Stolen Away

“Jafsie.”

I asked Marinelli, “Can I ask her a question?”

But Sarah answered. “You may speak to Yellow Feather,” she said, in her own voice.

“Yellow Feather, spell that name, please.”

“J-A-F-S-I-E.” This was intoned in the deep Indian voice.

“Thank you, Chief. Is the baby well?”

She shook her head slowly; her face lost its blankness and became sad.

“A baby’s body,” she said in her own voice, “will be found on the heights above Hopewell.”

Breckinridge looked at me sharply and I at him.

Marinelli snapped his fingers and she jerked awake.

She withdrew her hand from mine; we all let go of each other’s hands, sat back, relaxed. We sat quietly in the flickering candlelight, listening to the wind make like a wolf.

“Why did you bring her out of it?” I asked Marinelli.

“I can sense when the psychic strain is too much,” he said gravely. “We can arrange another sitting…”

“Not at this juncture,” Breckinridge said, shifting his chair. “But I would like the address of your church, in Harlem.”

“Certainly. Let me write it down for you.”

Marinelli rose, disappeared into the darkness.

Sarah looked tired; she slumped; her hands disappeared into her lap.

“Were we successful?” she asked quietly.

“You gave us information, child,” Breckinridge said, gently. “Whether it was helpful, well, that would be premature for me to say.”

“Do you remember what you said?” I asked her.

She smiled at me, warmly. “I go into a trance, and I say things. Later Martin tells me what I’ve said.”

“I see,” I said.

Her hand, under the table, settled on my thigh.

“You have kind eyes, Mr. Heller,” she said.

She began to stroke my thigh. I began to levitate again.

“Your eyes,” I said, “are very old, for so young a girl.”

She continued to stroke my thigh. “I’ve lived many times, Mr. Heller.”

Now she was stroking something else.

“I can tell you’ve been around,” I managed.

“Here’s the address,” Marinelli said, returning with a scrap of paper for Breckinridge.

Her hand slipped away.

“You can reach us day and night,” he said. “We live on the church premises.”

“Thank you,” Breckinridge said, rising. I kept my place, for the moment. It wasn’t that dark in the room.

“We, uh, do appreciate you clearing out of this suite,” I said. “I’m the one who’s going to be using it.”

“We will be staying the night, you understand,” she said. “Or, actually—I will. Martin is going on ahead, by car, shortly, to prepare for weekend services. I’ll be going home by train, tomorrow.”

She was giving me what I might best describe as a significant look. I’m a detective. I pick up on these things.

“Do you need any expense money?” Breckinridge said.

“No,” Marinelli said. “If what we’ve said proves helpful, we would not be adverse to having our names in the papers. Like any Christian church, we are missionaries, spreading the word.”

I got up, “Well, thank you, both. Sorry if I was rude, earlier, Reverend.”

“All true believers begin as doubters,” he assured me, gesturing us toward the door.

“Safe journey,” she told us, and we were in the hall.

We sat in the Dusenberg at the curb for a while.

“What do you make of that?” Breckinridge asked.

“I’m not sure. Those two aren’t in the same class as Edgar Cayce, that’s for goddamn sure.”

Breckinridge nodded. “Marinelli certainly sends out mixed signals—talk of Christianity coming out of a satanic countenance, theological mumbo-jumbo that sounds more pagan than Judeo-Christian.”