Allegories of the Tarot (14 page)

“You never should have done it at all, you know, but
those were small wheels.
Cards—small things.
That’s
all right or, at least, I can let it pass. These things you do now, these are
greater things. This is the greater wheel. That’s not all right. I can’t let
that pass.”

Juanita’s heart froze. “How did you find out? Did
someone send you?”

“No, no. I come here for myself.” The woman looked past
her, and Juanita followed her gaze. The northbound car had stopped at the other
end of the bridge, an expensive car like the ones on the dealership rooftop
below. The driver got out and left the car running. Bad luck blackened the air
around him, mingling with the exhaust. “You can’t keep pouring luck like wine
from cup to cup to cup,” said the woman.

“You have to let me go, I have to stop him.” Juanita
struggled as the man walked to the railing near the far bench. She struggled as
his hands flexed on the thick concrete railing. “You don’t have to do this,”
she cried out. “I can help you, I care—“

He threw one leg over the railing, then the other, and
was gone. He’d never even looked her way.

Juanita staggered a few steps toward the still-purring
luxury car before she realized she could move. “Did you ever think why so many
more people come here now you live nearby?” said the woman.

“You’re saying I caused this? You’re cruel enough to
stop me from helping someone and then you have the nerve to say I caused this?”
Juanita stared at the car, at the space where the man had been; sirens already
wailed in the distance.

The woman walked up and took her shaking hands, turning
her away from the empty car. “Not cause, so much. You just had your finger on
the Wheel for too long. The number goes
up,
the number
goes down, except when you interfere. I think perhaps it’s time your finger can
touch it no more. What do you think?”

Juanita stood stunned as if she’d had the wind knocked
out of her. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, no. I can’t do that to you. But maybe you
can/should/or will let me take this back from you. What do you think?”

“I don’t even know how I got it,” said Juanita. “Do you?”
The woman shrugged. Juanita glanced down Jefferson Street toward the MAX
station; a small knot of commuters waited on the platform. The train would be
late, but that’s not why they huddled together facing the bridge. She looked
back at the woman. “If you take this from me, will people stop coming up here?”

The woman shook her head. “I think people will come up
here. They have since they could come up here.
But maybe not
so many.
Or you could keep your finger on the Wheel and move away. But
if you do, I think you’ll keep doing this somewhere else. And I think I’ll have
to come again.”

Juanita almost asked the woman who she was. “So what
happens to me if you take it?”

“You go on as you have; you just don’t get to change
people’s luck any more. I’ll say this: you have honor. You never put your
finger on the Wheel for yourself. Doing it for yourself, that’s not fair, you
know.”

“Life isn’t fair,” said Juanita automatically.

“Ah,” said the woman, patting Juanita’s hands. “You
understand.”

***

MeiLin Miranda writes Victorianesque fantasy and science
fiction from her 130-year-old house in Portland, Oregon. Her love of all things
19th century (except for the pesky parts like cholera, child labor, slavery and
no rights for women) has consumed her since childhood, when she fell in a stack
of Louisa May Alcott and never got up.

MeiLin has been a professional writer for most of the
last 35 years, focusing on nonfiction until a cardiac arrest and near death
experience in 2006 convinced her she'd better get moving if she meant to write
fiction.

You can find MeiLin at
meilinmiranda.com

***

JUSTICE

Justice

By Catie Rhodes

The Harley’s roar drowned out all other sounds, and the
rain drove into my face, stinging like needles. I ducked behind Wade Hill’s
massive back. That position treated me to yellow lines racing underneath my
cowboy boots. My imagination supplied images of what the blazing asphalt could
do to my skin. I forced my eyes back up just in time to see the
eighteen-wheeler bearing down on us.

Not even slowing, it changed lanes and sped past. A gust
of backdraft—wind and water—slammed into us, shoving us toward the gravelly
shoulder where doom awaited. I sucked in my breath and tightened my knees
around Wade’s hips. He showed no reaction other than tightening his fists on
the ridiculously high handlebars.

When the struggle ended, he half-turned and yelled over
his shoulder, “You all right back there?”

