*
What I saw in the crematory room was already beyond my control, but like many proactive people in these situations, I knew I couldn’t accept that.
Norm had drunkenly fallen asleep against the controls, sending the old machine into a fiery frenzy, but that wasn’t the worst.
Maggie’s rendered fat had caused so much smoke to pour into the room, Norm was now out cold, and from the looks of him, severely screwed by the inhalation. But that wasn’t the worst.
Pancho apparently should have died much earlier. I’d never known the fat little rat dog had had surgery, paid for by Norm to keep his mom’s favorite corpulent companion alive. I’d never known that that surgery had entailed a doggy pacemaker.
But I sure did find out, when two minutes after I attempted to haul the inert Norm out of the mortuary, Pancho’s puppy pacemaker detonated inside the oven.
The cooling tray, which holds the cremains, exploded outward, coating the small room in dark ashes. A properly-completed cremation’s ashes should be white or light grey… these were as inky as coal, and just as hot. As the billowing smoke seared my eyes and arsenal of ashes assaulted my flesh, I screamed and slapped Norm as hard as possible to try to awaken him. The dusky metallic remains of Pancho’s pacemaker glowed angrily from the bottom of the tray. The fugitive cremains dust lurched into my nose, lungs, and seemingly, my brain.
Covered in the blackness of ashes, the blackness of soot, the blackness of smoke, and the blackness of the darkest death I’d ever encountered, I blacked out.
*
“May the ashes of your heart rekindle your genius.”—Offenbach, “Tales Of Hoffman”
Three Days Later.
I’m meandering around the Hope Cemetery property—my property, possibly. If the charges aren’t brought against me. If any number of miscreant, drug, arson, tampering with the dead, manslaughter, or outright murder charges aren’t brought against me. The cops are still surveying the roped-off main house. I’m doing minor lawn work, but mostly just strolling around the fancier headstones. Watching people rest in peace somehow puts the rest of me at peace.
McLaughlin strides over as I sit down on an old mausoleum’s steps, leaning against one of the tall Ionian columns that create the impressive façade. I watch him approach and notice something I hadn’t the night I’d been interrogated. He’s in short sleeves now, and his right arm is covered in bad burn scars, the shiny ones that’ll never quite look normal again. As he draws closer, I see the remains of an FDNY tattoo half-melted beneath it.
“Hey,” he greets me casually. “How are you doing?”
“Better, if you don’t intend to break out those handcuffs for any reason other than fun.”
He chuckles. At least I’ll be taken captive by a cutie. His ice-floe eyes search my face.
“You really think you’re guilty?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I say. “Your partner wants to prove I killed my boss to get this place. I had no idea he even wanted me to have it. Honestly. Anyway, like the Mahabharata says, ‘The wind is not stained by the dust it blows away.’”
“What about fireworks?” McLaughlin asks. “Nuclear blasts? That dust sticks around. The Indian Point power plant is just up the river, are you gonna chance their dust too?”
McLaughlin looks at me seriously, as if he’s somehow worried about me. I have a feeling this is the calm before the storm—nuclear or otherwise. Maybe one last pleasant chat in this field of stone can put me at rest, before I’m buried in a room of concrete.
“It all eventually blows away. Even the fallout. After a while.” I nod at his tattoo. “You were a firefighter?”
“Was,” he says dispassionately. “Problem is, the fire fights back. Figured I’d be a little more useful up here on the river, rather than in the heat of the city. Sometimes in all that brightness and glare, it’s hard to find out where the flames end and the sunshine begins.”
“Change is good,” I say. “A few different expert tarot readers, Bob Gleason and Gabriel Marchisio, they’ve told me on separate occasions that the death card really means change. I always liked that. Not good, not bad, just change. Opposites can be illusory, you know.”
“That’s fair,” McLaughlin says.
“You know, in the city… some of the greatest cemeteries changed into the best parks. There’s upwards of 20,000 bodies underneath Washington Square. Thousands under Madison Square, Union Square too. Hell, City Hall Park used to have their own gallows. Liberty Island used to be where they’d hang pirates. And now, all that greenery just means death transformed it into something beautiful, as the rest of the place turned to monuments. Skyscrapers are just gravestones of greed. Mausoleums of money. You were smart to move somewhere you could thrive, even if it meant an old life dying.”
“You mentioned Woodlawn Cemetery, when we talked,” he says. “My grandfather is buried there. I used to live in the Bronx… I learned how to ride my bike in that cemetery. Figured I couldn’t do too much damage to anyone there if I crashed.”
We share a laugh at that.
“Do you have a favorite monument there?” he asks. “Is that a weird question?”
“No, it’s not weird,” I say. “But I can’t choose a favorite. It’s like an art gallery. From modern pyramids to angel statues, it’s all part of someone’s story.”
“The END of someone’s story, you mean,” McLaughlin says.
