“Twenty-five hundred dollars!” Janice said. “Can you believe it! That was a hell of a guess, Mavis!”
“It wasn’t a guess,” my mother said with a sly smile.
I looked at the stone on her bedside table, a strange glass heart streaked with black.
Was the stone a vessel, a beautiful hiding place for something dark and terrifying?
Something that watched me right now, out of my mother’s eyes?
Janice patted her on the shoulder. “Oh, that’s right,” she said with a wink. “You know things, don’t you, Miss Mavis?”
My mother nodded. She looked from Janice to me. “A great many things,” she said, her eyes locked on mine.
THIRTY-TWO
ISAT IN THE STUDIO,the books on demons and demonic possession I’d ordered stacked in front of me, my notes spread out on the table.
I reread the beginning of a chapter titled “How to Rid Yourself or a Loved One of a Demon or Dark Spirit”:
The first step is to understand all you can about what it is and where it came from. Is it a true demon? A poltergeist? A vengeful spirit? Do not simply ask this being to tell you about itself—dark spirits are tricksters and are not to be believed. The more you know about the entity you are about to do battle with, the greater your chances of finding a way to banish it.
Understand all you can about what it is and where it came from.
If my theory was correct and the demon was connected to the stone, there was only one person alive, other than my mother, who might be able to help me learn more about it. It was a long shot, but it was all I had. I spent a few minutes searching the internet, and soon had a phone number. Once again I was amazed—it was ridiculous, how easy it was to track someone down these days.
Bobbi’s son, Carter, was in real estate now. An agent in LA.
He picked up on the second ring. “Carter Dixon here.”
I thought of the lanky boy who’d come to visit each summer; the boy who carried a knife, who dared my brother and me to share cigarettes with him, who spun wild, fabulous stories about his life back in California.
“Hi, Carter? This is going to seem out of the blue, but it’s Alison, Mavis Holland’s daughter.”
There was a long pause. I heard traffic noises behind him, realized he was talking to me from his car.
“Your mother’s friend, Mavis. From New York. They grew up together.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know who Mavis is. I’m just surprised to hear from you. The last time I saw Mavis was at my mom’s funeral. She sends a card every year at Christmas, though.”
It was probably Paul who sent the cards, I thought. I imagined him sitting down with my mother’s address book, mailing holiday greetings to all the people in it, signing them himself:Love, Mavis.
“But I remember you. Ali Alligator, right? And your brother, Benji. How’s he doing?”
“Good. He’s actually in California.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“La Jolla. He and our cousin own a restaurant there.”
“Nice. La Jolla’s beautiful. I’m still in LA. I keep trying to leave but I guess the city’s got its hooks in me. What about you? Where are you living?”
“Vermont. I’m married. We’ve got two girls.”
“Nice,” he said. He didn’t mention a family of his own, and I didn’t ask.
There was a pause filled with the sound of traffic buzzing by, a truck blowing its air horn. He must have been on the highway.
He was clearly waiting to see why I’d called. At last, he spoke again. “So, I’m guessing you’re not calling because you’re interested in buying a place in LA? Although if you are, I’m your man.”