“Yes,” I screamed, getting a mouthful of rain. The yes
was a lie. I didn’t like driving my old Chevy Nova in the rain. I loathed
riding on this death machine in the midst of a late summer downpour.

“Good. Almost there.”

That gave me no comfort. The mystery surrounding this
journey had me on edge. I wanted to help Wade. In our short relationship, he’d
been on hand every time I needed him. But this involved the Six Gun
Revolutionaries, Wade’s friends and sometime employers. I didn’t see how much
good could come of involving
myself
in their business.
Sounded like a good way to get mashed flat.

Without warning, Wade whipped off the four-lane highway
and down a blacktop side road. We traveled down that road until it dead-ended
at a cattle guard and electronic gate. Wade punched in some numbers, and the
gate slowly opened.

We rode down a concrete road into a grove of pines and
stopped at another gate and cattle guard. This one had no keypad. Wade punched
a button.

“Mojo Rider?” The voice was twangy cracker country. “You
got her?”

“You see her on the security cam, don’t you?” Wade’s
deep voice rumbled against my chest where our bodies touched. Remembering my
boyfriend, a cop who’d have a conniption fit if he knew where I was, I scooted
back. Dean would skin me alive if he ever found out I came out here. Then, he’d
want to know everything I saw and heard. Only one solution existed: I could
never tell him.
Stupid and dishonest.
That’s me.

We rolled down a concrete driveway ending in a huge
parking lot in front of a long, low, cinderblock building. The building didn’t
match the fancy concrete roadways, but the couple dozen motorcycles sitting out
front explained them just fine. Whatever I’d expected on my first visit to the
Six Gun Revolutionaries Motorcycle Club headquarters, this wasn’t it.

Wade got off the motorcycle and helped me dismount. The
big bike was made for a six-foot-six man, not a five-foot-nothing girl. My lips
itched to ask Wade what I’d agreed to, why he said he needed my help as a
friend, but the question stuck in my throat.

The battered black door of the clubhouse opened, and a
grizzled, gray haired man stepped out and strode toward us, his braid slapping
one tattooed arm. His gray eyes chilled me until I stood shivering in the warm
summer rain. Shoving past me, he clapped Wade on the shoulder.

“Mr. Mojo Rider.” The man’s overly loud, rough voice
reminded me of power tools with sharp edges. The two men did that thing where
they sort of shake hands and sort of hug. Finally, he turned those horrible
eyes back on me. “This is Peri Jean Mace?”

Wade nodded, put one hand on my back and said, “Peri,
this is King Tolliver, President of the Six Guns and the person who invited you
here today.”

“Mr. Tolliver.” I winced at the high, nervous pitch of
my voice and held out my trembling hand. Tolliver snorted. He took my hand,
gave it a limp pump, and dropped it. Tolliver met Wade’s eyes, and something
passed between the two men.

“You can trust her.” Wade nodded. “I’ll vouch for her.”

My skin tightened, and I glanced at Wade, looking for a
joke or a smile. He gave me neither.

“Get her inside.” Tolliver turned and walked away.

Apprehension tightening my throat, I allowed Wade to
lead me into the dark maw of the Six Gun Revolutionary clubhouse. The rumble of
conversation stopped as two dozen eyes settled on us. The figures half-hidden
in shadows and clouds of cigarette smoke were not the smiling lawyers and
accountants who rolled into Gaslight City on their shiny Hogs with their new
leather and their high-limit credit cards. These guys were the real deal.

Why the hell was I here again? Oh, yeah. I agreed to
come because Wade once saved my grandmother’s and my life. Helping him, if he
said he needed it, was my duty as a friend. But being here brought back every
rumor I ever heard about these guys.
Outlaws, highwaymen,
murderers, and, sometimes, philanthropists.
One question stayed. What
could they want with me?

King strutted to the room’s center, holding four
long-necked beer bottles. I didn’t drink, but I figured this wasn’t the time to
announce that. Wade led me to the table, and I accepted the beer King Tolliver
handed me. He motioned for us to sit like a nobleman bestowing favor. A man
about Wade’s age joined us, clapping Wade on the back as he sat. Wade smiled a
real smile.

