IT'S ALL IN THE CARDS

 

            Mrs. O’Meara had been ramblin’ on about the same story for the past ten minutes. I listened to her intently the first time, watchin’ her lips flail around like two pink worms shoutin’ the same phrase: my son’s gone missing, my son is gone! I just sat there sippin’ a cup of joe hot enough to take a layer off my tongue and noddin’ my head as the ferocious black liquid eroded my taste buds. Every now and then I slipped in a few words like “uh huh,” and “yes ma’am,” just to make sure Mrs. O’Meara knew I was payin’ attention. The damn woman kept goin’ till her lungs deflated.

From what I gathered, her precious little Rodney never came home Friday night after work. He’d been burnin’ the midnight oil every day of the week that ended with a Y (except for the occasional Sunday that was reserved for the Big Man upstairs) but was stayin’ with his momma until he had enough dough to move out.

Understandably, Mrs. O’Meara had a panic attack on Saturday when she woke up to an empty house. She called all of Rodney’s friends and co-workers to ascertain his whereabouts and then had an even bigger panic attack when she realized her son hadn’t reached out to anybody durin’ the night. The paranoia only escalated when Monday reared its ugly head and he still hadn’t come home.

She described her son as lanky with a lopsided gait. Pale as pre-packaged cookie dough with eyes bluer than the Democratic Donkey, always carryin’ an expression shrewd enough to turn even the most innocent onlooker to stone. From that description alone he sounded like a druggie to me, but I bit my coffee-singed tongue. It ain’t my place to make indolent remarks like that to a frantic momma.

“You promise you’ll look for him?” Mrs. O’Meara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

“Of course.” I nodded. 

“Really? Cause I know what you must think. I can tell by that glazed-over look you got on ya. You’re probably thinkin,’ get a load of this one. This nutty woman, whinin’ and cryin’ over her twenty-four year old son like he’s a little schoolboy. But I promise that something here ain’t right. It ain’t like Rodney to go AWOL. His phone was goin’ straight to voicemail and now it don’t even ring. Just promise me you’ll do something.”

I tapped the chintzy metal of my sheriff badge. “With all due respect, I don’t wear this thing for nothin, ma’am. I’ll sniff around as soon as I get the chance. Scout’s honor.”

“Alright,” She said hesitantly. “You got all my notes?”

“I got all your notes.”

Mrs. O’Meara seemed content with my flimsy promise and stood up swiftly to leave, the cadence of her movements makin’ her blubber jiggle like water in a plastic bag. I watched her hobble away into the unforgiving Nebraskan sun before turnin’ to the jumble of chicken-scratch I scribbled on my notepad.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I wasn’t used to actual detective work. In a small town like Norfolk, the biggest blunder of the year was some poor slob gettin’ their windshield shishkabobed by an elk or an evangelical cult preachin’ nonsense on a soapbox. Solvin’ crimes may have been part of the job description, but at this point it was out of my wheelhouse.

 A weighted sigh escaped me then, my hot breath tricklin’ down the front of my shirt collar.

 I sure had a lot of work to do.

________

First order of business was scopin’ out Rodney’s place of employment. The cops on TV shows always went to the last place their victims were seen alive so I figured it’d be best to do the same.

 Turns out Mr. O’Meara spent his nine-to-five cooped up in a miserable Wonder-bread cubicle workin’ for some hoity-toity lawyer named Wayne Wallburg. Rodney and a bunch of other law-school dropouts were slaves to the company mailroom, constantly typin’ up a bunch of legal gobbledygook and deliverin’ letters to employees higher up on the corporate ladder. If this job was the reason he ran away, I sure as hell couldn’t blame him.

His co-workers-- all whiter than a pack of Saltine crackers and dumber than doorknobs-- were completely useless to the investigation. They either didn’t care enough to remember what Rodney was up to or were too braindead to recall even the slightest detail from Friday afternoon. The biggest break I got was from his desk partner Corey who mentioned that Rodney joined a new church last month. Some place called House of Purpose.

