smiled and reached out to tap him on the forehead. “You already have the means, my friend. Shall I show you?”

  Boz gave a slight shake of his head, but Trace hardly needed the warning.

  “I might take you up on that,” he said, checking his watch, “but the fact is we’ve got an early day tomorrow—”

  “Missus Laufer’s likely to lock us out if we get in late again,” Boz added, scraping back his chair.

  “Nonsense, it is still early.” Kieler’s eyes widened in dismay. “I would welcome you to stay here, in fact. There is plenty of room—”

  “Thanks, but we’ve got stock to take care of.” Trace stood and swung up his hat. “S’pose it’d be all right if I came back by, say, tomorrow night? Boz here’s steppin out with his girl tomorrow, so he won’t be around, but I could come.”

  As he’d guessed, Kieler pounced on that. He sized up the two of them, each standing a head taller than he in the dingy little kitchen, and agreed it would be far better if the first lesson included only himself and Mr. Tracy.

  “Sweet Mother Mary,” Trace muttered once they were clear of the building. “Was he a coyote wearin wool or what?”

  “You shoulda seen his face when you first went up to those women,” Boz said. “I thought he was gonna take a bite outta you.”

  “Mad?”

  “Greedy.” Boz sidestepped a puddle on the sidewalk. “And that business about Mereck. That ain’t the first time we’ve heard that name.”

  It wasn’t the second time Trace had heard it, either. Miss Fairweather had suggested the Russian was responsible for creating the keung-si, but then she had sidetracked him with that business about coming to study with her. Though her urgency about the latter had seemed prompted by her concerns about the former.

  “You ever ask her who Mereck was?”

  “Asked if she knew him. She said, yes, he was a real bad egg and I should stay away from him. That was it.”

  “You don’t ask enough questions,” Boz grunted.

  Trace gave a bark of laughter. “You know, she told me just the same thing today, actin all offended cuz I hadn’t got down on my knees and begged to know all her terrible dark secrets. But I’ll tell you somethin, Boz, I could ask that woman questions til doomsday and she wouldn’t tell me half the truth. She wants to tell me, she wants my help, but she’s scared I’ll say no. So she’s tryin to get me in deep enough I can’t refuse.”

  “Then why the hell do you keep goin back there?”

  “You know why—”

  “Yeah, you told me all your good reasons why, but I know you, Trace, and this woman’s got her hooks in you like nothin I ever saw.” Boz drew a short, hard breath. “You gone soft on her?”

  “No!” Trace recoiled at the thought. “Lord, no.”

  Boz looked as if he doubted it. “Well, if she sent you to Kieler, it’s a sure bet she knows he used to work for Mereck.”

  “True enough,” Trace said, “but you maybe noticed how he managed not to tell us anything about it?”

  Boz fell into surly silence, and they walked that way for half a block. The sky was streaked with indigo, and the narrow streets were heavily shadowed. “So I guess you’re goin back up there to wait on her in the mornin.”

  “Well I sure I ain’t comin back here without her say-so,” Trace said, feeling nettled.

  “You trust her more than him?”

  “Yes,” Trace said baldly, and then drew a breath, considering his answer. He didn’t distrust her, exactly, he just knew she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. And he guessed her reticence had as much to do with her own pride as with the darkness of her secrets. Perhaps because he’d carried his own secrets around so long, and at such cost, he could understand her need to keep quiet. “If nothin else, she wants to keep me breathin a while longer.”

  “She tell you that?”

  “Didn’t have to.” Trace described how ill she had appeared that morning, and how his power had leapt into her when he touched her hand. How she had been shocked to find herself improved by it.

  “So what … you healed her? Layin on hands and all that?”

  “Don’t think so. Wasn’t anything I did deliberately. But whatever’s in me seems to be a remedy to whatever’s eatin her.” He hesitated. “And she did warn me not to trust anything Kieler said.”

  Boz was silent for a long moment. “I wanna meet her.”

  “What if I don’t want you to?”

  “Then you’d best find yourself a strap to chew,” Boz said bluntly. “You’re all I got in this world, too, and I won’t see you carved up like a Christmas goose between a pair of scavengers. I got Kieler’s measure, now I wanna take hers.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Miss Fairweather hardly kept them waiting at all. In fact Min Chan had scarcely left the room when Trace heard her little shoes on the stairs, and the rustle of silk following after.

  She came into the library looking much as she had on that first day, but healthier. There was a bright social smile on her face as she came toward him, hands extended in welcome—until her eye caught Boz, who had subtly cached himself to one side of the doorway. Trace saw her startle, and drop her hands, and button up her lips in irritation.

  “Miss Fairweather,” Trace said. “My partner, John Bosley. Hope you don’t mind his comin along.”

