Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  I glanced around the room, heart racing, stomach threatening. Overwhelmed with shock and disbelief, nausea threatened to send me racing for the toilet. This can’t be happening. It’s just not possible. And yet, I rushed to blame myself because the alternative was unacceptable.

  It was noon when I made the discovery—and the clock was ticking. My options were few with just one hour to go, so I went with the obvious, option number one: I cried in frustration, burying my face into the hotel pillow, bunching the bedspread in my hands as I sobbed hysterically, “Why me? Why? Why is it always me?”

  I was such a wimp. Frightened and horribly embarrassed. I would have to cancel my session.

  What could I say? I have a headache? I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport? There’s been a death in the family? I guess none of it was far from the truth since I felt sick and wanted to die.

  “What am I supposed to do, God? If I really am doing your work, then why is this happening to me?” A whispered prayer of desperation tumbled from my mouth.

  Have faith, Sunny. God whispered to my heart. I will give you words and I will give you strength.

  The prayer led to option number two: I called Duncan, still in tears.

  “My computer is crashing,” I cried. What else could it be?

  “Let’s hope it’s just a fender bender.” Duncan tried to sooth my fears as best he could. “Stay strong, sweetheart.”

  I asked if there was a backup copy at work. There wasn’t, but Duncan had an idea. He called back five minutes later to say that he had located a copy of my outline and would fax it to me at the hotel’s business center. I called the front desk and they said that business center was located “outside the lobby, just across the valet parking ramp, beneath the palm tree with the Christmas lights, down the hall, third door to your right.” I had twenty minutes to go.

  I slammed the lid shut on my laptop, shoved it across the desk, and threw my briefcase across the room. I would have thrown the laptop with it, but I was angry, not stupid. I hadn’t put in all of those hours, all that work, and all my hopes to quit now!

  Divine insight arrived in a second heavenly message. This one from my dad, admonishing me to Toughen up, baby girl.

  I slipped into my running shoes and jogged to the business center, kicking myself all the way while Serena’s words reverberated in my head. “Is your church praying for you?” Quickly, I whipped my cell out of my pocket and speed-dialed Serena’s number.

  “Serena? Start praying!”

  I decided I would rather be a fool for God than a trophy for the Devil. Nothing mattered now except that I show up and give it my best shot. Truth be told, I supposed that is all God ever asks from any of us.

  The Bible arms us with a sword of truth. It was time to draw my rusty blade. Heart knocking, pulse-pounding, not a minute to spare, walked into the conference room like I knew what I was doing, stunned to see every seat filled and the walls lined with overflow. Standing-room only—and barely any of that was left. People wanted to hear about ritual abuse.

  A person once told me that the definition of a great speaker is someone whose computer crashes and is forced to wing it. So I opened with the truth—apologizing for technological malfunctions—then winged it. I guess I passed the test. At the end of three long hours, with a ten-minute break given to attendees to either use the bathroom or make a graceful permanent exit, people returned, still standing along the walls and asking questions.

  That afternoon, I ordered a sandwich and a bottle of wine up to my room. The reviews had been copied and I casually picked them up at the hotel’s business office with an air of nonchalance, as if they weren’t the most important thing in the world at that moment.

  Back in my room, I prayed. “Dear Lord, please bless this food and tell me I wasn’t a complete idiot.” Opened the wine, poured a glass, and started at the top of the pile.

  From a New York VIP: “I gave the speaker one star only because there were no minus stars to choose from. I am shocked that NOVA has lowered the bar on its standards of excellence to allow for theatrics. This speaker should be blacklisted from public speaking.”

  Tears brimmed. I scrunched my face, refusing to blink and let them fall.

  Next. From the New Yorker’s female counterpart in Philadelphia: “I found this speaker to be highly unprofessional, whose cases in point read like a cheap tabloid in a checkout line. This speaker should be removed from law enforcement and barred from public speaking.”