Mr. Wallburg, despite his distaste for people snoopin’ around his practice, was kind enough to hand over security footage from Friday night so I could at least get a look at the bugger myself. I sat in the company maintenance room with my eyes fixed on a tiny black-and-white screen for almost an hour, watchin’ the individual particles dance around like monochromatic grains of sand. What I saw almost bored me to tears.

As expected, Rodney milled around the office like it was business as usual and took off in his dingy pickup truck at 5:13. He parked slightly too far away for me to make out his license plate number, but far as I was concerned, catchin’ a glimpse at the beast he drove was just as helpful. I couldn’t recall a single pickup in town that was the same obnoxious lime-green color as Mr. O’Meara’s. A man had to have serious balls to drive a truck like that.

With only one lead and enough caffeine to launch me to the moon, I finally scurried out of Mr. Wallberg’s hair before he kicked me out himself. He looked like the type of guy to glue his toupee to the top of his head cause he’d rather get a skin infection than be caught goin’ bald. And those types of people were scary.

Knowin’ I probably wasn’t welcomed back, I piled into my rusted Wrangler and careened onto the freeway. 

_________

Second stop of the day was Rodney’s new church. The rickety white steeple looked horrifically out of place next to the lofty Norfolk apartments, its shingled roof crooked like a row of oblong teeth. This place may have been called House of Purpose, but to me the only purpose it served was bein’ an eyesore to passersbys. 

My tires screeched against the asphalt and I buried my boots into the unkempt grass of the walkway. Would it really kill ‘em to mow the lawn every now and then? Havin’ such an overgrown mess out front made the whole place look like a zombie apocalypse refuge. I avoided the weeds that threatened to tickle my shins and yanked on the weathered front doors.

Sealed tight like a virgin. I waited as a series of clicks and locks erupted from inside before revealin’ the gnarled face of a lady too young to be sportin’ so many wrinkles. She placed a spindly hand on one of the deadbolts.

Aren’t churches supposed to be open establishments? I thought to myself. Why the hell does this place have the Davinci Code cryptex on its front doors? 

“Can I help you, sir?” The woman spoke with a churlish tongue and wrapped her fingers ‘round her pendulum hips. “We’re about to start a mass.”

“Name’s Duke Baxter, Norfolk sheriff.” I tipped my hat courteously. “Real nice place ya got here. Love the gargoyles up at the front. Anyways, I was just wonderin’ if you happened to see this man come by anytime after Friday night. Maybe he stopped by for a Sunday service?” I produced Rodney’s fuzzy mug from my pocket and shoved the flyer in the woman’s face. “His momma said he’s a regular churchgoer here.”

The woman leaned in close to the paper, almost close enough to give Rodney a peck on the lips. I could practically see the smoke billowin’ out of her curlicue head.

“Yeah, that’s Rod O’Meara. Real nice kid. Now that you mention it, I reckon the last time I saw him was on Sunday. Came by for mass then left straight after. Seemed kinda jumpy if you ask me.”

A small crowd began to gather behind Little Miss Muffet. There were fifteen of ‘em at least, hoverin’ in the background like paper lanterns, wrappin’ their formless bodies in the dark of the church. Ghoulish, only eyes visible. 

“Any other questions or will that be all? Like I said, I have a mass to start.” 

I shifted my weight from side to side, suddenly put off by so many peepers lookin’ straight at me.  What kinda mass was held in the dark? Everythin’ about this was raisin’ red flags.

“Can you recall if Rodney mentioned leavin’ town?” I asked. “Or did he say anything out of the ordinary? Anythin’ that might strike you as odd?”

“Nope.” The woman snapped back. “Not to my knowledge. He was acting fairly normal.”

“But you just said he seemed jumpy.”

“Well... I don’t know!” She began to stammer. “You can’t just ask me about some random kid I saw two days ago and expect me to recall specific details. I have a whole church to run. I see lots of faces every day.”

