“Have you seen Boyer or Barnett lately?”
“I went over to Mother’s on her birthday. I called first to see if Natasha was around, but she said Natasha had been out all night and was asleep. When I got there, Sam and Levi were just coming out the front door. They got in Sam’s car and left. Mother said they spent the night in Natasha’s room. She said they’d been hanging around a lot.”
“When was that?”
“August ninth.”
“Doesn’t Natasha have the same kind of telepathic connection with you that you have with her?”
“No, but she can do something that I can’t. She can interfere with electricity somehow. She does something with her mind, something that somehow overloads electrical circuits. I’ve seen her do it. It’s very frightening.”
I thought about what Fraley had told me the morning after Natasha was arrested. He said he was in the middle of interrogating Sam Boyer when the power seemed to surge and some of the lights in the building exploded.
“Alisha, can I trust you to show up on Monday morning?”
All I had to do was hand her a subpoena, and then if she failed to appear, I could get a brief continuance and have her arrested and held as a material witness. But I couldn’t do it. Part of me hoped she would stay away and let me take my chances with the judge. After listening to her and observing her for an hour, I no longer suspected that she might be involved in the murders in any way. She was so beautiful, so serene, so seemingly pure. I was genuinely concerned for her safety, and I knew I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.
“Do you know what ‘Alisha’ means, Mr. Dillard?” she said.
I shook my head.
“It means truth. I’ll be there.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what Natasha might do?”
“I have something much more powerful than Natasha.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I have faith.”
I thought about the photographs of the six murder victims, the wild look in Natasha’s eyes in the courtroom, the message on my bathroom mirror.
“I’m afraid you’ll need more than faith if Natasha decides to come after you.”
She turned and looked out the window for a few minutes. When she turned back, she was smiling warmly.
“I’m not worried,” she said. “I have faith in God, and I have faith in you.”
Saturday, November 8
I got hold of my forensic psychiatrist friend Tom Short early on Saturday morning. I thought he’d be skeptical of Alisha’s claim that she received telepathic signals from Natasha and was fully prepared to deal with a barrage of wry sarcasm. But instead, after listening to what Alisha had told me, Tom surprised me by saying there had been some interesting progress made in parapsychology in recent years and gave me the telephone number of a woman who lived in Sea Island, Georgia.
“Her name’s Martha King,” Tom said, “marvelous-looking woman. Probably forty or so, tall, shiny black hair, turquoise eyes, terrific body.”
“Is that how you described her to your wife?”
“I don’t think I mentioned her to my wife, wiseass. She has a doctorate in parapsychology, and she’s also what they call a seer.”
“A seer? What’s that?”
“A person who can see things others can’t see. A person who knows things he or she couldn’t or shouldn’t know. A psychic. I met her at a conference in Hilton Head five or six years ago. She convinced me.”
“So you think it’s really possible? I guess the better question is, do you think I can convince a judge that it’s possible?”
“Give her a call,” Tom said. “I promise it’ll be an experience you won’t forget.”
I dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a woman’s voice answered. Once I was sure I was talking to the right person, I told her who I was, that Tom had suggested I call, and gave her a brief outline of my situation with Alisha, Natasha, and the hearing on Monday morning.
“My biggest concern is that I’ll get kicked out of court because the traditional scientific community doesn’t recognize telepathy,” I said.
“They don’t recognize it officially,” Ms. King said. Her voice was pleasant, with an accent that told me she’d either been raised or educated in England. “But there are a great number of psychologists, physicists, and mathematicians who absolutely believe that telepathy is real. They simply haven’t proven it yet in a controlled, scientific setting, or if they have, they haven’t reported it.”
“That doesn’t do me much good,” I said. “I have to convince a judge that my witness is reliable.”
“Perhaps your judge will have an open mind about it,” she said. “It really isn’t that hard to accept. Thoughts are a type of electromagnetic energy, although we don’t yet understand precisely how the energy originates or is dispersed. Is the idea that a person can generate a wave of energy that can be received and interpreted by another person so ludicrous? Especially in the case of identical twins? You might want to gather some of the research that the British have done on identical twins and mental telepathy and present it to the court. I’m sure you’d find it fascinating.”
“What about telekinesis?” I said. “My witness says her twin sister doesn’t have the same telepathic connection, but she can interfere with electricity. Have you seen evidence of that?”
“I’ve seen things far beyond the ability to manipulate electrical fields. The human mind is a powerful, powerful tool when one knows how to use it.”
“What are the chances that you could catch a plane here tomorrow and testify for me on Monday morning?” I said. “The state of Tennessee will take care of all the expenses, and I’ll make the travel arrangements myself.”
There was a long silence.
“Oh, my,” she said. “Could you excuse me for a moment?” She sounded like something had upset her; then I heard the phone drop to the floor. I waited for at least three minutes, the line dead silent. Finally, she came back on.
“I apologize; I’ve just had a bit of a fright,” she said. “I’m trembling all over.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down your offer to testify on Monday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Can I ask you why?”
“I can’t tell you precisely, but I sense that something very evil is going on around you. There won’t be a hearing on Monday.”
Sunday, November 9
The house where Lee Mooney and his wife lived was tucked into a small grove of white oak trees just off the thirteenth hole at a country club halfway between Boone’s Creek and Jonesborough. As Leon Bates pulled his car into the driveway, he marveled at the sheer size of the place. The house was three stories, finished with brick and stone, and looked to be at least five thousand square feet. How could one man, one woman, and one child possibly use all of that space?
It had been a warm day, a welcome break from the unseasonably cold weather of the past couple of weeks. The sun was shining brightly, and Bates felt its warmth on his face as he walked towards the front door and rang the bell. He was greeted by a pink-faced Lee Mooney, fresh from the links, still wearing his blue sweater vest and his matching blue pants. Bates had called Mooney early in the morning to tell him he had something of grave importance he needed to talk about, but Mooney had put him off until after his Sunday golf game.
Mooney led Bates through an opulent foyer dominated by a crystal chandelier, across marble tile and cherry floors into a beautifully furnished study that looked out over the golf course.
“Drink?” Mooney said as Bates sat down in a plush, high-backed leather chair.
“No, thanks.”
“Don’t mind if I have one, do you?”
“Knock yourself out. It’s probably a good idea.”
