Scott hit stop on the TV remote, and the footage of the Chang case disappeared. “So what do you think?”
Coulter yawned and stretched his arms so they rested along the back of the sofa. “Could have used a soundtrack.”
“Besides that,” Scott said.
“I can’t believe you guys go after ghosts and spirits and all that Halloween stuff.”
“It’s about the search for truth,” Scott said.
Coulter grinned. “Okay, Mulder.”
Anjali giggled.
Coulter looked her up and down, his gaze appreciative. “How do you say your name again?”
“Un-ja-lee.”
“I’ll just call you Angel.”
She giggled again.
Scott rolled his eyes. The three of them had gathered in the den after coming straight from the Rockin’ Rodeo. He’d been eager to quiz Coulter about his abilities but decided to show him the recordings from the Lynne Michaels and Rosie Chang cases. To demonstrate what The Cold Spot: Paranormal Investigations was all about.
“So,” Scott said. “Any other thoughts? Questions about the firm?”
“Just one,” Coulter said. “Isn’t The Cold Spot 7-Up’s logo?”
“Oh my God!” Anjali exclaimed. “It is!”
Scott rubbed the space between his eyebrows where he most often developed a headache. “Besides being a soft drink, The Cold Spot also refers to an area of psychic energy, relating to a spirit or entity.”
“Speaking of spirits,” Coulter said. “Got any whiskey?”
“Drinks. Right.” In automatic host mode, he went to the bar and poured a vodka tonic, handing it to Anjali without her asking.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “How’d you know my drink?”
He smiled. “You hang around with psychics long enough…”
Instead of whiskey, he offered Coulter an alternative. “Try this. I’m partial to it myself.”
Coulter took a sip and groaned, closing his eyes. “I think I see Jesus. What is this?”
“Single malt Scotch.”
Scott declined to take a drink for himself and leaned against the bar. “Do you have any idea where your powers came from?”
Coulter waved the Scotch under his nose. “Off the back of a cereal box?”
Scott continued to study him. Coulter looked up and with a resigned shrug, set his glass aside.
“I know nothing about the good ol’ family tree. Hell, I don’t even know who my daddy is.”
Scott had to ask. “Ever have a near death experience?”
A lazy smile spread across Coulter’s face. “Well now, the Grim Reaper and I are good friends, text each other on a regular basis like a couple of teenage girls. But I’ve never walked into the light—if that’s what you mean.”
“What about a blow to the head?” Anjali asked. She looked at Scott. “Do blows to the head really cause psychic ability?”
“If that were true, Mike Tyson would be channeling spirits in the ring.” Scott pushed himself away from the bar and walked to the center of the room. “So you don’t know where or how your abilities originated. That’s fine. Anjali’s not too sure of hers either.”
“And I’ve got my family tree traced back for generations.” She frowned. “I’m not sure how accurate the information is though. I don’t think I’m a direct descendant of both Buddha and Gandhi.”
“What would be interesting,” Scott said, “is seeing if your children and your grandchildren inherit your ESP.”
“If that happens,” Anjali said angrily, “I definitely won’t make them feel like science experiments because of it.”
Coulter gave her a speculative look. “I think the first words I learned to say were demon and spawn, seeing as how my mama said them to me often enough.”
“So you also grew up feeling like there was something wrong with you?” Anjali asked.
Coulter looked surprised. “Not at all. I felt pretty superior actually.” He looked at Scott. “Hey Spock, what’s your thing? What can you do?”
Scott saw Anjali trying to hide a smile.
He cleared his throat. “Nothing actually. I’m not psychic.” The topic was a sore spot for him. He would give anything to touch the other side, to fully experience it as someone other than an observer.
“Well, are ya’ll gonna ask me or what?” Coulter said.
Scott and Anjali looked at him.
Coulter stood up. “For a demonstration? I’ll start with a little spoon bending.”
Coulter bent spoons, bent them back into shape, made them dance in the air, and then moved on to dishware.
Scott stood in front of Coulter, the EMF meter raised and pointed.
“What is that thing?” Coulter asked.
Scott stared at the readings. “Just what I thought! The amount of energy you’re giving off is incredible!”
Anjali crossed to his side. “I couldn’t tell an electromagnetic wave from a sound wave but the meter is definitely getting excited.”
“Now this is just my opinion,” Scott began (and since his opinion had been quoted in a well-known scientific journal, he believed it held sufficient weight). “Coulter is absorbing the electrical energy from the air around him. He’s soaking it up…storing it if you will. I’m sure he does this even when he’s sleeping.”
Anjali smiled at him. “You energy hog.”
Scott took a few more readings, then plugged the meter into his iPAQ PDA, storing the data. He turned around just as a plate swept through the air and stopped barely an inch from his face, making him flinch. Several more plates circled around his head. “Very nice,” he said in a flat voice. “Can we move on?”
Flying objects landed safely on the coffee table, and Coulter sat back down on the sofa.
Demonstration over, Scott got down to business and addressed Coulter. “What I want to do is put you in—for lack of a better word—a haunted house and see what happens, see how the house reacts to you and how you react to it.”
“See what the spirits make of him?” Anjali asked.
“Exactly.”
Coulter leaned back, resting his foot on his thigh. “Sounds easy enough to me. How much you payin’?”
“First let me say that this is a nonprofit business. People would be less inclined to seek out our help if we charged.”
“You’re doin’ this for free? Ever hear of doctors? They help people too and don’t bat an eye when it comes to their fee.”
Scott sought to explain. “For me, it’s not about the money—”
Coulter swept his hand in indication of the flat-panel TV, the leather sofa and chairs. “People who have money always say that.”
Scott was in no mood to justify his business practices. “The amount I’m offering,” he began just as Anjali stood up.
“That’s my cue to split, guys. Negotiating really isn’t a spectator sport.”
After she’d left, Coulter raised a brow. “So you and she…”
“Let’s get back to the matter at hand,” Scott said. Wilders rarely discussed their personal lives with family members, let alone strangers. He mentioned a monetary sum, purposely low-balling it.
Coulter’s gaze was mocking. “And here I thought my talents were in demand?”
After a bit more haggling they finally agreed on an amount and shook on it.
“You’ve got quite a grip there, Wilder,” Coulter said. “Must be from squeezing blood out of all those turnips.”
Scott grinned. “Must be.” His family didn’t get rich by paying full price, ever. “So, if you could come by tomorr—”
“Is there a place around here I could crash temporarily?”
“I can get a list of motels for you.”
Coulter rubbed his chin. “You could do that. Only I need a place to stay tonight.”
Scott knew where this was going. Damn his polite upbringing. “You’re welcome to stay here. For a night or two,” he added.
Coulter’s lips curved in a slow grin. “Well, that’s mighty nice of you…roomie.”
Scott needed a drink. He poured himself an ounce of single malt, and when Coulter proffered his empty glass, refilled that too.
“Say boss, seeing as how you’re an expert on all this ESP and me stuff, tell me why I can suddenly move people with my mind when I couldn’t before.”
Scott had been thinking about this. “This may sound simplistic and unscientific but you never had the proper motivation. People do things they never thought they could while under severe stress. You had the capability all along. There was just no need to call it forth.”
“I wonder what else I can do,” Coulter mused.
Scott lifted his glass in a toast. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”