I wagged a wary finger with disdain. “Hold on there, ma’am. You just called him a random kid. I thought Rodney was a member here. Shouldn’t you be able to distinguish the members from drifters?”

“Yes, but like I said, there’s a lot of people who come for service. Rodney’s new and I didn’t really know him that well.” The woman countered. There was a long pause while she exhaled, probably tryin’ to pacify her rattled nerves. Eventually she piped up one more time and said: “The boy came for mass and left right after. That’s all I know. Hand to God.”

I let the words settle in the cracks of my brain. “If you say so,” I replied.

Miss Muffet suddenly reached for the door handles to lock her posse back into the dungeon but I wasn’t done with my interrogation just yet. I leaned against the wooden entryway to prevent her from slammin’ the door on my face. I knew if it were up to that woman I’d be kissin’ a set of wizened oak planks and bein’ formally ushered back to my car.

A bulbous vein began to sprout above Miss Muffet’s eyebrow the longer I stood there in the entryway, stiff and still as a dead fish. The splinters of the aged wood jabbed my forearm like porcupine needles but I grinned the pain away.

“I sincerely apologize for keepin’ you from your mass, but I just have one final question to ask.” I felt a wooden thorn draw blood. “From my understandin,’ aren’t churches supposed to be a welcomin’ sort of thing? Jesus walkin’ up to ya with open arms and all that jazz. You know, love thy neighbor and whatnot. If that’s the case, why are you so eager to shut me out? I ain’t posin’ any harm. Just askin’ some simple questions is all.” 

The woman glanced back at her entourage, almost as if she was lookin’ for guidance. Someone to feed her a script. “It’s nothing personal sir.” She finally said. “Like I said, we have a private mass starting right about now… you just happened to come at a bad time. Sorry ‘bout the lack of hospitality. It’s nothing personal, really.”

The crowd shuffled uneasily. I counted ‘em all up as fast as my eyes could manage, scrutinizin’ each one like little amoebas under a microscope. Twenty people in total to occupy fifty empty pews? Things were gettin’ more bizarre by the minute, but I clearly wasn’t gonna get anywhere with this woman’s defensive disposition. This investigation was best left up to another day. Hopefully one with a warrant.

Before I said farewell, my eyes lingered on a strange scar branded into the chest of a man with a beard like powdered steel wool. The open collar of his shirt teased a mess of rouge lines in his otherwise porcelain skin. As much as I wanted to stare, he flashed me a disapprovin’ scowl almost immediately and forced my gaze elsewhere. I could have sworn the man’s frown lines were deep enough to hide quarters.

“Alright then. I guess that’ll be all for now.” I offered the group a candy-apple smile and winked at Miss Muffet through my sunglasses. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. Have a bless-ed day.”

________

“I just don’t know.” I told my wife later that night. “The whole vibe of that church didn’t sit right with me. I think they know more about Rodney then they were lettin’ on. All of ‘em were congregatin’ at the doors like a high school clique, not even sayin’ a word. Real secretive. Real quiet. One of ‘em even had a creepy-lookin’ scar.”

“A scar?” Darlene’s brows raised with curiosity. “What’d it look like?”

I slipped the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder and used my finger to trace along the milky canvas beneath, surfacin’ goosebumps with each tender stroke. I outlined the strange markings of the bearded man’s scar on her chest to the best of my ability.

“Somethin’ like that.” I concluded. Darlene stared at me point-blank. “What is it?”

“Do that again, Duke. Draw it again.” I did what I was told and repeated the motion. “That looks like the number four to me. In Roman numerals.”

I pondered this for a moment. “Could be. Gettin’ a number tatted in Roman numerals is pretty common these days. Maybe this guy was too poor to afford the ink so he scratched it in himself. You know how broke some Norfolk people are.”

