3
Joanna had appeared on television only once before. It had been an afternoon talk show following a series of articles she had written about junk diet treatments and the doctors who pushed them. She'd found the experience surprisingly painless. The trick, she realized, was not to perform; it was more effective to underplay than overplay, because the cameras captured everything. Keep your sentences short and the thoughts behind them clear.
Today's show was for the same slot, taped in the morning for transmission that afternoon. Joanna's article about the sleazy tricks at Camp Starburst had provoked the furor she had hoped it would. Now she found herself sitting alongside a male “channeler,” a female astrologer, and the author of a book about the ghosts of famous people who, supposedly, still walked the earth. The fifth guest was a psychologist called Sam Towne who was, apparently, doing “scientific research” into the paranormal at Manhattan University.
Joanna found the whole subject distasteful and the program pointless, but her editor had insisted that anything that hyped the magazine's profile, and incidentally hers, could only help circulation.
“Are you saying,” one woman from the audience asked, “that it's all a lie, all religion and everything, and there's nothing after death?”
“I'm saying,” Joanna replied, “that nobody knows what happens when we die, and anybody who claims to know for sure is a liar-and probably a crook as well.”
“But what about religious belief?” the host of the show asked, moving through the audience with his microphone. “Are you saying that all religion belongs in the same category of fraud as what you've been writing about?”
“No, of course I'm not. Religion is a different thing.”
“Do you mind if I ask if you have any religious beliefs yourself?”
“I was brought up in a Protestant family, I've never been a big churchgoer, but if you're asking whether I believe in God…I'd be hard pressed to say positively no.”
“Can I say something here?” The interruption came from Sam Towne, the psychologist. The host asked him to go on.
“Miss Cross was writing about people who claimed knowledge of the afterlife,” Towne said, “specific and detailed knowledge about people who had, as they like to put it, ‘passed over.’ Now we shouldn't confuse religious belief with that kind of knowledge, or indeed any kind of knowledge in the generally accepted sense. I know that I'm sitting in a television studio; so do you. There's no way we can disagree about that. But I may believe something about how I come to be here, how the studio comes to be here, how the world in which it exists comes to be here-and you may believe something else. Both our belief systems may be consistent with the facts as we know them, but inconsistent with each other. The phony psychics that Miss Cross was writing about had nothing to do with either religious belief or knowledge. They were running a straightforward confidence trick to make easy money.”
Predictably, the other three guests began protesting their agreement: the Camp Starburst affair had been a scandal, but an isolated incident; it should not be used as a brush to tar the whole psychic world.
As Joanna listened, the low opinion she had formed of them during the past hour did not improve. She had to admit a sneaking regard for Sam Towne, however. When she'd heard there was going to be a spook hunter on the show, she'd imagined some dour eccentric who spent his weekends in haunted houses trying to video the ghost. He turned out to be in his mid to late thirties, with an easy manner and a sense of humor. It was obvious that he was intelligent, his mind darting quickly but always clearly between topics; she could see from the monitor screens that he came over well on television.
The presenter gave Joanna the final word when he came to wind up the show. She confined herself to remarking that the psychic world may be one thing, but the multimillion-dollar industry it gave rise to was something of which people should be very suspicious indeed. The host signed off with a few words about the next day's show (incest-again), and a production assistant approached to unhook the guests‚ microphones.
Joanna declined an offer of coffee in the hospitality room. She wouldn't have minded talking longer to Sam Towne, but the other three depressed her, coming as they obviously did from the same mold of parasitic hypocrites as Ellie and Murray Ray.
As she stepped into the elevator and began the high-speed descent to the Sixth Avenue lobby, a wave of depression swept over her. What had been obvious from the questions asked was how much the public wanted to believe. She found something sad in their need to reach out for something beyond their daily lives. She understood the impulse, of course, even shared it to some extent. But it meant that people like the Rays would always flourish. She had stepped on a couple of ants, but the anthill was as busy as ever.
The huddled figure on the low wall by the stunted evergreens had attracted barely a glance in the forty minutes she had been sitting there. Like a cat waiting for a mouse to emerge from its hole, Ellie Ray had not taken her eyes from the revolving door. The psychic mafia had done her this one last favor, even though outwardly they were obliged to disown her and join in the universal chorus of condemnation. She still had friends, and word had been passed along that Joanna Cross was in the building to record a TV show with some members of the profession.
Although she had only ever seen Joanna Cross in the unflattering disguise that she had worn at Camp Starburst, Ellie had no trouble recognizing the smartly dressed, dark-haired young woman in the gray raglan coat who stepped briskly out onto the building's slightly raised forecourt.
Joanna didn't notice the form that moved in the corner of her vision. Only when she reached the last of the four broad steps down to the sidewalk did she find her way blocked. The sight of Ellie Ray's face gazing up at her with stony hatred gave her a jolt. She knew that the woman had tried to get into the magazine offices, and had resigned herself to the fact that sooner or later an unpleasant confrontation was inevitable. Having it here and now, out in the open, was probably as good a way as any of getting it over with.
“I've been looking for you.”
Ellie sounded as though her jaw and throat were rigid with tension, strangling her words and at the same time giving them an abrasive edge.
“I know,” Joanna replied. “I have nothing to say to you, so please get out of my way.”
“Bitch!”
Joanna moved to step around the diminutive figure, but felt a hand grip her arm like a steel claw.
“Murray's dead.”
Ellie spat the words out before Joanna could even try to pull free. She froze for an instant. The death of anyone you've known, no matter how slightly or under what circumstances, always has a certain impact. But the news of this death hit her hard, because she could see in Ellie's face what was coming next.
“You killed him, and you're going to pay for it.”
“I'm sorry to hear about your husband,” Joanna said, keeping her voice level, measuring her words, “but I can't accept that I had anything to do with-”
“We lost everything because of you.” Ellie spoke as though Joanna hadn't even opened her mouth, dismissing her protest. “Six more months and we'd have been out of that place with a small fortune in the bank. Now it's unsellable, except for its real estate value-which is nil. You fucked us over good, young lady, and you're going to pay.”
“Let me go!” Joanna tried to shake the little woman off, but the grip on her arm tightened so sharply that she gasped in pain.
“When I'm ready. I'm stronger than you-and don't you forget it.”
“If you don't stop this at once, I'll call the police and have you arrested.”
The older woman's eyes bore up into hers with a feverish concentration. They were dark ringed, as though she hadn't slept in several days.
“He started three nights ago, chest pains. I called an ambulance but he died before they reached the hospital. His last words were, ‘Fix her, Ellie. Fix that bitch.’ And I promised him I would.”
Suddenly Joanna didn't want to struggle anymore, or even protest. It wasn't that she was afraid, just that she was transfixed by an awful, morbid fascination. She felt oddly passive in the face of it, the way you were supposed to feel in an accident when time slows down and stretches toward infinity. She knew she had to let the moment play out to its natural conclusion, accepting the torrent of abuse in the knowledge that it would then be over. Somehow she knew she wouldn't see this woman again.
