the Rays’ private quarters, and maybe even taken on a limited tour of the compound. In the course of all this they would invariably say enough about themselves to give the Rays a starting point. From then on it was routine.
The first step was to check them out on the psychic network that extended across the country and beyond. There was a surprisingly large army of believers who went from seer to medium to mystic, one after the other, often traveling long distances for a consultation. Had anyone told them that the information they were being fed about themselves had been faxed or e-mailed from the last hustler who had duped them, they wouldn't have believed it. Because they wouldn't want to. They preferred to hang on to the myths of spiritism.
If the network didn't come up with the goods, Ellie simply called up a detective agency to which she paid a regular retainer and had them dig up what they could. One thing was certain: by the time Ellie or Murray or any of their colleagues sat down for a seance with a sucker, everything that was about to happen had been planned and rehearsed to the last detail. There were no surprises in the spirit world.
But there was going to be a big one very soon. Joanna slipped a hand discreetly beneath the dark wig she was wearing and pressed the earpiece more firmly into place. The receiver in her purse was picking up every word that Ellie fed to Murray, and a recorder was getting it all on tape. Some of it was pretty juicy stuff; Ellie didn't bother to disguise her contempt for the suckers out there who bought what she and Murray were selling.
It was going to make good reading.
Ellie squinted through the glass to identify the woman near the back who had just handed something to Merle. It was that young woman, Rachel Clark, who was staying in Clouds Wing for the weekend. Ellie brought her file up on the computer screen. There wasn't much-just the fact that she had consulted seven mediums in the last few months, all in and around Philadelphia where she lived. She had wanted the same thing from all of them: to get in touch with her father, whom she had nursed through a long illness until his death the previous year. There was obviously some unresolved stuff there, though what it was remained vague.
“Dirty old sod probably been schtupping her since she was ten,” she muttered into the mike. “It's that girl with the dark hair that you noticed the other day-good tits under that baggy cardigan. Trust you to notice! Mother died when she was fifteen, never been married, engaged once, name of Johnny-nothing known about what happened to him. The old man manufactured kitchen equipment-sounds like there was money in it from the schools she went to.”
Ellie read off the remaining details as she peered through the glass to see what Rachel Clark had given to Merle. Murray was answering the previous question as Merle mounted the steps at the side of the stage. Careful timing meant that she had to pause long enough right next to Ellie's little window to offer a clear view of what she held, along with subtle finger signals to denote gold or gold plate, real jewelry or fake-anything that might usefully be passed on to the blindfolded Murray.
“Man's gold watch, father's I guess,” Ellie was saying as Murray wound up his previous reading, simultaneously taking in Ellie's information over the sound of his own voice. “The old man's name was James Anthony Clark. Mother was Susan Anne with an ‘e,’ nee Ziegler. The kid's half-Jewish, that's a nine on the fucked-up meter for starters…”
Joanna had to fight to hide the grin of glee that wanted to spread across her face. They'd bought into every last detail of the phony identity and background she'd set up on those boring trips to Philadelphia these past few months. The proof was coming out of Murray's mouth as he regurgitated every empty lie she'd set to trap them.
And it was all on tape!
At just twenty years of age, Jeremy Holland was a general grunt around Camp Starburst. He got the job because his mother was a cousin of one of the resident mediums at the camp, and Jeremy was learning the trade himself. Today, however, he was manning the switchboard, and a situation had arisen that he was unsure how to handle. Ellie looked up with an air of surprise as he approached apologetically.
“I've got the police on the phone,” he said.
Ellie's heart skipped a beat. She knew that some of what they did was marginally illegal, but took comfort in the thought that it would be almost certainly unprovable in court. But any contact with the law made her uncomfortable.
“What do they want?”
“They won't say. They want to talk to one of the guests. A Mrs. Anderson. Eileen Anderson.”
“She's in there,” Ellie said, nodding toward the auditorium. “She can't talk now. Tell them they'll have to leave a number or call back.”
“I've told them. They insist.” Jeremy's voice shook sightly. Like all staff on the compound, he feared Ellie's wrath; above all feared being the cause of it. “They said they want to talk to somebody in charge-now.”
“Fuck!” Ellie muttered, thinking. “Listen, can you work this end for five minutes?”
“I'll do my best,” he said, brightening at the opportunity and the confidence she was showing in him.
“He's just starting on this guy-him, in row ‘J’ next to Minnie. The stuff's on screen. All you've got to do is read it out-not too fast.”
“No problem.”
Ellie whispered a few words to Murray to explain the switch, then made way for Jeremy at the mike and bustled out. She had the call switched through to her office.
“This is Ellie Ray. How can I help you?”
“Sergeant Dan Miller, New Hampshire State Police. As I told the young man I was speaking to, I have to speak to Mrs. Anderson in person.”
“I'm afraid Mrs. Anderson is in a…in a religious service right now. But I'm a very good friend of hers. If there's any way I can be of help to you or to her, I'd be very happy.”
She heard him hesitate, then decide.
“Well,” he began, obviously not relishing the task he had to perform, “I'm afraid I have some tragic news. I'm calling from the county morgue. Mrs. Anderson's husband was fatally injured in a traffic accident two hours ago…”
At first Joanna tried to tell herself it was a joke. Or she had misheard. Every instinct strove to deny that what she thought was happening could really be happening. Like the victim of some sudden catastrophe, she was paralyzed by disbelief.
It started when Ellie took back the microphone from the young man who'd been struggling to keep the show going for the last five minutes. “Listen,” she'd said to Murray with a new urgency in her voice, “I've just had the police on the phone. Something's come up. It's that Anderson woman…I'm getting her bio up…first name Eileen, comes from Springfield…has some problem with a twin sister who died when they were kids…Now listen to me, Murray, her husband just got killed on the interstate…Now this is what we're going to do…”
Joanna slipped a hand under her wig as though her earpiece might be somehow malfunctioning. She refused to believe what she was hearing. They could not possibly be about to do this awful thing. Not even these people could be as heartless as that.
Ellie's voice buzzed on in her ear.
“It's got to bring Joyce Pardoe back into play. Once this gets into the newsletters, she's sure to improve on that last offer. We could even get an auction going between her and the Thomases…”
Joanna was only vaguely aware that her mouth was hanging open as she listened to this woman cold- bloodedly planning to boost the sale of her real estate by exploiting a tragic bereavement. Even then she couldn't believe that Murray would go for this. She watched him sitting imperturbably, finishing off a rambling answer to a question from some man near the front, betraying nothing of the callousness and greed being poured into his ear. Surely he would just ignore his wife's words and carry on. He wouldn't go for this. He couldn't.
“The husband's name is Jeffrey Dean…Jeffrey Dean Anderson…Salesman-that's all I've got, nothing about what he sells…Two kids, teenagers, Shirley and Richard…”
Murray signaled for the next question. Merle had an object for him, a brooch or clip or something of the sort. She started across the stage and Murray held out his hands for it as he always did.
He froze without warning. His whole body remained rigid for some seconds; then he inhaled a shuddering breath and slumped back in his chair as though unconscious.
People were on their feet in alarm, thinking he was ill. Merle hurried toward him, but quickly realized that all was well as he pulled himself forward and stood up. He raised his arms theatrically, and the audience watched, puzzled, as he placed his fingers on his temples in an attitude of intense and painful concentration. His breathing