“It makes me think of tarot cards.” Darlene added thoughtfully. “Number four is The Emperor in the Major Arcana.”

“Come on, now.” I laughed to myself. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch? You’re the only person I know who’d see Roman numbers and automatically jump to something like that.”

Darlene shrugged. “I don’t know, Duke! I’m just spitballing.” 

The mention of tarot cards took me back to ‘98, back when Darlene was a professional fortune teller. She gave me what looked like a hexed-up load of crock when I came to her carnival booth askin’ for my future one night. Two of swords this, six of suns that. As much as I thought her way with the cards was nothin’ but highway robbery, I found myself comin’ back the next night to talk to her. And the night after that. God only knows how much cash I threw away at her booth.

Despite connin’ me out of my savings, I was drawn in to her warm doe-eyes, rich like cake batter and beggin’ me to go beyond a hello. We flirted all summer that way: me tryin’ to find another vague question to ask about my future and her leanin’ intentionally close to tell me about her findings. I suppose it only made sense for her to place some sorta spiritual meaning to an inscrutable scar on an old man’s body. As much as I loved my wife, sometimes she’d do anything to make connections to her past no matter how disjointed the clues were. 

“What are you going to do next?” Darlene’s mellifluous voice suddenly tore me from my daydream.

“I don’t know.” I admitted. “The whole thing gave me the heebie-jeebies, but without any clues Mrs. O’Meara is gonna start naggin’ me for updates. I think I oughta go back to the church tomorrow. Undercover.”

“Undercover?”

“Yeah. And it best be me ‘cause I don’t trust Trey or Al to do the job right. They haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

“How would you manage that?” Darlene asked incredulously.

“Well the church didn’t see much of me since I had my hat and sunglasses on. I figure I could shave off the ‘stache, wear different clothes, and style my hair real proper. I’ll be a whole new man. I can even drop my voice a few octaves for good measure.”

“Oh, honey.” Darlene reached across the bed and kissed my face gingerly. I felt the ghost of her affection quickly grow cold, the June breeze fixin’ the remnants of her wet smooch as it drifted through the open window. She nestled her face in the crook of my neck and said: “You sure that’ll work?”

“Positive. Those people are dimwits, and like I said, most of ‘em didn’t even get a good look at me. It’s only the leader I got to worry about.”

Darlene simply clucked her tongue with discontent. “Just be careful, okay?”

________

 It was reachin’ that point in the year where all the summer days began to slip into one another seamlessly. The afternoons melted into nebulous nights like a sweaty ice cream cone cryin’ into your hands and before I knew it the week was over. Friday escaped me quietly and Saturday was just a fleeting blink of the eye. Before I knew it it was time for Sunday mass at the House of Purpose. 

I checked all the mental boxes for my undercover getup. Fresh haircut and dye job? Check. Shaved-off stache? Check. My trusty Colt hidden in the back of my belt? Also check. Drivin’ Darlene’s car instead of my own was the finishin’ touch to make myself look as foreign as possible.

Beads of perspiration crowned the nape of my neck as I trudged through the familiar verdant pathway, noddin’ my head to the twin gargoyles guardin’ the front door that was now wide open.

The expired air entered my lungs like poison, layers of dust kicked up from the shuffle of feet amongst the pews. Not knowin’ the proper church protocol, I sheepishly dunked my fingers in the birdbath upfront and signed a waterlogged cross onto my forehead.

The turnout was quaint, maybe forty people at best. There was a sea of unadulterated conversation and benevolent faces that made the cruel steeple from last week feel almost normal. Jodie, did you hear? Kaden proposed to his girl last night! A woman in the back exclaimed. A real nice ring he got, too. You shoulda seen Sierra’s face. Them two are gonna make adorable babies!

I sidled myself in the back and stayed zip-lipped till the priest took the podium.

