Free Blackwater Lights by Michael M. Hughes Page B

see that you are looking for something, Ray Simon: the Truth. And I believe we can help you find the answers you seek.”
    Ray stood, slowly. Blood rushed to his head. This was all too much. Had coming here been a mistake? Had he given himself away? He wasn’t sure. But he knew if he stayed Micah would draw the truth out of him. And he wasn’t ready for that, especially if Micah had been involved with the camp. “Thank you, Micah. I’ll come see you again.”
    The old man stood and nodded. “We’d love to have you join us. Next Sunday. Eight A.M . sharp. We might be small in number, but our voices carry high and loud.”
    Ray shook his hand. The old man held on. He brought his left hand and cupped it over Ray’s.
    “Remember, Ray, we are all drawn to the Truth—every last soul. Follow that Truth and you’ll open doors that once were locked. They’ll open wide for you.”
    Ray drove away, wondering if maybe some doors were meant to stay shut.

Chapter Nine
    Lily wasn’t in the Purple Burro or Frank’s, so he headed back to Sara’s Book and Candle Shop. Sara sat behind the counter reading a book about Kabbalah. Another subject as arcane to him as flower arrangement or playing the cello.
    “Hello again,” Sara said. She had a friendly face.
    Ray nodded.
    “Half-price Tarot readings today,” she said. “If you’re interested.”
    “No, thanks,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. He’d had enough backwoods voodoo for the time being. Although he didn’t believe in telling fortunes with cards, it still made him uneasy. What if the Death card came up, as it surely must, just like the ace of spades, by the laws of probability? Would he drop dead days later, like when a witch doctor pointed a skeletonfinger at someone and they died just from the belief that it really would kill them? He’d pass.
    She smiled. “How about a cup of tea?”
    Ray hesitated. He was dreadfully thirsty. “Sure.”
    The old woman turned toward a hot water dispenser, put some loose tea into a tiny silver tea ball, and dropped the tea ball in a mug. Ray smiled at the neon blue running shoes poking from beneath her batik hippie dress.
    She handed him the cup. Her fingers were bony and age-spotted. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair next to a table covered in black velvet.
    He stared, perplexed. But she stood, unwavering, one hand holding a mug and another beckoning toward a plastic folding chair.
    He sat. The old woman grabbed a wooden box off a shelf on the wall and sat down across from him. She opened up the box and pulled out a rectangular black silk bundle and unwrapped it reverently. Her cards. She dropped the yellowed stack on the table. “Shuffle them.”
    She looked so friendly and earnest that he couldn’t say no. He picked the cards up and shuffled. The cards were bigger than playing cards, worn, and stained. He awkwardly put the stack down when he was done.
    “Are you left- or right-handed?” she asked.
    “Right,” Ray said.
    She pointed to his left hand. “Cut them,” she said.
    He did as she asked. Sara picked up the stack and placed it in front of her. Her eyes closed. She breathed deeply and sighed. “You’re a stranger here.”
    “Yes,” Ray said slowly. As if that weren’t painfully obvious.
    She turned over a card. Death.
    Of course. What else would it be?
    She looked closely at him. “It’s not what you think.”
    Ray snickered. “Well, I’ll bet it doesn’t mean I’m going to win the lottery.”
    Her knobby middle finger tapped the card. “Death is not physical death—death of the body. Look at the picture.” She sipped her tea.
    A skeleton in black armor rode on a white horse. Below the rider, trampled underfoot, was a king, his crown upside down in the dirt. In front of the rider stood a priest in yellow robes and a large hat, reaching out in supplication, as if begging Death to pass him by. A womanfainted in front of the skeletal horseman, while a dark-haired child holding