“Peri, this is Corman Tolliver, my best friend and
King’s oldest son.
Me
and Corman met in the sand.”

“He means Iraq.” Corman’s straight white teeth and sun-damaged,
heavily freckled skin gave him a rugged sexiness. His open shirt and perfectly
combed goatee suggested he played it to the hilt.
“Marines.
Both of us.”

King cleared his throat.

“Reason you’re here today is my younger son, Isaac, his
wife, and my grandson are missing. We’d like to use your gift to find them.”
King pushed his cell phone across the table. A picture of a shaggy haired man,
a tattooed woman, and a grinning baby dominated the home screen.

“I’d love to help you.” I paused for sincerity and to
remind myself not to smile in relief. “But I can only see dead people.”

“
They been
gone ten days.” King
didn’t hesitate. “Isaac would-a called me by now.”

What he didn’t say hung in the silence. King thought his
family dead, and he wanted answers. My grandmother, the only family I had, was
dying of terminal cancer. I sympathized, but I still wanted to get away from
this situation.

“Thing is, this doesn’t work like those TV psychics. I
can’t just call a ghost to me, especially not someone I don’t know.” I glanced
at Wade for help. He pressed his lips together. Oh boy.

“Peri, when I helped you last November, I was working
for the Six Guns. Remember me telling you about that?” Wade’s dark eyes held
none of their usual mirth.

I swallowed hard and nodded. Dread settled over me, and
I slumped in my chair.

“It’s like this, Peri.” Corman lit up a cigarette and
gave me a grin that probably removed girls’ pants all by itself. Too effing bad
I wasn’t buying. “Since Wade was working for us, we technically helped you out
that night. And now we want you to help us. Understand?”

There was no acceptable answer but yes, so I said it. On
cue, a guy with more body hair than a Pomeranian set a box of toys and clothes
in front of me. The clunk it made on the table sounded like a gavel falling in
a courtroom. Feeling eyes on me, I glanced up to see King watching. The light
in his scary eyes danced. He loved this.

“One of them TV shows about psychic mediums said y’all
can sometimes see the other side when you got the victims’ belongings.” King
pulled a ruined pair of men’s jeans from the box and tossed them into my lap.

I stared down at the ripped and stained material,
fingering one of the holes.

“So where is he?” A hoarse voice called from the
darkness.

“I’ve never done this before,” I said. “Just give me a
few seconds.”

I expected to hear more catcalls, but the silence was
worse. It slipped over my skin like a too-heavy coat, growing heavier with each
second. I closed my eyes, trying to shake off the pressure, begging my mind to
concentrate. And something spooky happened.

The room around me drifted away. The vision took me to a
tree-lined roadside and into someone else’s body. The jolt of unfamiliar
thoughts, emotions, and someone else’s aches and pains fueled my fear. My new and
improved ability scared me every time it manifested itself in a different way.
I concentrated on the sounds and smells, begging my mind to adjust so I could
finish the task.

I willed my body to relax, counting down my inhales and
exhales, and the vision took over my mind.
Wind.
Water running.
Birds chirping.
And the smell of something sharp and chemical.
The man whose
jeans I held and whose head I inhabited knelt on a bridge, looking into some
clear water running over white rocks. I slipped into Isaac’s mind, moaning as
his emotions merged with mine.

Fear and worry. Mostly worry. A baby cried in the
background. It was the source of the worry. Isaac feared what would happen to
the baby, but he accepted his death. Legs surrounded him, hands held him
against the concrete guardrail. Through the legs, I saw part of a long, green
sign, the kind marking a creek or river. “
eeping
Woma”
Something bright exploded behind my eyes, and I jerked back into my body.

The room’s silence was different now, worse. It was shocked.

“Wow. She looked like she was havin’ some kinda fit.”
This from yet another voice.

King’s head snapped up, and he pointed a finger into the
crowed. “Shut up.
Now.”
He turned his dead eyes on me,
turning his rough voice into a soft croon. “What did you see, baby?”

I cringed at the pet name coming from this man and told
him exactly what I saw, describing the words on the sign with as much care as
possible.