John Levitt - Unleashed

Telling her over the phone that I wanted her to help me track down the mythical Wendigo wasn’t going to go over well, either. That approach could well lead to a restraining order. So I needed a use a different slant.

The first time I called, her machine picked up. I didn’t leave a message; this had to be finessed, and that takes talking in person. When I tried again a few hours later she answered on the first ring.

“Morgan? This is Mason. The jazz guy, remember?”

“Of course,” she said. “How are you?” Her tone was noncommittal, and I couldn’t tell if she was happy to hear from me or regretting giving me her number.

“Getting by. Just wanted to check in and tell you the news. I did end up in Muir Woods, despite your warnings.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry; I’m fine.”

“How could you?”

“I had to. You were absolutely right, though. I’m lucky I got back okay.”

“What happened?” she asked. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Positive. But it’s a bit complicated. I’m not really sure what I found there, and I’d love to talk to you about it. Maybe you could help clear it up for me. Could we meet for coffee somewhere?”

There was a long pause as she thought it over. What she had seen in her vision had shaken her, as well it might have, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to get involved any further. But she was curious-who wouldn’t be? And it never hurts to just talk. That’s one of the great lies people tell themselves.

“Uh, yeah, we could do that.”

“I’ve got my van, so you pick the place,” I said.

Another moment, then, “How about Martha’s? There’s one on the corner of California and Divisadero. It’s not too far from where I live.” It would take me about twenty minutes to get across town.

“Great,” I said. “Half an hour okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

The area around California and Divisadero lies between the tony Upper Fillmore and the posh Pacific Heights. It has no real identity, instead sort of bleeding off into each one without having the cachet of either. And unlike its wealthy neighbors it’s middle class, at least as much middle class as you can find in San Francisco. Some places in the city, like North Beach, could only be in San Francisco. Others could be transplanted into any good-sized city in the country without seeming out of place, and this area is one of them.

A few outside tables were clustered outside this Mar tha’s, right by the door. I left Lou to hold a table and went inside for a latte. Morgan wasn’t there yet. I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind. Ten minutes later, I saw her crossing the street toward us. She was wearing those same loose jeans again, but with a shapeless sweatshirt on top. I got the feeling she’d changed into it before coming over, trying for aggressively neutral. She gave me a quick nod and passed by the table, going inside inside to get her own cup of coffee. While I waited, I called Lou over.

“We need her help,” I said. “So put on the charm-don’t lay it on too thick, though. Let her think you’re just an ordinary dog. For now.”

Hopefully she was a dog person. Lou could charm almost anyone, but there are people who simply don’t like dogs, period. Go figure.

She came out, carrying a tiny cup of espresso, and slid into the opposite seat. Lou glanced up at me and I gave a slight nod. He stretched, sidled up to her, and sat up in his cute begging position. She smiled over at me, a good start.

“Yours, I assume?”

“Remember your vision where I was with something like a dog, but not quite? Well, you were right. This is Lou. Lou, this is Morgan. Say hello.”

Lou sat down and offered a paw in the standard doggy-shake fashion. She reached down to take it, and at the last moment he whipped it away and gave a short bark.

“Psych!” I said.

“Well, that’s just rude,” she said, laughing. “I suppose you taught him that.”

“Not at all. He has his own sense of humor, and the canine variety can be rather juvenile.” Lou walked back to her and offered a paw again.

“This is like Charlie Brown and the football, isn’t it?” she said.

“No, he’s apologizing.”

She reached down again and this time he gravely accepted her hand. Then he jumped up in my lap, curled up, and pretended to go to sleep. All of this had a purpose, of course. Not only did it humanize me and ease the tension, but the byplay would get her mind off any suspicions she might be having. Small, friendly dogs are so reassuring.

We looked at each other over the table for just long enough for it to start feeling uncomfortable. She took a sip of her coffee and made a face.

“For what they charge for espresso at these places, you’d think they might do better.” She emptied a packet of sugar into the coffee and tried again. “Worse,” she said. “So what happened to you? And why did you go up there the very next day? Did you want to see if I perhaps was a fraud? That’s a long ways to go just to out me as a fake psychic.”

“Not at all. I didn’t doubt you for a moment. But I’ve been looking for something, something odd. I didn’t know where it was, but your warning at least pointed me in the right direction.”

“Well, that’s ironic.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” She took another delicate sip of espresso and her hand trembled slightly. “What I saw made me nervous. I wouldn’t have gone up there myself. I did warn you, you know.”

“I’m afraid I had to. It was something that needed checking out.”

She leaned forward, putting her cup down with a clink. “And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? What exactly was it, and who are you, anyway? And what do you want from me?”

This was the tricky part. Usually I don’t tell nonpractitioners anything about the world of practitioners, or about my talents. I prefer they think of me as nothing more than a guitar player, which is what I am, really. There’s no rule about telling civilians, and sometimes it works out fine-look at Victor and Timothy.

But there’s a certain reluctance, as if the whole thing is just a bit unseemly. Mostly people don’t believe you anyway. Even a slight demonstration isn’t enough to convince hard-core skeptics-they’d rather deny the evidence of their own eyes than change their comfortable view of the universe.

Morgan might be different, though. She obviously had psychic ability-she’d not only known about Lou ahead of meeting him; she had guided me to the exact place where the Wendigo had taken up residence, and had felt its disturbing presence. Accepting that there might be others with unusual powers shouldn’t be that much of a leap for her.

“Well, first of all, you know I’m a jazz musician,” I said, treading carefully. “But there’s another side to me. You’re a psychic-and thanks for the warning, by the way. I’m a-well, let’s just say that I possess certain powers of my own.” She looked skeptical.

“Such as?”

“It might be easier to show you,” I said. “Lou?” His ears pricked up. “Up on the table.”

He uncurled himself from my lap and stepped delicately onto the tabletop, being careful not to spill any coffee. He sat there stoically. He doesn’t much care for being put on display.

I glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention. Doing magic in public is frowned upon, at least by Victor. It obviously could lead to complications. But if anyone noticed my little demonstration, they’d just think they were seeing things and needed to get their eyes checked.

I spotted a woman walking across the street with a cocker spaniel. Every time it stopped and tried to sniff at something she would impatiently pull on its leash. This would be easy-not spectacular, but simple. I reached out, took the spaniel essence, and let it flow into Lou.