 To my surprise, the mass itself was also suspiciously average. Generic Jesus mumbo-jumbo, butchered Bible quotes, and at the end of the service, a generous distribution of the blandest wafers I’ve ever tasted. I was about ready to spit out the communion when Little Miss Muffet appeared behind me like the Holy Ghost itself.

“Why, hello there!” She greeted me with an artificial candor, blithely unaware of my true identity. “Thank you for showing up to our mass today. I noticed you’re new so I wanted to introduce myself. My name is Mitzy. I’m the orchestrator here.”

I cleared the spit in my throat and channeled a guttural tenor. “Nice to meet you, Mitzy. I just moved into the neighborhood and I was looking to get acquainted with a parish as soon as possible. I tried the other church on South Street but it wasn’t really what I was looking for. This place seems really nice though. Love the atmosphere.”

“That’s great to hear!” Mitzy exclaimed. It was astoundin’ how starkly different her attitude was compared to my first visit. Either she truly did have somethin’ to hide or she just had a deep-seated hatred for cops. Either way, I was intrigued by her peculiar volte-face.

“Are there any extracurriculars around here?” I probed. “Choir, Bible studies, maybe? I was really involved in my church back home and I’d like to keep that up if you don’t mind. My faith is really important to me.”

Mitzy smiled wide. “Well I appreciate your interest. Where was your last parish located?”

“Chicago.” I lied. “Wife and I moved down south for a fresh start.”

“Amazing! Would you give me a moment to discuss things with my colleagues?” 

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Mitzy promptly scuttled away and melded with a cluster of about twenty people hangin’ by the altar. Her muffled whispers were too far away to discern, but even from a distance I was able to spot that disgruntled old man from last week. His face was concealed by the same raincloud beard and his hollow sockets held the beadiest set of eyes I ever did see. And then there was that scar, those jagged lines embedded in his chest... 

IV. Number four.

“Well!” All of a sudden Mitzy was trottin’ back over to me with the power of Christ in her step. “You’re in luck because we just so happen to be looking for the twelfth member of our church group! Been looking for a while actually. Any interest, uh…?”
“Max.” I said brusquely. “Name’s Max Smith.”

“Any interest, Max?”

“Oh, absolutely. It sounds fantastic, but… there’s already twenty of you here. How could you possibly be looking for member number twelve?”

“Well, we wanted an intimate group of twenty one. Each one of us is designed to have a special role in the church, and we just can’t quite find someone fit for position number twelve.” The damn woman unsheathed her serpentine smile, not even missin’ a beat. “But we all agreed that you have potential to be the perfect fit for our missing slot. I saw you reading from the hymn book during mass. You look like a real go-getter. If you’re not busy, you can come back tomorrow at noon for an interview of sorts. Whaddya say?”
I stuck my hand out for a hefty shake, strugglin’ to maintain my jaunty facade for even a second longer. “I say count me in.”

And then it happened. The split-second still of what I saw next would haunt me for the rest of the day and into the night.

Mitzy, her figure handsomely veiled in a white ruffled blouse made of fabric stiffer than rigor-mortis, stepped forward in response to my handshake. As her arm began to creep further away from her shirt sleeve, I spotted an uncanny mark hidden close to her shoulder. There, cradled by the folds of starched polyester was a set of twin X’s carved into her forearm. Faded lines like two treasure markers on the map of her body, not much bigger than the size of a coin. I gulped like a parched man.

XX. Number twenty.

________

“You were right,” I admitted to Darlene over dinner. “About that weird scar on the old man. The leader of the church got the same shit on her skin but with a different number. A double X branded right into her arm, plain as day. Twenty.” I paused to stuff my face with mashed potatoes. “You know, they asked me to be a member of their church today. I have to come back tomorrow for some sort of interview.”

“Oh, Duke. The longer you talk the more I’m starting to think you’re joining a cult instead of a church.” Darlene warned. “What kind of people just invite a random guy to join without a background check?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing. I ain’t scarrin’ myself like that. No sir, I am not an animal. I’d do anything for this job but that’s pushin’ it.”

