“Do you know what ‘Alisha’ means, Mr. Dillard?” she said.
I shook my head.
“It means truth. I’ll be there.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what Natasha might do?”
“I have something much more powerful than Natasha.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I have faith.”
I thought about the photographs of the six murder victims, the wild look in Natasha’s eyes in the courtroom, the message on my bathroom mirror.
“I’m afraid you’ll need more than faith if Natasha decides to come after you.”
She turned and looked out the window for a few minutes. When she turned back, she was smiling warmly.
“I’m not worried,” she said. “I have faith in God, and I have faith in you.”
Saturday, November 8
I got hold of my forensic psychiatrist friend Tom Short early on Saturday morning. I thought he’d be skeptical of Alisha’s claim that she received telepathic signals from Natasha and was fully prepared to deal with a barrage of wry sarcasm. But instead, after listening to what Alisha had told me, Tom surprised me by saying there had been some interesting progress made in parapsychology in recent years and gave me the telephone number of a woman who lived in Sea Island, Georgia.
“Her name’s Martha King,” Tom said, “marvelous-looking woman. Probably forty or so, tall, shiny black hair, turquoise eyes, terrific body.”
“Is that how you described her to your wife?”
“I don’t think I mentioned her to my wife, wiseass. She has a doctorate in parapsychology, and she’s also what they call a seer.”
“A seer? What’s that?”
“A person who can see things others can’t see. A person who knows things he or she couldn’t or shouldn’t know. A psychic. I met her at a conference in Hilton Head five or six years ago. She convinced me.”
“So you think it’s really possible? I guess the better question is, do you think I can convince a judge that it’s possible?”
“Give her a call,” Tom said. “I promise it’ll be an experience you won’t forget.”
I dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a woman’s voice answered. Once I was sure I was talking to the right person, I told her who I was, that Tom had suggested I call, and gave her a brief outline of my situation with Alisha, Natasha, and the hearing on Monday morning.
“My biggest concern is that I’ll get kicked out of court because the traditional scientific community doesn’t recognize telepathy,” I said.
“They don’t recognize it officially,” Ms. King said. Her voice was pleasant, with an accent that told me she’d either been raised or educated in England. “But there are a great number of psychologists, physicists, and mathematicians who absolutely believe that telepathy is real. They simply haven’t proven it yet in a controlled, scientific setting, or if they have, they haven’t reported it.”
“That doesn’t do me much good,” I said. “I have to convince a judge that my witness is reliable.”
“Perhaps your judge will have an open mind about it,” she said. “It really isn’t that hard to accept. Thoughts are a type of electromagnetic energy, although we don’t yet understand precisely how the energy originates or is dispersed. Is the idea that a person can generate a wave of energy that can be received and interpreted by another person so ludicrous? Especially in the case of identical twins? You might want to gather some of the research that the British have done on identical twins and mental telepathy and present it to the court. I’m sure you’d find it fascinating.”
“What about telekinesis?” I said. “My witness says her twin sister doesn’t have the same telepathic connection, but she can interfere with electricity. Have you seen evidence of that?”
“I’ve seen things far beyond the ability to manipulate electrical fields. The human mind is a powerful, powerful tool when one knows how to use it.”
“What are the chances that you could catch a plane here tomorrow and testify for me on Monday morning?” I said. “The state of Tennessee will take care of all the expenses, and I’ll make the travel arrangements myself.”
There was a long silence.
“Oh, my,” she said. “Could you excuse me for a moment?” She sounded like something had upset her; then I heard the phone drop to the floor. I waited for at least three minutes, the line dead silent. Finally, she came back on.
“I apologize; I’ve just had a bit of a fright,” she said. “I’m trembling all over.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down your offer to testify on Monday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Can I ask you why?”
“I can’t tell you precisely, but I sense that something very evil is going on around you. There won’t be a hearing on Monday.”
Sunday, November 9
The house where Lee Mooney and his wife lived was tucked into a small grove of white oak trees just off the thirteenth hole at a country club halfway between Boone’s Creek and Jonesborough. As Leon Bates pulled his car into the driveway, he marveled at the sheer size of the place. The house was three stories, finished with brick and stone, and looked to be at least five thousand square feet. How could one man, one woman, and one child possibly use all of that space?
It had been a warm day, a welcome break from the unseasonably cold weather of the past couple of weeks. The sun was shining brightly, and Bates felt its warmth on his face as he walked towards the front door and rang the bell. He was greeted by a pink-faced Lee Mooney, fresh from the links, still wearing his blue sweater vest and his matching blue pants. Bates had called Mooney early in the morning to tell him he had something of grave importance he needed to talk about, but Mooney had put him off until after his Sunday golf game.
Mooney led Bates through an opulent foyer dominated by a crystal chandelier, across marble tile and cherry floors into a beautifully furnished study that looked out over the golf course.
“Drink?” Mooney said as Bates sat down in a plush, high-backed leather chair.
“No, thanks.”
“Don’t mind if I have one, do you?”
“Knock yourself out. It’s probably a good idea.”
“I see you wear your uniform even on Sunday,” Mooney said.
“I wear it when I’m working.”
“So you’re working today?”
“Sure am. That’s why I’m here.”
Bates watched as Mooney finished fixing a vodka martini. He dropped three olives from a jar into his glass and carried the glass to his desk. Rather than sit down in the seat next to Bates, Mooney slid in behind his desk.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Mooney said.
Bates leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and watched Mooney carefully.
“Ain’t no point in beating around the bush, Lee. I arrested Alexander Dunn this morning.”
Mooney’s complexion immediately changed from pink to purple, and his mouth tightened. He began to slowly spin the martini glass with his right hand.
“I assume that was a joke,” Mooney said.
“Afraid not. I arrested him for extortion and soliciting a bribe, for now. I’m going to have Dillard look at the case and see what else he can come up with.”
Mooney took a long drink from the martini and set it gently back down on the desk. Bates had to give him credit: Besides the change in color, Mooney had exhibited barely any reaction to the news. He shook his head.
“Extortion? Alexander? I don’t believe it.”
“Maybe you’ll believe it when you see the video, but for now, I’ll just play the audio.”
Bates reached into his back pocket and produced a small CD player that contained a recording of the night Alexander had collected two thousand dollars from Bates’s informant. He pushed the button and allowed the recording to play from start to finish. When it ended, Bates picked the recorder up and put it back in his pocket. Mooney drained the rest of the martini and began to finger his handlebar mustache.