“No… death isn’t the end. There’s a lot of things in life harder than death. Trying to do good is far harder than dying. Maybe it’s why so many try to do good AFTER they’re dead. They know they can’t get in their own way. Think of all the buildings, galleries, college dorms, scholarships, tribute shows, shit bequeathed. Noble deaths. ‘Heroic transcendence’, I heard it called once. Being noble, or useful, or important… it’s way easier post-death. Same with those benevolent green burials. One good thing, once, that you can’t fuck up. Your death isn’t the end of you, maybe you can still do good things... even just a little bit. Donate organs, turn into a tree, whatever. You might be way more valuable in death than in life, and that’s hard for a lot of people to admit. Mostly ‘cause you can’t plan for it. But you can try to. And that’s where I come in. Helping people benefit from the end of it. I just hope I can keep trying to.”
McLaughlin nods seriously. “You know, just because I’m not a fireman any more doesn’t mean I can’t think like one. I know you said you blacked out, but I also noticed a lot of residue patterns when we investigated the mortuary. Seems that all three fire extinguishers you had in there had been completely emptied. And not in any kind of explosion due to heat.”
I’m locked into the Heaven of his blue eyes, and I don’t even believe in the afterlife.
“You were definitely the only person alive left at the scene, so no one else could have emptied them. Ashley, you did everything you possibly could to save Norm. If anything, your efforts were heroic. We’re not taking you in.”
My whole life, handed back to me for trying to save another’s, all so I can work with death.
Stranger changes have happened.
“So,” I smile at McLaughlin, “if you’re not taking me in… maybe sometime you could take me out?”
He holds out his hand and I stand. I don’t let go of it as we walk back toward my smoldering old life, my possible new life, and the promise of a post-death that’s only scary in the scope of its possibility.
The best part is, it’s not the worst.
15
temperance
c.m.c. dobbs
Upright: Economy, moderation, frugality, management, accommodation
Reversed: Religions, sects, the priesthood, unfortunate combinations, disunion, competing interests
She watched in horrified fascination as the black-robed man with the face of an angel tilted his head back and raised his hands to the moon-dark sky.
“Beelzebub! We ask that you find favor with our offering.”
A low murmur soun
ded as the black-robed figures surrounding her repeated his words. As the name he called registered, she tugged at her bonds in desperation. The devil? They were calling on the devil?
Where was she? How did she get here? Why was she wearing a white cotton robe?
The cold granite slab at her back chilled her to the bone. The man held a wicked-looking blade high over her, chanting in a language she didn’t understand. The voices joined in until the chanting reached a crescendo, and she knew this wasn’t a nightmare—she was their offering!
Her screams drowned out the chanting as the sacrificial knife flashed in the firelight a heartbeat before it plunged down into her chest with deadly accuracy, tearing through flesh, blood, and bone.
Unimaginable pain seared through her. Her life’s blood gurgled in her throat, gushing from the hole in her heart, staining her pure white robe. Her sight grew dim while a blessed numbness swept up from her toes as her heart slowed and she drew in her last breath.
“Beelzebub has accepted our offering and consecrated her blood!” When their cheers resounded through the clearing, he filled a ram’s horn with her blood and drank deeply. Filling it again, he passed it to his left, filling and refilling until everyone had partaken and not a drop of blood remained.
Chapter Two
Temperance Lippincott stared down at the still form of her grandmother. She looked so frail and helpless… not like herself at all. Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she envisioned punching the man who did this to her grandmother.
“We’ll find him, Gram,” she whispered. “Sheriff Brody promised.” The beeping of the machines echoed. She hated hospitals, but they were a necessary evil.
“I wish you could talk to me, Gram. Just to let me know you’re going to be all right.” A tear streaked across her cheek. She brushed it away. Her grandmother would want her to be strong.
“I’ve got to get over to the shop. It’s almost nine o’clock and I have to smudge the store again.” She’d already decided on the incense mix she’d burn today, but before that, the shop needed to be cleansed with white sage. “It still didn’t feel right when I stopped by on my way over here.”
Her grandmother squeezed her hand.
“Gram! You can hear me?”
She squeezed Temperance’s hand a second time.
“Thank the goddess! Okay, so I’ve cleansed some black obsidian and hematite stones. They’re ready to anoint with Dragon’s Blood oil. I’ve got a new spell I’m going to use before I put them in all of the shop windows and over top the front and back doors.”
Her grandmother opened her eyes and rasped, “Good girl.”
Temperance shot up out of her chair. “I promised I’d get the doctor when you woke up.”
“When you remove the protection stones already in the windows,” her grandmother said, “I want to know if any are cracked or broken.”
Temperance nodded. “Like the ones that shattered the night Mom and Dad’s plane crashed.”
Phoebe lifted her hand toward her granddaughter. “They loved you so much.”
“I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.” Temperance leaned down to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “I’ve got a lot of work to do to get rid of the bad vibes and spirits that were attached to whoever attacked you.”
She paused in the doorway and added, “It’s hard to describe… kind of feels black and oily.”
Her grandmother frowned. “Don’t forget to ground yourself before you begin. Be the card—”
She grinned. “I promise, and I’ll be the embodiment of the Tarot card I was named for—the fourteenth Major Arcana Card, Temperance.”
“That’s my girl,” Gram rasped. “Keep me posted,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
*
Sheriff Dave Brody stared at the fax his friend and former partner over at the Bureau had sent to him. His gut clenched, but he showed no outward reaction. “Damn, if their Intel is right, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
He read the report twice. It was short and to the point. Charismatic cult leader, Clive Deveraux’s M.O. was to prey on young women with ties to Wiccan and New Age shops. The cause of death of the murder victims was a fatal stab wound through the heart. The photos accompanying the report were graphic, but he didn’t expect anything less. Murder was never pretty.
He read the addendum after the photos and his gut twisted. Post mortem all victims were reported to have had the blood drained from their bodies, their hair hacked off near the skull, and were wearing identical white cotton robes. “Probably satanic,” he mumbled, having dealt with a similar murder years ago when he’d been a rookie in the Baltimore PD.
The phone rang, but he knew better than to pick it up on the first ring. “Sheriff?” His secretary Missy Jones called out, “Inspector Simmons is on line one.”
He didn’t bother to point out that they only had one incoming line; she would have something to say about that, too. He thanked her before taking the call.
The news wasn’t unexpected. Whenever you could tie more than one murder together, there would eventually be a trail you could follow. Simmons excelled at picking up and following murderous trails—the more obscure, the better.
“A series of murders in Colorado and Texas shared another commonality,” he told Brody. “A robbery occurred first.”
“Same type of shop?” Brody asked.
“Wiccan and New Age,” Simmons told him.
“I won’t have the good people of Harmony terrorized,” Brody bit out.
Simmons agreed, adding, “We’ll get him, but we’ll have to be careful not to move in before we have enough evidence. Deveraux has slipped under the radar more than once, and his hands are always clean.”
“I’ll be careful. Before we’re through, he’ll be swinging from the hundred-year-old Oak tree in the Black Marsh.”
He heard Simmons sigh, “Not gonna happen, pal, or you’re off the case.”
“You always were a stickler for rules,” Brody sighed.
“Then follow my lead—and no hanging!” Simmons disconnected before Brody could tell him what he could do with his lead. Probably a good thing, Harmony was a small town with limited resources; he needed Simmons, so he’d follow his rules.
Staring down at the photos of the women, he vowed to catch Deveraux. If his luck held, he’d be able to convince Simmons to let him deal with the bastard on his own terms. If not, he could always break out a rubber hose.
Chapter Three
Temperance wasn’t surprised to find more than one of the shop’s protection stones shattered or cracked. She set them aside to show her grandmother on her way home.
She put the newly charged stones in place and breathed deeply, expecting to feel protected. Instead a frisson of darkness brushed against her soul. “Not quite banished yet.”
All traces of the evil that seeped into the very air in Gram’s shop Enlightenment had to be removed. She stood in the center of the shop—the heart—and lit the white sage wand, blowing gently across the flames until a thin spiral of smoke curled up and around her. With the comforting scent of sage smoke whirling around her, she banished all bad thoughts, bad intentions, and evil spirits, ending with, “Leave now! You are not welcome here!”
“Now for the rooms.” She started at one end and repeated her banishment chant in all of the store’s corners. When the wand threatened to go out, she relit it.
By the time she finished, she was exhausted from putting all of her energy into the cleansing and banishment rituals. “Time to put on the kettle and call the hospital.”
She was on the phone with the ICU nurse’s station when she heard the trio of bells on the front door chime. “I know I locked that door,” she murmured. Who would come into the shop before she flipped over the Open sign? She thanked the day nurse, promising to stop by and see her grandmother at the end of the day.
“There you are Miss Lippincott.” A tall, imposing man waited in the middle of the shop, his smile seemed cold
. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Temperance shivered. Though he had the face of an angel, his eyes were an empty grim gray. “I’m sorry, sir,” she walked toward him, intending to shoo him back outside. “We’re not open for the day yet.”
He stared down at her, and she would later swear her flesh crawled. “You will be open for me.”
A sharp snapping sound had her glimpsing an east-facing window in time to see one of the newly charged obsidian stones break apart and smash against the tile floor. Good thing she had anointed more stones than needed. Gram was right.
Temperance turned her back on the man and scooped up the pieces. “I’ll have to ask you to come back in a half hour when we’re open for the day.”
“I’m not leaving,” he drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller before her eyes. “I wish to discuss giving a workshop on Demonology at your store.”
“I’m sorry, now’s not a good time,” she told him. “If you have a business card, I’ll get back to you.”
This time the distinct sound of a stone fracturing came from the other side of the shop. Whoever the man was, his intentions were not good. Her gut told her to get rid of him… now!
Instead of refusing, he surprised her by bowing and handing her his card. “Call me.”
He stalked through the front door and two more stones cracked.
“Gram’s not going to believe this.” Temperance hurried back to the office and grabbed her clamshell of stones, replacing all of the fractured ones.
Gram would have advised another layer of protection, so Temperance gathered a supply of red candles and bottle of cinnamon essential oil. The magical properties of the planet Mars she intended to call on—courage, protection and defense, would be strongest at noon, stronger still if it was Tuesday, but still very effective. She’d have to wait until then to close the shop and inscribe the candles, anoint them, and burn them. Time to open, drawing in a cleansing breath, she walked to the front and turned her sign around.
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 32