“You’re one of the most powerful mediums in the region, maybethemost powerful. I know this. No need to play down what you can do.” Linda jutted her chin toward a canary yellow house, toward the cluster of officers gathered outside. “Law enforcement’s guarding the property all day, all night. Right behind the police cruisers, there are two cars that belong to federal agents. There’re other agents close by, scoping out the place, making sure no one does anything stupid.”
“Anything stupid? Like what?”
“Folks find out where a supposedly possessed person lives, they do stupid shit. People from Samuelson’s church held an evening prayer vigil here not long after the news broke. The next day, an armed guy arrived, said he was doing the Lord’s work, and tried to rush the house strapped down with a pipe bomb. Police managed to subdue him. No one got hurt, thankfully. The news is now making it their business to broadcast that the property’s currently under twenty-four-seven protection.”
Fonsi rubbed the back of his head. “That’s intense.”
“We’ve been given access to the house,” Linda said. “Just to look around. That’s it. Also, I’d ask you not to make any overt references to your gift within the property. No one needs to know about your Spirit Sense. That’s what you call your gift, correct?”
Fonsi quickly nodded.
“Cool. Follow my lead. We have basic convo while in the house; save longer analysis for later. I don’t know if the rooms have been bugged, what the feds or police might be doing in terms of surveillance. They might have a video cam set up for all we know. We have clearance for a few minutes. Again, we go in, check out the place, we leave. If your Spirit Sense goes off, we discuss outside the property. Got it?”
“Right, of course.” When Fonsi first heard about what Linda could do from his mentor, Estelle, how she was an empath, one of the rarest gifts a Guardián could have, he tried to jibe in his head the earth mother vibes he assumed she’d wield on her sleeve with her being a PI. But the gritty woman before him seemed more ready for war, less interested in exploring the realm of emotions. A disconcerting reality.
They walked up the block, grew closer to the yellow house marked off by glistening tape. Four police cruisers were parked outside.
Whole new ballgame, he thought. The first time he’d been called to examine the official site of a crime… which, he realized, wasn’t the right way to describe the scene. There was no real precedent for what was happening.What type of pull did Linda have, he wondered, to get this kind of access to DC’s hottest case?
A half dozen cops stood in front of the house itself. A wide assortment of items had been placed on the street curb. A legion of glass candles, a few still lit. Crosses of every variety… gold, jewel encrusted, wooden. Fonsi tried to focus on objects that were unfamiliar. A chain with a small bull’s horn and glass eyeball.To ward off the evil eye… maybe.
Nothing in the large menagerie of objects alerted his Spirit Sense.
“Linda Villanueva, from Nueva Investigations.” Linda showed her ID to a woman officer standing by the tape whose braids were pulled into a bun under her cap. “This is my associate, Fonsi Harewood.”
“Detective Fitzgerald alerted us you’d be on the premises.” The woman held out her hand. “Heard you’re former NYPD. Saw how you tackled that demon eye on Murray’s body cam. You’re a badass, sis.”
“Appreciate that.” Fonsi noticed how Linda took in the adoration. No smile, no change in her demeanor. Just a subtle nod.
“Sir, you’ll have to leave that with us,” the officer said. She gestured to Fonsi’ s denim knapsack. “No bags are allowed on the premises.”
Fonsi clutched the bag to his chest. The knapsack contained a change of clothes, a few toiletries, and a large book, the latter being one of his most prized possessions. He wasn’t counting on leaving El Gran Libro Negro with anyone. “Um… there’s something special inside. I…”
“It’s fine, no problem.” Linda lifted the bag from his arms and handed it to the officer. “Fonsi, it’s to make sure folks don’t get sticky fingers and run off with something from the scene. Standard protocol. Your stuff will be safe.”
The two walked up concrete steps and entered the house. Anxious over what they would discover, Fonsi took a deep breath as they stepped into the dark foyer.
Linda flipped the light switch on the living room wall. The interior was tasteful, nondescript. A mat by the front door. Magnets from places traveled on the kitchen fridge… Miami, Puerto Rico, the Bahamas—warm locales. Cream linen curtains. The room’s massive bookshelf contained various Bibles, the King James Version prominently displayed on a stand, followed by rows of meticulously arranged titles, mostly self-help:101 Steps to Discover the Hidden You…22 Days and Ways to Harness Your Inner Glow…
Fonsi was most taken with the art on the walls. He drew on his SVA training to place what he was seeing. To the left, right outside the foyer, there was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at a Mickalene Thomas collage, an abstract interior decor scene with leopard-print rug and zebra-print chairs and foliage. Had to be a print, unless Pastor Samuelson was rich. And there, over a small bar shelf, a black-and-white photo of a woman in a white sheath dress, hair askew, back to the camera. A metal pitcher was in one hand, a plastic jug in the other. Lorna Simpson, mos’ def. And then there was a sculpture by a stack of vintageEbonys, a line of singers ascending in the shape of a harp. A young man kneeled at the front. Sheet music was in his hands. A mini replica of Augusta Savage’s iconic work.
Fonsi’s heart raced as he waited for his gift to kick in. The inescapable buzz. The ringing in his ears that would indicate a spirit was nearby, that it had tethered itself to an object that held deep sentimental value when it was alive. If Jeremiah Samuelson was possessed by a being from the other side, then it stood to reason Fonsi would be able to sense any lingering traces of the entity in the object it had originally tethered itself to.
He felt nothing.
He turned to Linda, waved his hand at the Lorna Simpson piece. “This isn’t what I was expecting to see in a preacher’s place.”
“Hmm.” Linda blinked. “Never judge someone by their profession.You’d be surprised what people enjoy behind closed doors. So Samuelson is an arts connoisseur, has a comfortable home. I imagine parishioners would enjoy stopping by, being entertained. Probably find his vibe refreshing, not too stodgy. Matches up to what several congregants have said in interviews.”
Then she was on the go again. Linda moved through the property, silent, fast. A feline. Her phone out, she took pictures with a detached nonchalance. Pastor Samuelson was a neat man, everything in perfect order. Hats and jackets on hangers lined up in a perfect row next to the door. A stack of cards by his desktop computer. The place looked pretty innocuous to Fonsi. Linda snapped away.
They explored the entire house. It was too silent, Fonsi knew. Which meant their visit was probably for nothing. His Spirit Sense had been become so honed that he could usually discern the presence of ghosts dozens of feet away. He was actually relieved, having built up in his mind the frightful things they might discover. The nightmares of the Equinox, still lodged in his mind and heart.
The last place they entered was Jeremiah’s bedroom, which, to Fonsi, felt like a terrible invasion of privacy.
They walked in anyway, Linda in the lead. The bed was crisply made. There was more art, a couple of landscapes over each nightstand. Across from the bed, a portrait of a man. A big life-size portrait, six by eight feet if Fonsi had to guess. He walked closer to the painting and stopped.
The figure in the painting, Pastor Samuelson. He was reclining nude in a sea of sunflowers. His skin, a coppery bronze with hints of deeper brown. His salt-and-pepper fade and beard, a contrast to the shining yellow of the petals. The colors were so luminous that, for a moment, Fonsi wondered if the paint was still wet. The sheer ecstasy on Mr. Samuelson’s face managed to outshine everything else. The man was enraptured… by something. Maybe the rays of sun that bathed his skin. Or the aroma ofthe sunflowers. Or simply the pull of nature, where he could be unencumbered and free.
