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Authors: Marc Laidlaw
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catapult him into talk show fame. Confessions of a Hack Mystic . He would do it as a way of unburdening himself, showing his admirers how ludicrous they looked. In his files were deranged descriptions of psychosomatic maladies; formulas for curing every known disease, from warts to AIDS, with crystals or incense or the powder of bottlebrush trees collected on Thursdays at three in the afternoon when the moon was void-of-course.
He supposed he might easily have a letter or two from a Renzler tucked in his copious crackpot file. He didn't pay much attention to the names.
"Hey, did you ever know a guy named Elias Mooney?"
Derek stiffened, never for a moment having dreamed that he would hear that name in such surroundings. He had hoped—and fully expected—that he would never hear it again from anyone, ever.
"What?" he said, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Elias Mooney. He was an old shaman out in California, I can't remember the name of the place but I think it was near San Francisco. I corresponded with him a little, till he died a couple years back. Helped me out a lot."
"No," Derek said. "No, I don't think I knew him."
"Yeah, I guess it's pretty ridiculous thinking you would. California's pretty big, huh?"
"Big."
"I just thought, you know, maybe the occult scene out there in Frisco—maybe you all know each other. Can't be that big a circle, right?"
"Bigger than I like."
"It's not like he was a celebrity or anything—just a real helpful guy. He helped me out during a real rough time—and I never even met him, you know? Just through letters and tapes and stuff. I guess he had correspondents all over the world. And .. . this would sound funny to most people, but I bet not to you. We used to meet up in the astral, in dreams. I learned a lot from him then."
I can't believe he's going on about this , Derek thought. What's he really getting at? Could Elias have mentioned me in their correspondence? Is this some kind of clumsy attempt at blackmail?
He decided to say nothing more, to avoid feeding Renzler's interest. The ploy seemed to work. The kid seemed at a loss for words. Derek wanted to find out exactly what his relationship with Elias had been, but he was afraid to stir up something that had lain quiet for so long. Finally Michael started off on a wild occult tangent, and Derek began to relax.
It was then the car made a terrible grinding sound.
"Holy mother," Michael swore.
"What's wrong?" Lenore said, leaning forward. Michael was jamming frantically at the stick shift, just pushing it around in big loose circles.
"The shift is gone! Hold on!"
He swerved sideways onto the shoulder of the dark road. They went bumping and jouncing over what felt like boulders and fallen tree branches. This is it , Derek thought. This is how it would end. Well, I guess I deserve it ....
They came to a rough halt and the engine died immediately. They sat in the dimming glow of the VW's headlights, facing a thick wall of bare trees and brambles. Michael reached past Derek, pulled a penlight from the glove box, then got out of the car and went around to the back.
Derek looked at Lenore, but she was craning around to peer out the rear window. Finally Michael banged down the engine cover. "Shit," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the icy night.
"What is it?" Lenore called.
"I don't know, I'm no mechanic." He came around to the door and peered in at them. "Mr. Crowe, I hate to ask you this, but ... how soon does your plane leave? Are we cutting it close?"
Derek pushed the button that illuminated the face of his watch. "I've got a couple hours, actually."
"You were just going to sit at the airport?"
"It was preferable to sitting in the auditorium. Is the airport a long way from here?" He imagined hiking down dark country roads carrying his bags for half the night, or dying of exposure, or ending up in a scene out of Deliverance .
"Too far to walk, yeah. But just down the road's a diner with a phone. Lenore, I'm gonna go
He supposed he might easily have a letter or two from a Renzler tucked in his copious crackpot file. He didn't pay much attention to the names.
"Hey, did you ever know a guy named Elias Mooney?"
Derek stiffened, never for a moment having dreamed that he would hear that name in such surroundings. He had hoped—and fully expected—that he would never hear it again from anyone, ever.
"What?" he said, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Elias Mooney. He was an old shaman out in California, I can't remember the name of the place but I think it was near San Francisco. I corresponded with him a little, till he died a couple years back. Helped me out a lot."
"No," Derek said. "No, I don't think I knew him."
"Yeah, I guess it's pretty ridiculous thinking you would. California's pretty big, huh?"
"Big."
"I just thought, you know, maybe the occult scene out there in Frisco—maybe you all know each other. Can't be that big a circle, right?"
"Bigger than I like."
"It's not like he was a celebrity or anything—just a real helpful guy. He helped me out during a real rough time—and I never even met him, you know? Just through letters and tapes and stuff. I guess he had correspondents all over the world. And .. . this would sound funny to most people, but I bet not to you. We used to meet up in the astral, in dreams. I learned a lot from him then."
I can't believe he's going on about this , Derek thought. What's he really getting at? Could Elias have mentioned me in their correspondence? Is this some kind of clumsy attempt at blackmail?
He decided to say nothing more, to avoid feeding Renzler's interest. The ploy seemed to work. The kid seemed at a loss for words. Derek wanted to find out exactly what his relationship with Elias had been, but he was afraid to stir up something that had lain quiet for so long. Finally Michael started off on a wild occult tangent, and Derek began to relax.
It was then the car made a terrible grinding sound.
"Holy mother," Michael swore.
"What's wrong?" Lenore said, leaning forward. Michael was jamming frantically at the stick shift, just pushing it around in big loose circles.
"The shift is gone! Hold on!"
He swerved sideways onto the shoulder of the dark road. They went bumping and jouncing over what felt like boulders and fallen tree branches. This is it , Derek thought. This is how it would end. Well, I guess I deserve it ....
They came to a rough halt and the engine died immediately. They sat in the dimming glow of the VW's headlights, facing a thick wall of bare trees and brambles. Michael reached past Derek, pulled a penlight from the glove box, then got out of the car and went around to the back.
Derek looked at Lenore, but she was craning around to peer out the rear window. Finally Michael banged down the engine cover. "Shit," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the icy night.
"What is it?" Lenore called.
"I don't know, I'm no mechanic." He came around to the door and peered in at them. "Mr. Crowe, I hate to ask you this, but ... how soon does your plane leave? Are we cutting it close?"
Derek pushed the button that illuminated the face of his watch. "I've got a couple hours, actually."
"You were just going to sit at the airport?"
"It was preferable to sitting in the auditorium. Is the airport a long way from here?" He imagined hiking down dark country roads carrying his bags for half the night, or dying of exposure, or ending up in a scene out of Deliverance .
"Too far to walk, yeah. But just down the road's a diner with a phone. Lenore, I'm gonna go
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