  My expression fell, the restrained tears fell, and the papers spiraled on white wings as they dropped to the floor. I lay back on the bed and searched the ceiling for answers—longing to crawl back to a simpler time.

  The sharp smell of gasoline filled the bathhouse. I pulled the choke. One-two-three yanks on the little Briggs and Stratton. The engine fired up with the familiar throb that signaled laundry day. A green garden hose connected to the faucet mounted over the claw-foot bathtub and arched up into the tub of the Maytag wringer washing machine.

  I smiled, happy with the latest upgrades. The claw-foot bathtub that Starla had acquired from a thrift store was so deep that I could sink my entire body under the water—at least until later years when I was pregnant. Then my belly had looked like an island popping up in the middle of a lake. On-demand hot water was a miracle—no more building a fire under the redwood Japanese bath and I could wash the family clothes in hot water.

  I pulled the lever to On, and the beaters were as steady as a heartbeat as they swished the dirty clothes back and forth. And in some ways maybe the washing machine really was the heartbeat of the cabin. There were always dirty clothes to wash, and the sound filled the empty spaces. The only other sounds were me calling Frito, who liked to play keep-away with the dirty socks; an occasional urgent high-pitched squawk of a hen as she labored to deliver an egg; and the shifting of the wind as it rustled through the trees.

  Lefty had replaced the old wringer on-off switch with a bulbous foot-powered air pedal after reading about a woman whose hair got caught in the wringers. He didn’t want me scalped with no one home to drive me to a doctor or the funeral parlor.

  Finally, a heavy black hose drained the gray water through a hole in the floor into a drainage ditch that watered the marijuana plants Lefty grew behind the bathhouse. Wash, wring, rinse, wring, repeat.

  I liked laundry day. It gave purpose to my life.

  It felt as though I had spent hours, lost in pleasant memories. I didn’t want to return to the present. I ached for the kind of simplicity that had once given me positive feelings of self-worth. Even my mother liked me when I did the laundry.

  I fought the urge to keep reading the reviews. It seemed like a weird form of self-abuse to continue. Did I really want to beat myself up some more? But then, curiosity is one of my great weaknesses, so I read on, and everything changed.

  Nearly everyone else that attended my workshop thanked me for “bringing this important topic back to the forefront” and saying that it was “long overdue.” I was surprised at the number of people who offered prayerful support. And, of course, they all wished that pictures and handouts had been available. But there were no more hate reviews. Not one. And it seemed more than a coincidence that both hostile reviews had been placed on top of the stack.

  It was a humbling moment—perhaps an epiphany—as I looked at the pile of reviews. When it came to ritual abuse, I had been like most people: unbelieving and uncaring. I had been going through the motions, like faking the big “O” without any real passion. A little care, but no real dedication—just enough to please the boss. I had spent more hours resenting my victims than caring about them.

  I genuinely cared about my domestic violence and rape victims. Having been a victim of both crimes, I could relate to their pain. By contrast, the injuries and stories that accompanied ritual abuse victims tended to feel surreal. Their claims were so far beyond the average person’s comfort zone, they made acts like rape with a foreign object and setting your girlfri
end on fire seem normal by comparison.

  Setting the positive reviews to one side, I slipped the two hostile ones into my back pocket and slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops. The soft slap of shoes echoed down the marble halls that led to the beach.

  The revolving glass door that propelled people out of the hotel was like stepping through Alice’s looking glass into another world—God’s world. Nature has that effect on me. The outdoors is my refuge, my place of peace and healing, and it was good just to stand and breathe. The warm salt air was a balm to my spirit and the rhythm of the waves sang a sweet lullaby to my soul. It is always there, beneath the din of laughing children and adult chatter. One just needs to stand and listen.

