Night Secrets

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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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had his fortune read by your …” He stopped, looking at her penetratingly. “By the woman who was killed.”
    The Puri Dai said nothing. One of her eyes glimmered slightly, but there was no other sign that she heard him.
    â€œWho was she?” Frank asked.
    Silence.
    â€œThe woman who was murdered,” Frank continued, “whoever she was.” He could feel himself being drawn toward her, almost physically, as if he were standing on a carpet which tiny, invisible legions were tugging gently toward her. “Was she a relative, a friend?” he asked.
    The Puri Dai did not reply.
    Frank walked behind one of the long benches a few feet away, sat down and tapped the opposite side of the table. “Why don’t you sit down?”
    She did not move.
    â€œWe only have ten minutes,” Frank reminded her.
    The Puri Dai remained in place.
    â€œAll right,” Frank said, twisting around slightly so that he could watch her closely, “you can stand up if that’s what you want.”
    Her eyes shot over to him, then darted back, staring straight ahead at the light-green wall of the room.
    â€œAnyway,” Frank began, “I think you sent me this.” He pulled the bead from his jacket pocket and held it up. “Didn’t you?”
    She glared at the single red bead he lifted toward her. Her lips parted briefly, then closed together in a rigid line.
    â€œDidn’t you?” Frank repeated.
    Her eyes narrowed quickly, then snapped back.
    â€œIt came from the curtain,” Frank said. “The one in that storefront you lived in.”
    She didn’t speak, but Frank could see a terrible woundedness in her eyes, along with a powerful, perhaps irresistible urge to escape one way or another.
    He leaned toward her. “Do you want to die?” he asked very gently. “Is that what you want?”
    Her face stiffened.
    He looked at her, felt a stirring in himself, fought to keep it from his voice. “Because if you do,” he said, his voice growing firm, “believe me, I understand it.”
    Her eyes softened, but she did not turn toward him.
    â€œI understand it,” Frank repeated, as if he were admitting it to himself as well.
    Her eyes closed slowly, then opened. She said nothing.
    Frank got to his feet, walked directly over to her, let his eyes bear down toward hers. “Live or die,” he told her, “but don’t accept this in-between.” He turned and started toward the door, then glanced back as he opened it.
    She was standing completely still, her arms flat against her sides, until, just as he started to leave, one of them rose very slowly upward, the wrist limp, the fingers dangling gracefully, delicately, like long brown strands of Spanish moss. Then one of her legs shot into the air, and she made first one rapid turn, then another and another, her legs flying higher and higher as she flung herself wildly into the air, spun and spun, her body thrashing madly as she whirled, her face lifted slightly toward the overhanging lights, but her eyes directly on him, steady and unflinching within the chaos of her dance.
    It ended almost as abruptly as it had begun, and she stood rigidly near the center of the room, her long naked arms pressed tightly against her sides.
    For the few seconds before the matron rushed forward, seized her and pulled her from the room, Frank simply stood, staring, transfixed, so much her prisoner that as the cell door clanged shut behind her, it seemed to open one for him.
    â€œNight crawling again, Frank?” Tannenbaum asked, as Frank walked up to his desk.
    Frank nodded as he glanced about the room. It was entirely deserted, nothing but plain green walls and empty desks. The clock at the far end of the room said that it was a quarter past midnight.
    â€œAs you can see,” Tannenbaum said, “I’m working the graveyard shift these days.”
    Frank looked at him. “How

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