“I was meditating. I can’t hear the phone when I’m in that room.”
“I should come back tomorrow.”
I hoped she would counter but she said nothing.
A moment passed. I took a chance. “Listen, Koko, what I really need is to talk to you right now, tonight. Some things have happened since we spoke on the phone.”
I heard her take a breath. “This can’t be good if it brings you here at midnight.”
“A friend of mine has been killed.”
She leaned closer to the door and said, “I’m sorry.” I saw the shadow of her face move across the crack in the door and she regarded me with her right eye.
“How was he killed?”
“She. The police think it was just a neighborhood burglary.”
“Sounds like you don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe. It’s not like me to make up spooks, but I’ve been thinking all kinds of crazy things since I got to Baltimore.”
“Things that have to do with Josephine.”
Before I could confirm that, she said, “My manners are terrible. Come in.”
I stepped into a dark hallway. The entire house was dark except for the dim orange lamplight in the room off to my right, and Koko was still nothing more than a shadow. She led me toward what was apparently a living room and I had a vision of a slender girl with a shawl over her shoulders, surrounded by books. The shawl was dark, I saw in the lamplight from the doorway; the girl, from her own description on the telephone, would be a woman somewhat older than me, but the girlish image persisted as she crossed the room into the light.
There was a hint of incense in the air. The room was slightly hazy, like a scene in an art film. She turned and motioned me to a chair. She was indeed slim. Her face was young and unwrinkled, her age just hinted by the glasses and her hair, which now in the orange light looked to be black speckled with either white or gray. Even with the salt-and-pepper hair she looked no older than thirty-five. Her face like the rest of her was thin, but warm in the fuzzy light. I could see a line of sweat on her forehead, though the house was cool. She said, “Please sit,” and she took a chair facing mine.
I looked in her eyes, which seemed to be blue. “You’re younger than I thought.”
She smiled slightly. “I’m afraid that’s a huge illusion. If I look younger than I am, it’s because I’ve been doing the right things for about thirty years now. It’s no great secret—just do what they all tell you.”
“Who are they?”
“Herbalists, medicine men, a shaman or two. I stretch, I walk, I get violent, fierce exercise at odd moments of the day. Just before you came, as a matter of fact. I eat right. And I don’t smoke. That’s the absolute worst thing you can do to yourself.”
She had a kind smile, which began in her eyes and radiated through her face. She smiled now and said, “I’ll be sixty-two next month.”
“Get out of here!”
“You look pretty fit yourself.”
“That’s because I’m young at heart.”
“You look like you’re thirty-five and you talk like a wise guy.”
“I’m thirty-seven. I run obsessively, drink occasionally, take in way too much caffeine, and dispense more verbal trash than you’ll get from a dozen other sources in a month of Sundays. That’s the wise guy part of my nature. But I don’t smoke.”
“Good for you. Can I get you something? I was just about to have tea.”
“At midnight?”
“I’m retired, Mr. Janeway. I have no clock to answer to, so I sleep when I want, stay up all night if I feel like it, and drink tea whenever it pleases me.”
“I would love some tea at midnight.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
While she was gone I got up and looked around the room. She had books shelved everywhere, works on Eastern philosophy, on India and Egypt, Sufism and hypnosis; some poetry, some literature, a few fascinating individuals. The works of Rabindranath Tagore, the life of Gandhi, all the obvious books by and about Richard Burton. She had tacked a small framed quote from Tagore on the end of her bookcase: Modern civilization has gathered its wealth and missed its well-being. I looked into a dark hallway and I could see more books on both sides.
“I read a lot.” She stood behind me, holding a tray with cups and a steaming pot.
“And you move like a cat.”
“It’s a solid house. Not many creaking boards. And I never wear shoes inside.”
I looked back at her books. “Interesting collection.”
“Does it tell you anything about its owner?”
“Sure. There are no better indicators of character than the books you have.”
“What do you look for when you go into a house and there are no books at all?”
“I don’t know. Whatever’s there, I guess. But I always feel a sense of…what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Pity’s the word.”
“That’s a strong, judgmental word.” But I thought about it and said, “Yeah.”
“I couldn’t live without books. What amazes me is how many people can. I know writers who have no books at all, if you can believe that.”
I not only believed it, I knew some of the same writer types. Glory seekers who want to make lots of money writing books but would never think of buying one.
“Come drink your tea before it gets cold.”
I took a sip and said, “What is this? It’s not tea.”
“It’s an herbal concoction. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“It’ll put hair on your chest.”
I laughed. “Never had that problem, actually.”
I asked her what kind of name Koko Bujak was.
“My father was what’s called a White Russian. My mother was from Baltimore.”
We looked at each other. “So what can I do for you?” she said.
I owed her the truth and I told it alclass="underline" facts, suspicions, everything.
She didn’t say a word the whole time. She barely moved in the chair. Her eyes were riveted to mine, a compelling gaze that made me keenly aware of her hypnotic skills as I talked. She must have blinked during the half hour but I never saw her do it. After a while her eyes were like pinpoints of energy and the rest of her went out of focus. I wasn’t telling this story, she was pulling it out of me, but that was okay, none of it was against my will; I never had the feeling of going under or being out of my own control. If I wanted to I could get up any time, in the middle of a sentence, walk out, and fly back to Denver. It was almost pleasant except for the reality that someone had killed Denise and my sudden hunch that the killer might be in Baltimore, not Denver.
“That’s why I’m here at midnight,” I said as her face came into focus.
I didn’t know what I expected her to do with it. What I didn’t expect was how the conversation went from there.
“So you think I may be on someone’s list, is that what you’re saying?”
“I don’t know, Koko. That sounds pretty goofy, doesn’t it?”
“A week ago, maybe. Now, it doesn’t.” She took a deep breath, let it out through her nose. “I’ve had a feeling for the past week that someone’s been watching me.”
“Have you seen anybody?”
“I had a prowler last night. But I felt someone there long before that happened.”
“What kind of prowler? Noises?”
“No, not just a sound. Someone I actually saw in the yard behind the house.”
“How much of a look did you get?”
“Not much. He was back there in the trees, just for a moment.”
“What time of day was it?”
“Middle of the night. Just about this time.”
“How’d you happen to see him?”
“Felt a cat cross my path. Went to the back door and there he was, in the yard.”
“Did he see you?”
“Oh yes. He was crossing the yard, looking toward the house when I came to the door. I couldn’t have been more than a silhouette from where he was but we saw each other. He stopped in his tracks, then he veered into the trees and ran off that way.”