“This sounds really dangerous, sweetie.” Darlene grabbed for my hand across the dinner table and squeezed tight, her dainty fingers interlockin’ with mine, her perfect knuckles round and smooth as marble. I squeezed back reassuringly and rubbed my thumb in the crook of her wrist in slow, rhythmic motions.

“I’ll be okay.”
“ I just don’t like the sound of this woman.” She continued. “And the fact that Rodney went missing after going to mass at that same church last week? I don’t like it one bit. Why don’t you ask for help on the investigation? Having backup could be useful if things go awry.”

“No way,” I parried. “I’m lucky I slipped under that woman’s radar to begin with. There were a few times I thought she might’ve seen through my disguise. Bringin’ in other people would just raise more suspicion. I gotta do this alone.”

“Fine.” Darlene’s voice dripped with reluctance. “But whatever happens tomorrow, just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I promise, baby. I promise.”

I caught my wife’s eyes to affirm this with her, to let her know I really meant it. Those sober snowglobe eyes, so pretty and wide with admiration. I kept this image fresh in the back of my mind the next mornin’ as I trudged through the thick brush of the steeple courtyard again, Colt tucked away quietly inside the back of my pants.

________

I rapped on the warped doors with apprehension. Mitzy emerged moments later with her horrid smile, all neat and plastered like it was some sort of sticker she kept over a petulant frown. The harsh rays of the mornin’ light turned her aquiline nose into a sundial, castin’ an awfully brutal shadow on the left side of her face. She glared with one eye plunged into darkness and beckoned me inside.

“How are you doing today, Max? You ready?”

I laughed briskly. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Everyone here is really excited for this, you know. For our number twelve. We had someone try out the role on Friday, but unfortunately it didn’t work out.”

“And why’s that?” I dared to ask.

“He just wasn’t the right fit. Kid wasn’t cut out for the job.”

“Kid?” I questioned. “He was a kid?”

“Well I use that word liberally. Not a real kid, maybe twenty-two years old, twenty-four if I’m being generous. Here, take a set on this pew.”

The rest of the clan circled around me almost immediately. Their eyes were like laser beams-- X-rays even-- each one burnin’ through my skin and into my bones with their red-hot stares. I felt the urge to cover up and groped at my flannel to hide my nipples that weren’t even exposed to begin with.

“Here you go, dear.” Mitzy handed me a plastic cup. “Thought you might want some water before we start. Some people get nervous before initiation.”

“Thank you.” I accepted graciously. “Wait a minute, did you say initiation? I thought this was going to be an interview.”

“Truth be told, we did a little digging on you after mass yesterday.” She threw me an impish wink. “Didn’t wanna admit it, but I might as well be frank. I figured it’d be easier to skip the interview process and just look up your records online.”

I chuckled nervously. “And what’d you find?”

“A clean past. Squeaky clean, actually. No criminal record, good credit score. You really are a standout citizen, Mister Max Smith.”

I suddenly felt the walls close in on me and I couldn’t tell if my body was gettin’ bigger or the church was gettin’ smaller. I felt like Alice in the White Rabbit’s house. I hardly knew my left from my right and my feet were smashin’ through the windows and my head was poppin’ through the roof like a jack-in-the-box and I was spinnin’ round and round. Was it Alice in the Rabbit’s house or Alice in the glass bottle? Or was it when she was fallin’ through the tunnel at the start of the movie? I was spinnin’ so fast I could’ve sworn Mitzy laced my water but I hadn’t even taken a sip.

How could she possibly research my name if Max Smith wasn’t a real person? Either she had been playin’ along with my ruse this whole time or there was miraculously someone in town that perfectly fit the description of my pseudonym. By that grin on her face, she had to have known from the very beginning. She had to. The bitch was makin’ a fool out of me and callin’ my bluff to prove she wasn’t as stupid as I thought she was. 

