He squared up the Tarot deck, wrapped it in the silk scarf, and put it away. From the shelf he took the Ouija board and set it down on the table in front of the love seat. He placed the three-legged planchette on the board, then sat back for a moment looking at it.
Am I cracking up? he wondered. Have I been screwing around with the occult, faking my way through for so long that I've slipped a cog somewhere? Do I really expect this stupid board with the letters and numbers on it to tell me something?
Then Peter asked himself the same question he had asked Joana Raitt two days before: What have you got to lose? The disturbing thought occurred to him that he might have more to lose than he wanted to know, but, having come this far, he could not turn back.
Peter breathed deeply in and out several times, then placed his fingertips lightly on the planchette. He cleared his mind of all nonessential thoughts and forced himself to play fair. He vowed to do no, repeat no conscious moving of the table to spell out his own messages.
With his eyes closed Peter focused his concentration down to a bright pinpoint of energy. In his mind there was nothing but the question: Is anyone here?
Nothing happened.
He sat in the same position until his muscles ached with the strain of not moving. He kept his eyes closed. The question flashed on and off in his mind like an electric sign: Is anyone here?
It was an hour and fifteen minutes after he sat down that the planchette moved under Peter's fingers. Just a tiny spasm, less than half an inch across the board, but unquestionably the thing had moved.
Peter's eyes snapped open. He stared down at the planchette, which was again motionless. He riveted his concentration and asked the question again: Is anyone here?
The planchette moved again. First it was tiny pulses, a bare millimeter at a time, then in larger spurts, and finally in a smooth but seemingly aimless pattern of loops across the board.
Sweat beaded Peter's forehead. He stared down at the three-legged little table under his nerveless fingertips as it skated around the board on silent felt pads. The transparent plastic window with the pointer in the center seemed to be searching, searching.
Although he had sat grinding his teeth for more than an hour, willing this phenomenon with all the concentration at his command, Peter could scarcely believe it was happening. In this world objects do not move by themselves. All the years of pretending, all the false messages he had given to the trusting women who paid him, now came back like a cold wind.
Peter's head began to ache as he fought to keep his mind on the question: Is anyone here?
The planchette slowed its aimless looping around the board then and moved with purpose to the left side. It stopped with sudden finality with the plastic window directly over the word Yes.
At this point Peter's practice was to call for an identification of the spirit that was moving the planchette. It took up time and never failed to impress the clients. He usually arranged to spell out some glamorous Greek from the Golden Age, or sometimes an Indian, since they were commonly thought to be close to the psychic fringe. This time, however, he ignored the whole stagy business. It made no difference to Peter what power was moving the planchette under his fingers, the only thing that mattered was that it did move. Now there were questions to ask, and no time to waste.
Aloud he said, "I want to ask a question about Joana Raitt."
The table made no move. Peter took that as consent, and continued.
"Is Joana Raitt in danger?"
The planchette moved at once, sweeping smoothly around the board and returning to the spot where it had started: Yes.
"Am I in danger?"
Again the quick circuit of the board and the return to the little drawing of the sun in the upper-left corner and the answer: Yea.
Peter's throat was dry. He forced himself to swallow. "Is my danger the same as Joana's?"
Again: Yes.
"Does all this have something to do with Joana's experience of 'dying'?"
Yes.
Peter looked quickly around the room. He had the irrational feeling that something might spring at him from the shadows.
Quickly he asked, "Is the danger present at this moment?"
The planchette slid across to the upper-right portion of the board and stopped. No.
All right, stop it, Peter told himself. You're getting hysterical. He closed his eyes again and put his mind to work. His body ached and he was wet with sweat as though he had just run a mile uphill. He could feel his energy draining away, and knew he must choose his remaining questions carefully.
"What is the nature of the danger?"
The planchette moved immediately to the two curved rows of letters at the center of the board. Without hesitating it slid along the top row and stopped for a moment on the D. Then, moving smoothly and with purpose, it stopped successively on E…A…T…H.
DEATH.
Oh, Jesus. Why, Peter asked himself, had he ever started this? No, that was foolish. There was no way he could have avoided it. It never occurred to him to doubt the answer. There it was, spelled out for him in capital letters: DEATH.
"From where…" No, that was no good. Peter cleared his throat, swallowed, and began again. "In what form will the danger come?"
The planchette almost jumped out from under his fingers. It dropped to the second row of letters and held for an instant on the W. Skimming over the board now, it quickly spelled out the answer: WALKERS.
Peter waited for more, but the planchette rested. He could feel it vibrating under his fingers, as though there were a tiny motor humming inside.
"I don't understand. What does that mean? Is it a name?"
Again: WALKERS. Nothing more.
It made no sense. Keeping his fingers on the planchette, Peter rolled his head to wipe the dripping sweat from his chin onto the shoulder of hia shirt. He searched for another way to ask the same question.
'This danger to Joana and me," he said slowly, "this… death, from what direction will it come?"
BEYOND.
Damn! He still knew nothing. Try again. "Who, or what, must we be on guard against?"
WALKERS.
An exasperated curse formed in Peter's throat, but then the planchette moved again under his fingers. It dropped down from the double row of letters to the line of numerals. There it came to rest on the number 4. And there it stayed.
"Walkers? Walkers 4? I don't understand. What does it mean?"
The planchette quivered, but did not move.
Another question. Ask it something else. Peter's head ached like fury. There was blood on the inside of his Up where he had bitten it. What to ask? When, that was it. He had to phrase the question carefully. He squeezed his eyes shut and the tears ran down his face.
"This danger, when will it come?"
The planchette shivered lightly under his touch, but stayed at rest.