  A familiar form was standing in the water. Her sheer white wrap caught in the breeze and looked like angel wings. “You must be ready to tell me what happened today,” said Serena, whose arched eyebrows magnified her oversized sunglasses. We stood side by side in the vast Atlantic Ocean, silent but for the sound of waves that reminded me of the swish of the old wringer washing machine as I allowed the healing water to wash away the stress of the day.

  I told Serena everything about the missing presentation, my desperation, and my petition to the Lord. “Thank you for praying for me,” I said to Serena. “It must’ve worked because I somehow pulled it off without any props. I can hardly believe that people stayed for the duration, especially those poor people standing along the walls.”

  I pulled the two hateful reviews from my pocket and handed them to Serena.

  White-capped clouds swooped across the bright blue sky looking like a flock of gulls in flight. The air cleared my senses, leaving the tang of salt on my tongue, and the sun that warmed my face seemed to brighten my insides as well.

  By contrast, Serena’s look was as dark and deep as the ocean floor as she studied the reviews. “You know they’re here, don’t you?”

  “Who’s here?” I asked.

  “The Satanists. Honey, that’s who wrote these reviews,” she said, shaking them in her hand. “They’re intended to discourage you and keep NOVA from inviting you back.” Serena pulled down her sunglasses, making direct eye contact. “They—the Satanists—come to these conferences. They’re watching you, child, to see what kind of impact you make. Sunny, believe me, they are the ones who deleted the program from your computer.”

  Did she really just say that? It never occurred to me that administrators might actually harbor personal opinions that would include such radical beliefs in this age of political correctness. “I don’t understand,” I said. “How could anyone get in my room? The only time I’d left my room was for a quick breakfast. I wasn’t even gone that long—I had been too nervous to eat. The only other person who came in my room was the maid.”

  Serena looked at me sympathetically. “Oh, child, you don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you?”

  Serena’s comment was deeply disturbing. It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that question. “You want to enlighten me?” I asked, half curious and half defensive.

  “They are the richest and most powerful people in the world,” said Serena. “Have you ever heard of global elitist? Does the word Bilderberg mean anything to you?”

  The wind ruffled my hair as I shook my head. Goose bumps popped up on the back of my arms in spite of the intense heat.

  Serena continued. “The name Bilderberg comes from a little hotel in the Netherlands, where the wealthiest people in the world first gathered over fifty years ago. They came together to determine how they could unite to control our world.” A shadow passed like a dark cloud across her face. She gave a sage nod. “They were highly successful and have continued to meet every year since. They run the world we live in, Sunny. They make and break countries. And they are active Satanists.”

  Shocked and amazed, I did a double take of Serena, shaking my head in wonder. “You? You’re a conspiracy theorist?”

  Serena’s eyes narrowed, and her tone deepened. “No, my dear friend, I am a realist. And you know me better than that,” she scolded. “You don’t have to be a conspiracy theorist to see the truth. That maid was either paid by the cult or is part of one. Either way, she did her job cleaning out your program along with your room.”

  Serena took me gently by the arm, turning both of us to stand face-to-face. “Look at me, Sunny. I’m telling you something, and I want you to hear this and hear it well: never take someone else’s word for anything. Do your homework. Take a hard look at crime bosses and politicians and try to look past their obvious criminal and financial activities. Take a good look at their personal activities and beliefs. You should know who the real enemy is. Power and money are the fuel that keeps hell’s furnace burning.

  CHAPTER 20

  Morning broke—cold and clear, rain-washed bright, filled with the promise of a beautiful day. The promise turned out to be a lie. The day proved to be a disaster.

  Walking into my office humming a little tune from K-LOVE, a popular Christian rock station, I looked up to see a wounded buffalo shambling toward me. Except the buffalo turned out to be Duncan, and Duncan was on crutches with a cast covering most of his right leg.

  “Oh my gosh! Duncan! What happened? Are you okay?” I rushed down the hall of the atrium to meet him as he stumped his way from the elevator and turned into the long corridor.

