Allegories of the Tarot

by Ribken, Annetta

  “But I never did that. How do you know I worked in a casino?” Juanita tried to pull her hand from the other woman’s grip, and stand, but her legs wouldn’t work and her hand held fast. A car traveling northbound purred by; she briefly thought of hailing it, but what would she say?

  “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.

  “eeping Woma?” King squinted at me, unhappy with the little bit of nothing clue to his son’s whereabouts.

  “It was part of a word. I could see other letters, but the angle was wrong.” I took out a cigarette, but my hands shook too bad to light it. King lit it for me, staring into my eyes. His eyes held almost as much emotion as a lizard’s.

  “Might know where that’s at.” The owner of the hoarse voice approached the table. The name on his vest was Trench Coat. I didn’t want to think about how he got it.

  “Oh yeah?” King acknolwedged Trench Coat with a disinterested nod.

  “I grew up in Bandera. Used to be a place right outside the county line called Weeping Woman Creek. Nothing out there back then. We’d go to drink and party.”

  “This makes sense.” Corman leaned across the table. “They were headed west, gonna take Justice to see Ashley’s mom.” He grabbed a faded, stained map off the table and traced a route with one freckled finger. “Her mom lives in Edwards County. Right here.” He tapped the map. “See? They’d have gone that way.”

  “That’s Holy Roller Country.” Trench Coat probably hadn’t seen his dick in years if his huge belly was any indication. “Think those sumbitches got ‘em?”

  That inspired a low rumble throughout the room.

  “So where is Weeping Woman Creek?” Corman had more finesse than his father, but his tone of voice indicated his patience was headed the way of the dinosaur.

  “Right here.” Trench Coat pointed one dirty finger at the map.

  “My boy’s dead?” King narrowed his eyes and pinned me with his arctic stare.

  I closed my eyes. “Probably. They either hit him or shot him in the head. If you ain’t heard from him in ten days…”

  “We’ll go there,” Corman said. “Find Justice. Maybe Ashley. See what those fucking Holy Rollers had to do with this.”

  I sagged with relief, grateful to see this little job done and me no worse for the wear. I turned to Wade, expecting to see his grin, to see him standing, ready to take me out of here. Instead, he hunched over the table, holding his beer in both hands.

  “She needs more clothes if we’re riding that far. Dry ones.”

  I could have cried. Defeated, I sat at the table tracing the names carved into it while the men looked for clothes.

  I found myself wearing a pair of assless leather pants over my jeans
, a dry t-shirt scented with cheap men’s cologne, and a beat up denim button down shirt. Wade found a woman’s leather jacket and told me I’d want it after dark, especially if it rained.

  “I don’t understand why I have to go.” I didn’t want to ride motorcycles all the way to the Hill Country in the gray rain. Especially not with the Six Gun Revolutionaries. I wanted to be at my grandmother’s house, exchanging pornographic text messages with my boring cop boyfriend. Guilt for running off with Wade ate at me. If something happened to me, what would my grandmother do?

  “Because you ain’t finished finding Isaac and his family yet. And you ain’t figured out who’s responsible.” Wade stuffed the leather jacket into his fiberglass saddlebag. He looked up from his task and winced at the expression on my face. He put his hand on my arm. “I’m sorry about this. But there’s nothing I can do that won’t make things worse. And I couldn’t blow them off. Please try to understand.”

  “How’d you get involved with them?” I leaned close to him and pitched my voice low. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Met Corman in Iraq. Became friends. We saved each other’s asses a few times. Got home, my girl had married another guy, and there wasn’t much to ground me to civilian life. I got in trouble.” He watched me. “Corman and King got me out of it. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” I knew about that kind of trouble.

  Wade leaned in close. I noticed, for the first time, his black beard had threads of gray running through it.

  “I’ll make you a promise,” he said in a near whisper, his breath tickling my face. “You will get out of this alive. Or we’ll both be dead because they’ll have to kill me first. You’re the first real friend outside these dudes I’ve had in a long time, and I will take care of you.”

  There was nothing else to say. Wade threw his leg over his big two-wheeler. I climbed on behind him. Around us, more Six Gun Revolutionaries mounted their bikes. Several other members loaded a white paneled van nearly hidden at clubhouse’s edge.