Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 23

The entryway is a cavern capable of birthing a movie theater. Tumors of over-the-top amenities sprout from every corner, ready to grace the bottoms of shoes and collars of coats. Within that, flanked by closets and curled under glass, sits something of a menagerie.

Zandra doesn't recognize it at first. But as her eyes adjust to the intense, white swatches overwhelming her senses, she makes out a hand. Then an arm. Long braids of hair. Something of a face. It looks like a child-sized doll made from leather and wrapped in a tribal garb.

A mummy?

Zandra hears the crinkle of cellophane. She turns to see Gene's cocky gait gliding toward her.

"That's an aclla. She's one of the girls of the Incan empire chosen for capacocha," Gene says, a fresh peppermint protruding from inside his cheek. He rests a hand on the glass case. "They served many roles, but they're best known now as child mummies. Drugged, marched up a mountain and left to die. Brutal to us today, but a great honor at the time. They kept the gods happy."

Disgusting, but fitting for someone like Gene.

The scene of Gene leaning against the grotesque glass case in the middle of all that opulence is surreal. She blurts out the first thing on her mind.

"But there were no gods. What a waste," she says.

Gene grins so the nubs of his teeth show their beige coats.

"They believed they were real enough to see the benefits. A strict social order, reinforced by their religion, meant increased efficiency. This led to specialization and better production. There may as well have been gods. Faith in a delusion isn't crazy if it gets results," Gene says.

Zandra works on removing her shoes. Sets the one from her good foot on a rug that probably costs more than she makes in a year. Notices Gene watching the limp in her bad ankle. She plays it up. Makes sure he gets a nice, long look.

"Mr. Carey, why do you have a mummy in your entryway?" Zandra says.

"I have it to remind myself of commitment no matter the cost. A standard. It's the only thing that can get my attention anymore, and it greets me right at the door. Attention is a precious thing in my life. I never seem to have enough," Gene says. He waves in an assistant to help Zandra with the shoe on her bad ankle. She shoos the assistant away. Wrenches it off herself with a fleshy pop.

"It's a pretty decent conversation starter, too," Zandra says, standing finally in her mismatched socks.

"And a distraction. I live in distractions now, moment-to-moment. Focusing on finding Elle should be my full-time job, but I confess it's difficult. My family, thankfully, makes up for the slack in my tears," Gene says. "We're not so different, you and me."

His cocky gait leads Zandra into the adjacent anteroom. They take seats in opposing leather chairs.

Zandra can tell Gene's trying to play on her sympathies. They share a common experience, and he knows it. Zandra with David. Gene with Elle.

But why?

It's almost like he's trying to relax her. Get her guard down. That he'd be willing to meet with Zandra more-or-less unannounced means he's made her a priority above the hunt for his daughter. That doesn't make sense, but grieving people rarely follow logic. It's well inside the bounds of human nature to laugh at a funeral.

Perception and guts. If one fails, go with the other. Zandra's guts tell her the time spent in Gene's office was no accident. So neither should his present façade. Zandra ramps up hers.

"Mr. Carey, don't take offense, but I'd get rid of that mummy," Zandra says. She rubs her palms together for effect. Closes her eyes as she talks. "It gave off a load of negative energy. It could be a magnet for evil spirits. Like attracts like."

Zandra pauses after each of her last three words, filling the gaps with a tap of her foot on the floor. Inserting breaks or extra noises in speech can program the subconscious mind into associating certain things. It's great for forcing results in Zandra's clients, like a subliminal Pavlov's Dog experiment.

This case is something different, something special. Zandra wants to set a message to cure in his subconscious for later. A fear signal.

Like attracts like. You're just as much a fraud of a businessman as I am a psychic. I haven't forgotten what you did to me.

A few more repetitions in the next day or two and it'll be all set. A tap of Zandra's foot will shoot a spike of dread right into Gene's heart. He won't know why at first, but it'll come. The pain in her ankle hurts a little less knowing she can fuck with him like that.

"If you didn't like the mummy, you really won't enjoy what else I keep in here," Gene says and bites down on the peppermint.

Zandra raises an eyebrow. "Do tell, Mr. Carey. And, please, remember this isn't about my preferences. What I think about that mummy isn't important. What's important are the spirits clouding your daughter's investigation. My suggestions only concern themselves with that."

"Of course," Gene says and unwraps another red-and-white peppermint. "Then you need to take a look at what's downstairs."