He watched me closely. "Some would be insulted that you didn't shake my hand."
"And you?" I asked, noting that my voice sounded higher than normal. I verified the mental wall around my thoughts was impenetrable.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "I find it curious. You seem to be having a sort of...reaction to my presence. Why is that?"
"Well, you are the great Robert Mason, famous for playing the evil Dr. Conch on One Life To Live."
He continued studying me as he adjusted the drape of his slacks. He was, I noted, the only man in Starbucks wearing slacks. Maybe the only man ever. His jawline, I noticed, was impossibly straight. The women all checked him out, but he paid them no mind. Indeed, he only looked at me. No, stared at me. So intently that he was giving me the willies.
After a moment, he said, "Or perhaps you didn't want me to touch you, Ms. Moon. Is there something about me that repels you?"
"Your jawline," I said.
"What about my jawline?"
"It's impossibly straight."
His right hand, which was laying flat on the smooth table, twitched slightly. The black snakes that wove through his aura seemed to pick up their pace a little. The jawline in question rippled a little as he unconsciously bit down. He said, "I think you see things, Ms. Moon. Perhaps things around me. Tell me what you see."
"I thought we were here to discuss Brian Meeks."
His lips thinned into a weak smile. "Of course, Ms. Moon. What would you like to ask?"
Except that before I could open my mouth to speak, I felt something push against my mind, against the protective mental wall, and it kept on pushing, searching, feeling.
It was Robert Mason, who was staring at me intently. The man was extremely psychic.
My thoughts were not closed to those who were psychic. Only to other immortals and often to my own family members. Someone like Robert Mason could gain entry...if I wasn't vigilant.
I knew this wasn't really a meeting, but a feeling out of sorts. He wanted to know who he was up against. By not gaining entry into my thoughts, he might have gotten his answer. What that answer was, or how close to the truth he got, I didn't know.
So, I decided to ask him the only question that mattered. "Did you kill Brian Meeks?"
The coiling, smoky black snakes that wove in and out of his aura seemed to pick up in intensity. They appeared and disappeared. Robert Mason didn't react to my question. He sat calmly, hands resting on the table, blue eyes shining. Although I think the dimple in his chin might have quivered a little.
After a moment, he said, "Ah, but that wouldn't be any fun, would it? Taking away all the mystery?"
His own thoughts, of course, were closed to me, which I was eternally thankful for. I was honestly afraid to know what was lurking inside that handsome head of his. Hard to believe that one of America's favorite daytime soap opera stars was so damn...creepy.
"There's a door in the prop room," I said. "A door behind the big mirror. Where does it lead to?"
I probably shouldn't have asked him about the door. I probably should have left well enough alone and directed Sherbet to the door later. But I wanted to see Robert Mason's reaction now, and I got the one I was looking for. His eyes widened briefly, just enough for me to know that I was onto something.
He said, "How do you about the door, Ms. Moon?"
"We all have our secrets. And taking away the mystery wouldn't be any fun, right?"
He looked at me. I looked at him. We did this for a few seconds, then he said. "I suppose. Very well, Ms. Moon. The door leads to another prop room. A long-forgotten prop room."
"Why did you call this meeting?"
"I saw you in the theater the other day. You looked interesting."
"Interesting how?"
He suddenly leaned over the small, wobbly table and whispered, "I know what you are, Ms. Moon. Mystery solved."
And with that, he got up, winked at me, and walked out.
Chapter Nineteen
We were in Tammy's bedroom.
She was sitting on the floor in front of me while I brushed her long, dark hair. Tammy loved having her hair brushed, even when my cold fingers sometimes grazed her neck, inadvertently causing her to shudder. She used to hold my hands, back in the days when my hands were warm. These days, however, she almost never held my hands, and I didn't blame her. Who'd want to hold hands with a living corpse?
I cherished these quiet moments when I brushed her hair, listening to her stories about school and boys, teachers and boys, and movies and boys. She often asked me what it was like to kiss a boy or to be in love. She sometimes asked why Daddy and I were no longer together. Mostly we laughed and giggled, and if we were being too loud, Anthony would sometimes stick his head in the door and tell us we were being lame.
Tonight, Anthony was in the living room watching cartoons. Something on Nick at Night. He laughed, slapping his hand on the carpet the way he does when he sits on the floor. The vibration reached even us.
"Cartoons are so juvenile," said Tammy.
"Totally," I said.
"I haven't watched them in, like, a year."
"Same here."
"Well, I guess there are one or two that are okay, but mostly they're lame."
"Mostly," I said, nodding.
Anthony erupted in laughter again, hitting the floor even harder. The thuds reverberated up through our butts.
"God, he's so annoying," said Tammy. She didn't sound annoyed. She sounded impressed that she knew the word "annoying."
"He's eight years old," I said, as if that explained everything.
She shrugged and I continued brushing her long hair. Warm air from the heater vent washed over us. The TV blared from the living room. I cherished these small moments.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, baby?"
"There's something different about Anthony."
I stopped brushing. I think my heart might have stopped altogether. I resumed brushing and kept my voice as calm as possible. "Different how?" I asked.
"Well, yesterday I saw him wrestling with some other boys."
"Boys like to wrestle. It's what makes them boys."
"No, not that. He was wrestling the other boys."
"What do you mean, honey?"
She turned and looked back at me, her big round eyes looking at me like I was the world's biggest dolt. And maybe I was. "It was him against like seven other boys."
"They ganged up on him? That's not fair - "
"No, Mommy. They didn't gang up on him. They couldn't do anything to him. He was throwing them around like they were, you know..."