“Mind if I hit the poop deck real fast?” I knew I needed to stand up and run but I was afraid I’d be too woozy to take a step.

“Sure thing. Mark will show you where the restrooms are.”
A squat man with a rectangular face stepped forward. He awkwardly bumped into my backside and pressed his hand to my shoulder to regain his balance.

“Sorry, I’m a bit clumsy.” He confessed.

“Quite alright.” I choked out.

Mark waddled off towards the back of the church with my sloppy self in tow. I brushed past the altar, past the pews, and followed him into a comically large door under Jesus’s feet. Peekin’ out from his shirt collar was the engraving of yet another set of Roman numerals.

XXI. Number twenty one.

“Here you go.” He muttered.

“Thank you sir.”

“We’ll be waiting at the front. Come out when you’re ready.”

As soon as his quadrate head disappeared into the prayer room, I reached for the Colt in my pants but was met with the terrifying squish of my ass. Somehow, someway, that little devil managed to pluck the gun from my belt when he stumbled into my back.

That was no accident. I thought to myself. They’re all in on it, each and every one of ‘em...

I was now on a mission to find a makeshift weapon no matter how small, all the while reelin’ at the thought of the church’s dirty secrets. I knew somethin’ was wrong the moment I stepped foot on the property, the moment I was judged by those silent gargoyles. I felt it in my gut, with every cell in my body... I felt it eat away at my insides like a black disease. Malignant like acid, I felt it inside me.

I rummaged through the bathroom cabinets with tremblin’ fingers, shoving everythin’ aside in a panicked frenzy. Toilet paper flew to the floor like party streamers, soap pumps crashed below like fireworks.

“Come on, come on, you motherfucker.” I cursed under my breath. I didn’t even know what I was searchin’ for but I knew I was runnin’ out of time. I flew to the storage room with cheeks flushed like a smacked bottom, my whole face searin’ hot with a fever of fright. My body slunk through the city of cardboard boxes piled up to the sky, hopin’ to find a boxcutter or even a pair of scissors. All the while I felt the fear grab hold of my stomach, twistin’ me up like taffy in a candy factory.

And then I saw his feet. A pair of dingy loafers stickin’ up straight, the body attached to them stashed away under a mountain of cardboard.

Trepidation was a demon in my blood as I tore away the boxes, revealin’ the grim face of a dead man. Inch-thick brows, button nose, matted brown hair curled up on the floor… I gasped. This was Rodney O’Meara, supine and lifeless before my very eyes.

“Shit!”

The longer I stared, the more ravenous that thing inside me became. It was a monster, grabbin’ hold of my lungs, pumpin’ em full of molasses fear-- thick, dense, and unescapable. I gasped for oxygen all alone in that back room, inhalin’ rancid dust in the dim light. It took all my willpower to get a closer look at Rodney’s pallid body.

 Purple blotches painted his fragile neck in what appeared to be a hanging, the spots of indigo dye seepin’ through the layers of his skin like busted grapes. All the while I just stood there paralyzed, thinkin’ of Darlene and her chocolate-brown eyes. I promised her I’d be safe, I promised her...

“Everything alright?” Mitzy’s voice sent me flyin’ through the roof.

“Fine and dandy, ma’am!” I cried.

“Whatcha doing back here? Got lost on your way to the restroom?”

I nodded, still stupefied. “Yep. You got me.”

“Happens all the time, I’m afraid. Come on, the folks are waiting for you up front.” She led me back to the prayer room and handed me that damned glass of water again. “Alright. Here’s your card, Max. Whenever you’re ready we’ll step into the confession room and get started.”

Mitzy placed a small plastic card in my palms like a priest dishin’ out bread. I twirled it around with my forefinger and thumb, fingers twitchin’ like a kid high on candy. As the card turned over in my hands I spotted the face of an upside-down man crucified on a tree branch with his hands hangin’ at his sides. I gulped hard. Finally it all made sense.

Tarot card number twelve. The Hanged Man.