Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

“Good,” I said, somewhat distracted by a noise wafting in from the direction of the driveway. I raised a hand. “What’s that?”

Over the gurgle of the coffeemaker, what began as a murmur became a dull roar. One shout, then another, and another. Then silence.

Dante met us coming down the hall. “What the hell? Just as I got Emily settled down.” He muscled his way past us to the living room window, drew the drapes aside and peered out.

“What is it?”

“The reporters are talking to somebody.”

I hurried to the window and opened the curtain just wide enough so that both Georgina and I could see what all the fuss was about.

The press was interviewing a woman who stood before them, her fingers laced primly together at her waist. She was dressed in a long black skirt, a tailored white shirt, and wore a shawl with a peacock feather design fastened at the shoulder in a bulky knot. Her eyes were just visible under a coarse black fringe that looked like it’d been nibbled by a small and very hungry animal.

“I don’t recognize her, do you?” Georgina said.

“No.”

“What’s going on, then?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

I’d just opened the front door and stepped out onto the stoop when the woman extricated herself from the clot of reporters and hurried up the driveway toward the house. As she got closer, I saw that her eyes were rimmed in black. Eyebrows had been painted on generously with a pencil. She had pink cheeks never dreamed of by Mother Nature. Clearly, a woman not in the habit of studying herself in the mirror each morning, wondering if she was wearing too much makeup.

She lifted her skirt slightly as she climbed the steps. “Mrs. Shemansky?”

I had to admit being flattered at being mistaken for my daughter. “No. I’m Emily’s mother. How can I help you?”

“Is Mrs. Shemansky in?”

Dante squeezed past me. “Mr . Shemansky is in. How can I help you?”

“It is I who can help you,” she said, her glossy red lips pulling back over impossibly white teeth. “At least I hope so.”

As we stood on the stoop with our mouths agape, she continued. “I beg your pardon. I’m so nervous I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Montana Martin. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

From our silence, she could only assume not.

First an author named Nevada, then an actress named Dakota, now Montana? The next thing you knew, some fool would name their daughter Mississippi .

“I’m a psychic detective,” she told us. “I’ve worked with police departments all over the country. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Lonnie Edwards case?”

Dante shifted his weight from one foot to another. “No.”

“Well, it’s like this. I see, and talk to dead people.”

I didn’t know Emily had come out of her bedroom until she screamed. “Oh my God! Timmy’s dead!”

“No, no!” Montana shouted, straight-arming her way past Dante and into the foyer, homing in on the woman she had correctly identified as the missing child’s mother. “Timmy’s not dead. That’s what I came here to tell you. When I was reading the newspaper this morning and saw his picture, I had a vision about Timmy. I want to share it with you.”

“Look, Miss Dakota-” Dante began.

“Montana.”

“Whatever. I can’t have you barging into my home and upsetting my wife.”

“I have a gift, Mr. Shemansky. I use it to help people.” She raised a white and ringless hand. “I don’t want any money. Just listen to what I have to say, and then either believe me or not.”

“Let her in, Dante. It can’t hurt to listen.” To Montana Martin, Emily said sweetly, “Please, let’s go somewhere and sit down.”

“Wait a minute,” Agent Crisp interrupted just as we were getting settled in the living room. “I’ve heard of you and your work, Ms. Martin, but it’s only fair to warn you, as I’m sure you’re already aware, the FBI doesn’t use psychics. If we did, we’d have to follow up every crackpot who showed up with a map and a dowsing stick, and we’d be digging up half of Anne Arundel County.”

At the mention of digging, Emily gasped.

From the overstuffed armchair nearest the fireplace Montana Martin said, “Timmy’s not dead, Mrs. Shemansky. I feel that quite strongly. In my vision, he’s on or near the water.”

The city of Annapolis is on a peninsula, virtually surrounded by water, so that wasn’t a particularly startling revelation.

“And I have an equally strong impression that the person or persons who are holding your son are Asian.

“Asian?” Emily, who had been sitting in the chair next to Montana Martin leapt up and grabbed both the psychic’s arms. “Cambodia is in Asia. So is Thailand. Timmy’s been stolen for the child porn trade! He’s going to be raised as a sex slave!”

Dante dragged his wife away from the clearly flustered psychic and made her sit down on the sofa, where she continued to sob.

“That is highly unlikely, Mrs. Shemansky,” Agent Crisp said. “Sadly, there is a surplus of desperately poor children in Southeast Asia for perverts to prey upon. There’d be no need to import them. Besides, we have all the airports and ports covered. If anyone tried to take your son abroad, they’d have to have a passport.”

Beside me, Georgina muttered, “Passports can be faked.”

“Please,” Montana interrupted, raising a hand. “Let me clarify. There’s nothing tropical about my visions, so if I’m right, it can’t be southeast Asia.” She leaned forward, resting her hands flat, fingers splayed on top of her knees. “Japanese, or Korean,” she said, switching latitudes more than forty degrees northward. “Or Chinese.” Her eyelids fluttered. “Yes, definitely Chinese.”

“What bullshit,” Georgina huffed.

“Look,” Montana interrupted. “My visions are simply that. Visions. I’m the first to admit that sometimes I get it wrong. Or, I might misinterpret what I’m seeing.” She covered her eyes with her hands for a moment, then folded them in her lap. “Once I saw a child in a jungle, but it turned out he’d wandered into a nursery hothouse and had fallen asleep under a tray of orchids.” She shrugged. “I have a strong feeling your son is alive, though. I hoped that would be a comfort to you.”

“It is,” Emily sniffed.

“Do you have an object that belonged to Timmy that I might hold, to see if I can pick up any more impressions?”

“Just a minute.” Dante dashed down the hallway, returning in less than a minute with a stuffed monkey. “The police have taken everything else, I’m afraid.” He held the monkey out, its tail dangling.

Montana Martin took the monkey in both hands and closed her eyes.

No one breathed, not even Amanda Crisp.

After several minutes Montana shook her head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. Are you sure this is Timmy’s toy?” She handed the monkey back to Dante, where it hung dejectedly from his fingers.

“Maybe it’s been compromised,” Dante suggested. “Our dog chewed on its tail.”

“Possibly.” Montana managed a weak smile.

“Well, thank you for coming,” Emily said.

Montana stood up, smoothing her skirt. “May I call you if something comes up?”

“Of course,” Emily said.

I walked Montana to the door. “I certainly trust you haven’t given my daughter false hope,” I warned the psychic as I twisted the dead bolt that would unlock the front door.

Montana reached into her handbag and handed me her business card. “Timmy’s alive. I’m sure of it.”

Fingering the card, I stared into her sincere, unblinking eyes, and found myself almost believing her. “Good-bye,” I said.

Montana placed a black-booted foot onto the stoop, and the reporters surged forward. She turned back around, as if she’d rather face me than the unruly mob. “Hannah? It is Hannah, isn’t it? Your mother says to tell your father that she wants you to have the emerald ring.”