Hell and High Water

Pop.

Berenice Mitchell blinked at the bright flash from the cameraman’s bulb, her practiced pink smile still dancing widely.

The next day, fresh-inked papers would shout the news all over New York City, then Newark, Baltimore, north to Boston, south to Savannah, even out in Chicago. Berenice Mitchell, the Great Madame Berenice, was soon to retire. And with the announcement of her imminent retirement came another: “For the next few months, I will be searching for my protégé. Please, do give me peace, and until they are ready to take on their role as my successor, the same goes for whoever I may find.”

“Madame Mitchell! Madame Mitchell, a question, if you would permit.” A newspaper reporter, the youngest in the room, one of eight, frantically waved his pass in the air. Even with all of his motion and shouting, the youth was a breeze among zephyrs.

With a simple nod of her head, Berenice silenced the howling winds of the hall, gaze fixed on the young reporter. “Of course, dear.” Hand shaking, the reporter swiped his handkerchief across his brow, missing a few beads of sweat that clung to the sweatband of his hat. “Madame Mitchell, this.... protégé,” he put on his best “investigative reporter” voice, “How will you find him? Or, well, her?”

Her enormous grin shifted. It became smaller, softer, hinted of amusement: a gentle tilt of the mouth. “My child,” came the worldly, dreamy voice, “There is not a better way to find the gift than to use it.”

Murmurs began at the front of the meeting hall, then spread back among the rows, quiet surprise growing louder and louder. Pleased, that youthful World reporter ran his tongue across his teeth and pressed on.

“But how will you know-- how can you be sure-- that whoever you find isn’t some sort of a charlatan, a con, a fake?”

The little entertained smile persisted. “Fraudulence,” the woman mused, “is not my concern. No more questions, now. I am sorry.”

At this, the Great Madame turned on her French Heel and strode, with aged elegance, out of the marble building to an awaiting hired car. Her grand, billowing rainbow of wraps and shawls followed her into the backseat, and the sleek black door shut, muffling her single word to her driver.

“Home.”

Berenice rested her head on the back of her seat, eyes closing.

That reporter... That last question...

“Bernie, that’s the key to this thing. Never, ever let yourself believe that some low-life scum con artist is better than you. They’re not.”

Berenice’s mentor had said those very words years before.

Fraudulence is a concern to many psychic mediums, just like me.

Berenice’s mentor was right. She was better. Why?

Those “low-life scum con artists” always managed to get caught.