  “Not at all,” she said, in her schoolmarm voice. “At last we meet, Mr. Bosley. Mr. Tracy speaks of nothing else.”

  “Likewise, ma’am.” Boz clasped her hand and they looked daggers at one another. From the corner of his eye, Trace saw Min Chan reappear and take up guard just inside the door.

  “Well, Mr. Tracy?” Miss Fairweather turned to him with an icy smile. “What news have you?”

  So they all sat down, and Min Chan brought the coffee tray, while Trace rehashed his visit with Kieler. Miss Fairweather was as cool and clinical as ever, but Trace couldn’t help noticing she was rather slicked-up this morning—her dress a
nd earrings were more suited to receiving callers than working in the laboratory. Her hair was piled in curls instead of scraped back into its usual plain knot. And as he recounted his tale, her sharp, clever face became animated, her eyes bright with interest. And Trace knew that Boz, who sat still and said nothing, marked all of these things and drew the worst possible conclusions.

  “And what was your impression of Herr Kieler, Mr. Bosley?” Miss Fairweather said.

  “I think he’s a coyote,” Boz said. “He ain’t big enough to be a wolf, but he ain’t above stealin somebody else’s kill.”

  “A scavenger. A trickster.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And I ain’t too keen on his talk about that Mereck fella, neither.”

  “He mentioned Mereck to you?” Miss Fairweather arched her brows at Trace.

  “Yes, ma’am, he did.”

  “He was right proud of it,” Boz said. “Did you know Kieler was in Mereck’s circus?”

  “It was always a possibility, given Herr Kieler’s abilities as a medium, and his history in show business,” Miss Fairweather said. “But I am in agreement with you, Mr. Bosley, on the issue of Herr Kieler being an opportunist. His powers are minor compared to yours, Mr. Tracy. He may well be seeking to use you for his own benefit.”

  “And she’s the only one drinks from that well,” Boz said to Trace.

  Miss Fairweather’s lips quirked. Trace glared at Boz. Boz tilted his head back, gazing innocently at the ceiling.

  “What do you suggest I do, then?” Trace asked her.

  “I agree that your venturing into the spirit world is the next logical step.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “But such an exercise is usually performed with a more knowledgeable party standing watch.”

  “Meanin you?” Trace said.

  “You have someone else in mind?” Miss Fairweather queried.

  “When the Indians go on vision quests, they do it alone,” Boz put in. “So nobody interferes and the warrior’s vision is his alone.”

  Trace was starting to want to throttle them both. “What do you propose, then?” he asked her.

  “That I invite Herr Kieler here, and we conduct the séance under the appropriate protective seals and countermeasures.”

  “Protective against what?”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Mr. Tracy, you are a medium. That means you are a doorway between this world and the next—perhaps between several worlds. Does a door have any control over what passes through it?”

  “I’m not a door, I’m a man,” Trace said stiffly. “And I was a man of God—”

  Boz and Miss Fairweather made identical hmph sounds.

  “And there are other men not of God, and not of anything you would consider sacred, and all of them more experienced than you.” Her icy blue gaze held his. “If Kieler proceeds as I expect, he will attempt to induce a trance in you. If he succeeds—and it should not be difficult, because most mediums can self-induce at will—he will effectively be putting you to sleep, and he can keep you in that state for as long as he wishes, regardless of what comes through the doorway and makes itself at home in your corpus.”

  Trace’s revulsion at the idea must’ve shown on his face, because her voice and expression grew more earnest.

  “Believe me when I say this, Mr. Tracy. You need someone to stand guard over you while you experiment. And it should be someone unhampered by your concerns of morality, knowledgeable about the dangers, and experienced at defending against them.”

  “And somebody with a gun wouldn’t hurt, either,” Boz added.

  Her eyes shifted toward him, cynical and amused. “Mr. Bosley has a point. And we shall need a fourth for the séance, in any case.”

  * * *

  MISS FAIRWEATHER PROMISED to arrange everything for that night. Before he and Boz left, she wrote a gushing letter to Herr Kieler, explaining how her employee, Mr. Jacob Tracy, had told her all about the wonderful experience he’d had in Kieler’s parlor, and how honored she would be if Herr Kieler would grace her parlor with his presence. She added a lot of vague references to Patronage, and Connections, and Society Friends.

  “That ought to fetch him,” she said, handing the letter to Trace. “Now, deliver that to his door, but don’t meet him face-to-face if you can help it.”

  “No,” Trace agreed.

  “Be back here—both of you—at eight o’clock this evening. And we shall see whether Herr Kieler’s intentions are honorable or not.” She extended a hand, smiling politely.

