Cheney turned up Princess Street and began tacking his way up the hill.
“Do you think Bevlin Wagner has a lot to offer the world in the future, Julia?”
She stared out the window a moment, then slowly shook her head. “I don’t know, I really don’t. He has written one book on spirituality—
“All right, I will. But how can you not be a skeptic? I mean, finding lost children, maybe even forecasting disaster, but really, talking to dead people? Give me a break. It sounds absurd.”
“Everyone should be a skeptic, but keep an open mind. In the end, though, we all have to make up our own minds, Cheney.”
“Why should I really care one way or the other?”
“Because at various times in our lives we have need of something to help us make sense of things—of senseless tragedy, for example. I know that makes us more vulnerable to those who would deceive us—you bet it does. But if you’ve never felt ground under with despair or grief, if you’ve never been forced to focus inward rather than at your outward daily routine in the world, then I don’t think you should judge them or what they do because that inner eye of yours is closed to it, as they’d say.”
“Inner eye?”
“That’s their word for it. They speak of it as a door deep in our minds that cracks open occasionally, usually when we have need of spiritual comfort. Of course you can’t prove it with any sort of science or critical argument.”
“Is your inner eye open now?”
“No. That’s Bevlin’s house up there, perched right over the cliff.”
CHAPTER 29
Cheney parked the Audi on the narrow curb at the base of a dozen steps that led upward to an eagle’s-nest house.
They walked up the thick old wooden steps to Wagner’s house, skinny trees and brush pressing in on either side—it felt like a small wilderness, dense and wild.
The front door was ajar and so they walked into a small, dimly lit entrance hall. Cheney called out, “Is anyone here?”
“A moment,” a man’s shout came from upstairs. “Go into the living room, on the right.”
The small front room was all windows that looked toward the bay—the tip of Belvedere, Angel Island, even Alcatraz was in view. Beanbags, all of them bright red, were scattered throughout the room, some in small groupings, some alone. The walls were bare, no bookshelves, no photos, nothing but those dozen or so bright red beanbags.
In less than a minute, Bevlin Wagner walked into the living room, wearing only a thick white towel knotted below his waist.
“Hi, Bevlin,” Julia said, evidently finding nothing strange in this.
He walked up to her, leaned down, and kissed her mouth, then straightened to study her face. “You look beautiful, Julia. I was so worried about you yesterday, you were so pale, so frightened.”
She nodded. “I’m fine now. Thank you for taking the time to speak to Agent Stone.”
“No problem.” Bevlin, the towel loosening a bit around his waist, nearly mesmerizing Cheney, said, “Agent Stone. I’m pleased you’re keeping Julia safe.”
When in psychic Rome, Cheney thought, and shook the man’s hand. He wanted to tug on the towel just to see what he’d do. Bevlin Wagner was dead white, and his burning dark eyes and long black hair made for a compelling contrast. He had very little body hair.
“I was in the shower, didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“You’re always in the shower, Bevlin,” Julia said. “Go put some clothes on. We’ll be right here when you get back. I promise I won’t let this dangerous FBI agent search the beanbags.”
Those soul-probing dark eyes hit Cheney’s face square on. “I didn’t have time to wash my hair,” Bevlin said.
“It looks clean enough, don’t worry,” Julia said. “Get dressed.”
Bevlin left the room, whistling
“He does this exhibitionist thing often?”
“Oh yes. It’s sort of his trademark. I don’t know why, since he isn’t all that remarkable a specimen.”
“Has he ever lost the towel?”
“Yes. He paraded out with his towel once when I arrived before August did. The towel hooked on a doorknob and whipped right off. I looked him straight in the face and told him I knew a really good personal trainer.”
“He wasn’t insulted?”
“Didn’t seem to be. He said personal trainers were too hairy except for the women, and they scared him.”
Cheney laughed. “What’s the deal with all these red beanbags? How long has he been doing this?”
“Ever since I’ve known him, and I don’t have a clue.”
Bevlin Wagner came back into the room, wearing old gray sweats, his long narrow feet bare. “Agent Stone, I
