The woman hesitated.
“Just say it,” Ben told her. “Nothing would surprise me.”
“All right.” She lowered her voice, said closely into the phone, “It’s a Vodou priestess. And her son.”
“Madame Langlois and Enok?”
“Jesus, yes!” Anita seemed caught off guard. “How did you… was Caitlin expecting them? I assume she met them in Haiti—”
“Not expecting that I’m aware of,” Ben said. Caitlin had met the Vodou priestess and her houngan son while trying to help a young girl in Port-au-Prince. Gaelle Anglade was one of the youths whose trauma seemed linked to Galderkhaan. If the duo had been planning to visit, Caitlin would not have failed to mention it. “They just showed up?”
“About an hour ago,” Anita said. “They flew in from Haiti, came right here, and the priestess flat-out announced that Caitlin is in the coils of a serpent.”
“The great serpent!” Ben heard a woman’s voice say in the background.
“Forgive me,” Anita said, lowering her voice. “The great serpent?”
“We did not come right here,” the Haitian woman added. “Should have. I do not like Miami. Too chaotic.”
“Right, right,” Anita said into the phone. “Ben, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered truthfully. He did not know how much Caitlin may have told her about Galderkhaan and did not want to get into that now. Leaving the protection of the doorway, he saw a cab, hurried to the curb, and flagged it. “I’m coming over there. Has Jacob been in his room the entire time?”
“Yes,” Anita said. “He’s been in there drawing a comic book about Captain Nemo… he’s fine. Ben, I’m a pretty good psychiatrist and very good listener and there’s something you’re not telling me. What exactly happened to Caitlin?”
“Firefighters found her lying unconscious in Washington Square Park.”
“Oh, Ben…”
“I know. There were fires—maybe a gas leak. Perhaps she was overcome.”
“I got the alert on my phone, didn’t put the two together. Should I call her folks?”
“Done. They’re on the way to Lenox Hill.”
“Jesus. What does the doctor say? Or wouldn’t they tell you?”
“He was like the bloody sphinx, with occasional claws.”
“Jesus,” she said again. “Maybe if I call him, doctor to doctor?”
“From his questions, I don’t think he knows much. I’m more concerned about Jacob and your guests.”
“I understand. Look, I’ll arrange with my office to stay here as long as I’m needed. Meanwhile, what do I do about… them?”
“Nothing, other than keep them away from Jacob,” he said. “Have they asked about him?”
“No—but they’re obviously involved in this whole ‘thing’ somehow,” she whispered. “How else could they know that something was going to happen to Caitlin?”
“I just don’t know,” Ben said. “Look, Caitlin’s got a can of mace in her night table if you need it. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. And don’t ask how I know that.”
“Wasn’t,” Anita replied. “What’s the doorman’s name? In case I need him?”
“I think Elvis is on at this hour.”
“Elvis?”
“Yeah. He’s okay.”
“What about you?” Anita asked. “How are you?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” he told her. “Just moving ahead. See you soon.”
Ben sat back in the cab, watched the video display in the seat, saw the news alert from Washington Square. There weren’t just fires; there were floods, water-main breaks, crowds of students who were being hustled from dorms into the streets. The driver was talking to someone in Nepali on his Bluetooth. Ben couldn’t even tune it out; he understood everything about the family’s dispute with the city over a dangerous school crossing in Queens.
Noise and unrest, Ben thought. It didn’t end with the tamping down of the tensions between India and Pakistan. It just went back underground, unsettling everyone at a low boil. Thanks to Caitlin and her commitment to helping, he was now acutely aware of it.
Caitlin, he thought, choking up for the first time. What happened down there, Cai? But it was more than wondering; it was pain and guilt. While Caitlin sought a way to rescue the kids who had been assaulted by Galderkhaani spirits—Maanik Pawar in New York, Gaelle Anglade in Haiti, Atash Gulshan in Iran—Ben Moss, linguist, had been pushing the Galderkhaani language on her, calling and texting and meeting with her to describe with great enthusiasm each new discovery or supposition. He had made her part of a quest that should have ended, for her, with the curing of Maanik and Gaelle. He tried—and failed—not to feel resentment at the way she had kept him out of her research and discoveries. It brought up old feelings about the way she had conceived Jacob with a man she had only just met on a relief mission, someone who later became the very definition of “absentee father.”
Tears pressed against the backs of his eyes as he thought of the girl he had shared so much with, who he had strongly reconnected with over Maanik, who he was now helplessly in love with. He wanted her back not just from this crisis but in all ways, and he didn’t know how to go about any of it.
Baby steps? Ben thought with sharp self-reproach. His limited research into Galderkhaan barely translated the fragments of ancient language they possessed, let alone provided insights into the existence of souls in the Ascendant, Transcendent, and Candescent realms. How was he supposed to help Caitlin with this?
Maybe the madame has insights, he thought then hoped. The priestess had been helpful in Haiti. She certainly has some kind of second sight.
As the cab sped west across Central Park, Ben tried to be useful—and consoled—by applying himself to the purely scholarly side of the problem. He was amazed at how much cultural overlap had been revealed among Galderkhaani, Vodou, Hindu, and Viking lore—peoples who had no contact in the dawn of our known civilization. Yet, the same cultural archetypes appeared. Inevitability? Or was it something deeper. Was there a connection that went back to this civilization that predated all others?
How can that not be the case? he asked himself.
Nor was this the time to figure it out. He did not see how that kind of research would help Caitlin.
By the time the taxi reached Caitlin’s Upper West Side apartment building, the morning had already blossomed into early dog walkers, rattling breakfast carts, and loud delivery trucks. The bustle seemed to be happening outside a bubble, a combination of exhaustion and distraction. Even the driver’s ongoing school-crossing issue seemed to belong to some other time and place.
And then, suddenly, there was a wave of fear—not unwarranted. No sooner had Ben emerged from the cab than a man stepped up to him. The newcomer was about five-ten, a little shorter than Ben, and in his forties. He was wearing jeans, work boots, and a black beret. His eyes were covered with reflective sunglasses with fashionable white frames. He held his smartphone in his left hand. His right hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his heavy leather jacket.
“Mr. Moss,” the man said. It wasn’t a question.
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”
“I understand,” the man replied politely, but firmly, stepping to block his way. “This will not take long.”
The man’s voice possessed a faint but distinctive accent, which Ben placed as Icelandic. It was uncommon here, and in spite of everything—or because of it—Ben gave the man his attention, but not until after he had looked around.