  Trace looked at it, and at her, and put his hat back on his head, holding her eyes in a pointed way until she returned the hand to her waist and her smile tightened into resentment. “Ma’am,” he said, and followed Boz out the door.

  “Well?” he said, once they were riding away. “Did you get your measure?”

  “She’s a shrewd one,” Boz said grudgingly, and after a pause added, “She sure got a shine on for you.”

  “She’s got a shine for my power, is all.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?”

  “Jesus, Boz.” Trace nudged his horse to pick up the pace, putting a few yards between himself and his partner, whom he dearly wanted to punch at the moment.

  After a quarter mile or so Boz caught up again. “Look, I reckon you’re right about her not wantin to do you harm, but you said yourself she’s got somethin planned for you. She knows Kieler had some history with that Mereck polecat, and she pooh-poohed it like it were no big thing. Now you givin her exactly what she wants—you and Kieler in her house doin a séance.”

  He wanted to argue, but couldn’t fault the logic. “What d’you reckon she has in mind?”

  “I dunno. Teach you a lesson, maybe.”

  “You think I can’t handle her?”

  Boz didn’t answer for a moment. “I think the one good thing that’s come out of this is you ain’t so scared no more. You almost quit actin like God is out to get you.”

  There was some truth to that, and Trace nodded.

  “I just wish you’d … I dunno, get away from this woman and figure things out for yourself.”

  “Go on my own spirit quest,” Trace suggested. “Like an Indian warrior.”

  “If that’s what it takes. There’s plenty empty space out in Wyoming.”

  Trace sucked his teeth. “Y’know, my father was kinda like her.”

  “Mean as flint?”

  “He could be a sonuvabitch,” Trace admitted. “But he was no hypocrite. Taught me to rely on myself, and not be swayed by the world. Some of the things he did seemed harsh at the time, but if he hadn’t toughened me up I might not’ve made it through the war and those first years after.”

  “If you’re sayin she’s gettin you ready for somethin worse—”

  “I’m sayin, I think there’s worse ahead. I feel it.” He tapped his breastbone with a loose fist. “I’ve always felt it, Boz, that’s why I been so afraid of this power. I kept pushin it down, runnin away from it, just like Jonah did … and that’s why God sent the fish to swallow him up, put him back on the right path.”

  “So you’re sayin Miss Fairweather’s a big fish.”

  Trace gave a bark of laughter. “She did say, usin this power regular-like is what keeps the spirits from comin round to pester me … Might also be what’s kept ’em from killin you.”

  That shut him up for a while.

  * * *

  IT FELT STRANGE to be riding up to the swanky part of town at the supper hour. All the houses along Miss Fairweather’s street were warmly lit, and several of them had carriages parked along the curb, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen swanning up the walks to be greeted by butlers at the front door.

  “Ain’t we livin the high life,” Boz said, as they dismounted at Miss Fairweather’s gate.

  The front foyer was mysterious and romantic in the evening gloom, lit with gas lamps and pale beeswax candles, points of light reflecting off the polished woodwork and floor. Trace found his eye drawn upward, by instinct as mu
ch as architectural design—there was a sense of psychic updraft in the place he had never noticed before. He craned his neck up the stairwell, past the open balustrade of the second-floor landing, and saw the lamplights reflected in the skylight at the top of the house. The effect was of standing in the bottom of a well and looking up into the heavens, and he had the distinct feeling that if he could just let go of the floor, he would float upward—

  “Trace?” Boz said. He and Min Chan had paused at the library door, looking back at him. Trace hastened to follow.

  The library was likewise transformed. In the candlelight it looked less like a gentlemen’s club and more like a medieval monastery. The stained-glass windows gave an ecclesiastical air. Most of the central floor area had been cleared, leaving only the large round table, with a black cover on, and four chairs.

  But it was Miss Fairweather who caught his eye, and held it. She looked like a little piece of the night sky in dark blue velvet, exquisitely fitted to her tiny figure, glittering here and there with diamonds. Her cornsilk hair was swept up grandly, her neck and arms bare. She was too thin for his taste, but she had an ethereal quality that reminded him of something, that poem about the fairy queen …

  “Mr. Bosley.” Miss Fairweather clasped Boz’s hand, took in his new frock coat with an approving eye. “Stalwart and stylish, I see.”

  “Ma’am.” Boz bowed and continued into the library, leaving Trace to stand over her, fingering the brim of his hat, holding it between her and himself as if it were a shield.

  “You look well,” Trace said at last, and it was not a lie. The candlelight was kind to her pallor and the sharp lines of her face. La Belle Dame Sans Merci, he thought. That was the name of it.

  “I am better, thanks to you,” she said quietly.

  “If I were to shake your hand now, would you suck me dry like a spider?”