  Duncan was ghost white, his pursed lips looking like a mouthpiece slashed across the sheet of a child’s Halloween costume as he attempted a weak smile.

  Bonita was the next person to step out of the elevator, taking in the scene before her; she paused to perform damage assessment and control.

  “What the hell happened to you?” asked Bonita.

  “Broke my leg and got a couple of hairline cracks on a few ribs. Nothing prescription painkillers, three hours in surgery, and a half-dozen titanium screws couldn’t fix.” Duncan winced as he tried to joke. “In answer to your question, my dear,” he said, looking at me, “I took the Harley for a spin—or maybe I should say the Harley took me for a spin.”

  “Well, Duncan”—Bonita let her observation roll off of her tongue—“I’ve always suspected you were screwed up. Now I know it’s a fact!” Bonita seemed to be in a jovial mood.

  “Poor Duncan,” I sympathized. “I’m sorry I ever encouraged you to get a motorcycle. I feel responsible, like this is my fault.”

  “Oh, now, Sunny, don’t feel bad.” Duncan reached out to touch me with tender compassion. “I was having a great time before the accident.”

  “You should be home using your sick days,” I said.

  “I used them up when I had food poisoning last month,” said Duncan. “Three days on the toilet.”

  I grimaced. Too much information.

  “Man up, big guy,” said Bonita. “It’s just a broken leg. It’s not like you took a bullet or anything.”

  Bonita turned to me. “How was the conference? You look like you got a tan.”

  “Duncan saved the day. Did he tell you what happened?”

  “Yeah, he told me, and there’s something you might like to hear about your missing presentation.” We talked as we walked toward our offices. “I’ve heard of presentations getting stolen before. I once worked with a guy who had that happen to him. This guy, Marcus, spent almost a year researching and preparing a presentation that had to do with corporate investments, and then it went missing on the morning of his delivery. It showed up about nine months later in Australia being presented by someone else.” Bonita paused in my doorway to shoot me a pointed look. “Not that anyone would want to promote your topic. They would probably just delete it.”

  Chance and I were having dinner together as we Skyped. “I have to agree with Serena and Bonita. Files and evidence have been known to disappear from the sheriff’s office, especially when investigating anything that smacked of ritual abuse. We always suspected that cult members existed inside the department, but it was never something we talked about at briefings.

  “It must�
��ve been pretty scary, knowing that someone came into your room. How are you handling it?”

  “Good days and bad. At first I was really depressed over the two hate reviews, but later on, I thought it was incredible that people actually stood for three hours without a slide show to hear what I had to say. That says something, doesn’t it?”

  “It means everything,” said Chance. “The people were looking for information, not entertainment. They could’ve stayed in their rooms if they wanted that.”

  That sounded right.

  “Several advocates came up afterward to talk with me. One really nice woman told me that she had been raised in Mexico and that the local police found a huge pit full of dead bodies in her village back in the 1980s. It turned out that an old lady and her sons were practicing Santeria, a religion similar to voodoo. They were drug dealers making human sacrifices through ritual killings because they believed it gave them power over rival gangs.” The woman’s story got me thinking.

  “Chance, do you think the drug cartels are run by Satanists?”

  Chance took a sharp intake of breath, then puckered and blew. “Ever heard of La Santa Muerte—the Holy Death? It’s the fastest growing crime cult in Mexico. You could say it’s a newer version of the one that lady told you about, and a lot more intense.”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have heard of it. Dr. Shelton mentioned it when I was in San Jose. He called them ‘Holy Death’ cults.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s right, and the drug lords love it. Their logo is sort of a bad girl version of the Virgin Mary—a skeleton dressed up in the traditional image of Mary, only this one blesses things like rape, prostitution, and crime. People come from all over the country, crawling on the ground in front of the statue, worshiping death. They pile sacrifices on an altar—everything from money to drugs. Pretty amazing stuff. I guess they think it’s their ticket out of hell, not into it.”