The 7th Tarot Card

by Valerie Clay

  Oddly, my porch light, usually burning brightly like a welcoming sentinel in the night, was out. Dark shadows obscured my front door, and I felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of danger in the pit of my stomach. Maybe the bulb burned out while I was away, I reasoned. That’s the nature of bulbs—they burn out. No big deal. Assertively, I unlocked my front door, opened it a crack, and reached my hand inside the entrance. Locating the hall light switch, I quickly flipped it on.

  Nothing.

  I flipped the switch up and down a couple more times, as if that would make a difference, but still nothing. Pushing the door open a bit wider, I took a tenuous step inside and peered into the inky black interior. Even the dim glow from the tiny red lights on my stereo was missing.

  Now, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that it’s never a good idea to walk willy-nilly into a darkened home when you have stalker conditions, so I backed up, then closed and locked the door again. I stood there indecisively, biting my fingernail, debating what to do next. Glancing over at Judah’s brightly lit front porch I pondered whether or not to disturb him. That lasted about five seconds before I was standing in front of his door knocking softly. No response, so I waited a few moments, then tried again, this time a touch more forcefully.

  “Please be home,” I whispered. “Please.” I was just about to give up when his door opened and there he stood in a white polo shirt and faded jeans, looking even better than I remembered.

  “Hi, Judah, I’m so sorry to disturb you. Am I interrupting anything?”

  His greeting was polite, but not friendly. “I was just on my way out, but I guess I have a minute. What’s up?” