“There,” she whispered as a board creaked. “Third step from the bottom.” She slipped out of bed and fumbled in the dark for the iron lamp on the bedside table and unplugged it. The iron flower stem fit her hand perfectly. She tiptoed over to the door, flattened her back against the wall, and waited.
Someone was breathing heavily just outside her door. Praying for strength, she lifted the lamp above her head. When the door burst open, she jerked the lamp down with as much force as she could. The groan of pain didn’t faze her at all.
The intruder collapsed to the floor and adrenaline surged through her veins. She jumped over the fallen body, hurtled down the steps, and didn’t stop until she reached the deputy’s cruiser. The driver’s door was open, but there was no sign of the deputy.
The sound of a phone buzzing had her looking down, there by the car… it had to be the deputy’s phone. She picked it up. “Hello? This is Temperance Lippincott. I’m standing by Deputy Hammond’s cruiser, but he’s not here. Someone was in my house… I hit him on the head. He’s in my bedroom.”
“Slow down. Breathe,” Brody told her. “I’m almost there. Hammond called me about fifteen minutes ago.”
Temperance refused to give in to the fear welling up within her. “Then why can’t I find him,” she asked.
“We’ll sort it out when we get there.”
“We, who?”
“My buddy Simmons from the Bureau is riding shotgun,” he told her. “I want to you to listen carefully.”
She willed her hands to stop trembling. “Yes, okay.”
“Get into the cruiser,” Brody told her. “Shut the windows, and lock the doors.”
“But what if I see—”
“Do it now!” he thundered.
She jumped in the cruiser. Worried about the missing deputy, she sent out positive vibes and healing energy while waiting for Brody and Simmons to arrive.
Chapter Six
The sound of a fast-moving vehicle coming up the drive had her opening the driver’s door and getting out.
“I knew my patience would pay off,” a deep voice crooned as Temperance was grabbed from behind. Cruel fingers dug into her arms and she was pulled back against the all-too-familiar Deveraux.
“I thought I knocked you out,” she whispered.
“Ah,” he chuckled. “That would be my right-hand man.”
Headlights cut across the driveway as the sheriff’s car screeched to a halt. Deveraux slowly turned around, using Temperance as a shield.
Desperate to escape, her mind raced until a cold steel blade pressed against her throat.
“Come any closer,” Deveraux warned, “and I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear.”
Brody raised his hands high and stepped back. “Drop the knife, and we can talk about this.”
Deveraux’s laugh made her skin crawl. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re already in deep,” the man at Brody’s side called out. “We might be able to make a deal if you toss down the knife and give up.”
“I do hate repeating myself,” Deveraux said, “but I don’t think so.”
Temperance prayed that she had been right. Earlier when she’d done a spread, the Judgement card kept turning up. She hoped that her actions had mirrored the meaning of the card: change of position, renewal, outcome. But her gilded tarot card meaning swirled through her, demanding that she listen. She was being called to do something. Listen to the call and face it with courage and action.
Sweat trickled down her back and her belly cramped, but she didn’t move an inch, knowing Deveraux would end her life without hesitation.
A shot rang out in the night, and Deveraux collapsed against her, toppling them both to the ground. The weight of him crushed the air out of her lungs. She struggled to catch her breath, but it was no use; her vision grayed and went black.
“Temperance!” a deep voice called as if from far away. “Snap out of it.”
The heavy weight constricting her breathing was gone. She drew in a breath and sighed.
“That’s it, come on.”
She opened her eyes and saw the familiar deep blue of Deputy Hammond’s gaze boring into hers. “Gave me a scare there, Temp.”
“You didn’t have a knife against your throat,” she groaned as he helped her sit up.
“Where were you?” she demanded. “What happened?” As she focused on the man kneeling by her side, she realized his shirt sleeve was dripping with blood. “By the goddess! You’re bleeding!”
“I know,” he told her, “but I needed to make sure you were okay before I let them patch me up.”
She realized then that they weren’t alone, the first-aid squad, and the coroner were both there. “Where’s Sheriff Brody?”
“He and Simmons are fine,” Hammond reassured her. “Once you remembered to tell the Sheriff about Deveraux coming into your shop. The pieces to the puzzle fell into place, and they had the rest of the proof they needed.”
“Then why is the coroner here?”
“Deveraux fell on his knife when I shot him in the shoulder.”
“That’s why he fell on me! You shot him in the back?”
“Call me crazy, but I was expecting a thank you.” He started to ease away from her, but she grabbed a hold of his good arm and rasped, “Thank you!” Her eyes filled as she realized how close she’d come to being the one in the coroner’s car.
“I wasn’t ready to die,” she confided.
“No way in hell would I let that happen,” he told her.
Gram’s teachings had saved her. Whatever energy you send out comes back to you three-fold. The scales of Justice had balanced with Deveraux’s death.
“You’re going to need stitches, Deputy,” one of the first-aid volunteers told him as Hammond was helping her to her feet.
He dug in his heels. “I hate needles.”
“I can ride in the back with you,” Temperance offered. “And you can tell me why you didn’t come in for dinner. I make a killer red sauce.”
He let her lead him over to the ambulance and grumbled, “It’s hard to explain, but I just had this feeling something bad was about to happen.”
She smiled and pulled him onto the cot in the back. “Happens to me all the time,” she soothed. “Do you believe in the Tarot?”
16
the devil
michael m. hughes
Upright: Bondage, addiction, sexuality, materialism
Reversed: Detachment, breaking free, power reclaimed
I watched the psychic as he did his act, his clear blue eyes wide, waving his hands as he delivered messages from the dead. “Someone is coming through—a child. She was about five or six when she passed. She says her name is Emily or Emma and she’s looking for her parents. She’s pointing over here.” He shaded his eyes from the stage lights and gazed off into the audience.
I had seen it all before.
I was on assignment from Voices of Reason, an online skeptic magazine. This particular fake on stage was Joseph Enoch, a rising star in the psychic world, with his own TV show and sold-out venues around the world. I had set up a one-on-one session ($1200 for 45 minutes) with him after this performance—if I could make it that long without puking all over myself.
A couple near the front stood up. Enoch led them along with some obvious cold reading, and most likely, some facts gleaned from pre-show electronic eavesdropping. I felt my jaw clench as the woman burst into tears and sobbed in her husband’s arms. His lips trembled and then he, too, started crying. It was sickening. Milking the rubes by pretending to be psychic was bad enough, but making obscene profits off the desperation and gullibility of bereaved parents? That was diabolical, and that was why I was here. To finally nail the bastard—and nail him good.
I had over a hundred pages of notes for my story already, but today I was going for the coup de grace—meeting Joseph Enoch face-to-face while wearing a concealed mic. I’d given his organization, The 401(c) Joseph Enoch Foundation, a false identit
y when I signed up for my consultation over a year earlier (Enoch’s waiting list for private consultations now stretched beyond two years). The real Peter Meyers was a friend of my editor’s and an aeronautical engineer who hated charlatans as much as I did. He looked quite a bit like me, and with an offer of a substantial chunk of cash, he allowed me to take over and edit his meager profiles on LinkedIn, Facebook, and Twitter. For over a year I’d laid out a honeytrap of bogus data waiting for Enoch’s crew of slimebags to dig into, but I also included comments about a real tragedy—touching reminiscences about Peter Meyers’s deceased wife, Kelly, who had died of bone cancer.
The plan was simple: I would go to the consultation posing as Meyers and catch Enoch in his deception. It was brilliant, and I couldn’t wait to see the final act unfold.
*
After the final, nearly deafening applause—Enoch definitely knew how to work a room—I lined up with a handful of others for our one-on-one meeting. A smartly dressed, twenty-something blond wearing a headset approached me. She wore spiked heels and held an iPad against her chest.
“Mr. Meyers?”
I nodded. “That’s me.”
“Joseph will see you shortly. He needs a few moments to collect himself after these large events. It is terribly draining for him to deal with all that energy—I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. I had been a theater major in college and could still be a damned good actor when I tried. “I read his autobiography, Love Never Dies.” I pulled the book out of my bag—almost three hundred pages of vacuous dreck and confabulated anecdotes with a cover painting of a smiling, radiant angel. A blond-haired angel, naturally. “Do you think he’ll sign this for me?”
“Of course,” she said. She smiled and moved to the next person in line. Nice legs. Enoch, like most of his fellow celebrity psychics, liked to surround himself with good looking men and women. People tend to trust them more. It was all part of the long game.
When I put the book back in my bag I double-checked the concealed electronics. I was wired to the hilt, with an extra shielded mic in case Enoch was using any kind of cellular jamming technology. The recording would be backed up wirelessly to my phone, and from there transmitted live to our IT guy, Barry, who was sitting in his car outside the venue. Redundancy was key. The magazine had spent a lot of money—money it didn’t have—to make sure we got this right. Bringing Enoch down would more than make up for it in new subscribers and all the attendant publicity.
A few minutes later the cute lackey returned. “This way, Mr. Meyers.”
*
The assistant led me to a small table across from Joseph Enoch, then nodded and left us alone in the room, shutting the door behind her. Despite having rehearsed this moment dozens of time in my mind, I was still nervous. There was no other furniture, nothing but the table and two chairs. No candles, crystals, incense, flowers, or any of the usual junk psychics used to create atmosphere. Just a plain, white tablecloth.
“Mr. Meyers,” Enoch said, extending his hand.
“Please call me Peter,” I said. His hand was warm, his grip strong.
Enoch motioned for me to sit, then took his seat across from me. His smile and bright eyes were disarming. No wonder so many people fell for him—he had the faux-earnest charm of a sociopath. “I apologize that it took so long to schedule this consultation. There are so many people, and alas, only one of me.”
“No, please don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m happy to finally be here.” I dropped the bag to the floor next to me and pressed the “on” switch. My phone vibrated in my pocket to let me know it was recording. My hands were shaking. “I’m a little nervous,” I said.
“Please, don’t be,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. Spirit will guide us.” He reached out with both hands. “Let me take your hands for a moment.” He took my hands in his. “Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Are you a religious man, Peter?”
“I was raised Catholic.” That much was true. And one of the major reasons I’d become an atheist in my 20s. “I consider myself spiritual, but not really religious anymore.” That’s how most of the air-headed new-agers I’d interviewed described themselves. So I figured I’d go with that.
“Understood,” he replied. His hands tightened slightly on mine, which were now slick with sweat. “Just let yourself relax. Breathe deeply through your nose and let go of your tension. Open yourself to Spirit, Peter. Let it fill you.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. I didn’t like men holding my hands. I’m not homophobic or anything, but it just felt awkward.
“Again,” he said. “In deep through your nose. Visualize the white light of loving Spirit entering you. Then let it out with abundant grace. Like a kiss of thanks to the universe.”
I breathed even more deeply, then let the air out through my lips. Typical boundary loosening techniques—get your mark relaxed and suggestible before going in for the kill. But how anyone fell for this treacle I would never understand. A kiss of thanks to the universe? Jesus Christ.
“Okay, open your eyes.” Enoch released my hands. His smile had softened, and he looked at me with curiosity. “Have you ever had a tarot reading?”
I froze. “Just... once.” I had never heard of Enoch doing anything other than his medium shtick. “Are you going to talk to the spirits?” I had paid for him to talk to dead people.
He smiled, his eyes locked on mine. “Of course. But sometimes Spirit directs me to other avenues of communication.” He reached beneath the table and brought back a bundle wrapped in white silk. His hands were meticulously manicured. “You’re not afraid of these cards, are you, Peter?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good,” he said, unwrapping the bundle. He removed the deck and spread it facedown in a fan across the table. “There’s nothing dangerous about these cards. They’re just pictures on paper, after all. They only show us what Spirit needs us to know.” The blue-patterned backs were worn and faded. He folded his hands. “Please touch just one of the cards. The card that calls to you the most.”
I did my best to make it seem like I was struggling with the choice, tentatively hovering my hand until I finally brought my finger to rest on one of the cards. “This one,” I said.
“Slide it toward you, but don’t turn it up yet,” Enoch said.
I did as I was instructed. This was annoying. Twelve-hundred dollars for a fucking tarot card reading? Where was the spirit of my dead wife? Was he going to read my palm next, or run his hands along the bumps in my scalp?
He seemed to sense my frustration. “Let’s just leave it there for now.” He sat back and put his hands in his lap. “So, Peter, shall we see who will come through for you?”
I nodded. Now we were getting somewhere.
Enoch closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was almost as if he had fallen asleep. After a minute or so he lifted his head, and when his eyes opened it was as if someone else had stepped into his body. He seemed like a different person. An amazing act, all conveyed with subtle yet powerful alterations of his expression. I’d watched the transition before in dozens of videos, but it was shocking in person. When he spoke, his voice had also changed, slightly higher and monotone. “Peter, I see a woman behind you. She has short brown hair. She’s happy now, but she says she was very sick when she passed on. The sickness was in her bones.” His stare was unnerving.
“Yes. My wife, Kelly.” I nodded excitedly. “What is she saying?”
“She says she misses you, but she is always watching over you. And she forgives you for forgetting your anniversary.”
Bingo—a detail straight from a Facebook post I made five months ago. A moving, but made-up, memory of forgetting our 15th anniversary. Complete with weeping emoticon. I put my head in my hands and surreptitiously rubbed both eyes with my right finger, which I had earlier coated with a dab of menthol. The tears came quickly. “Tell her I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
“She’s smiling. She understa
nds. She says you were always forgetting things. Like when you left the stove on and almost burned the house down, or when you forgot to pick her up at the train station in Baltimore.” Enoch reached beneath the table. “Here are some tissues.” I took a tissue, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. “Thank you,” I said.
He looked past me. The ruse was brilliant—his mannerisms and acting were so sincere I was almost convinced he was talking to a dead woman behind me. “She says it made her happy that you left her flowers on her grave on her birthday. You remembered how much she loved sunflowers. That made up for everything you forgot.”
More hits. He was digging his own grave with every bogus revelation. This was gold. Every bit of it had been created in the editorial office meeting during the planning stage. I was waiting for him to hit on the miscarriage.
“She’s holding out a baby to you. A little boy.”
I put my head in my hands again. For a moment I thought I might laugh and blow the whole thing. Instead I took a deep, dramatic breath and whispered Kelly’s name through blurred eyes.
“She says he looks just like you now,” Enoch continued. “He’s going to grow up just fine here. He has your eyes, Peter. He watches you and learns from you. He wants to grow up to be just like you.”
Again I fought back laughter. This was too good. I could already taste the sweetness of the takedown when this inane conversation was made public. We had him screwed to the wall—reciting verbatim the fictional Peter Meyers chronology. So much for his spirit guides. I could just let him unspool for the rest of the session because we already had enough to end his era on the celebrity psychic throne.
And then he laughed. His eyes lost their faraway glaze and sparkled as he first chuckled, then burst into full-bore laughter.
I wiped at my eyes with the wadded tissue. “What is it?” He was pounding the table with his fists now. “Did Kelly say something funny?”
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 34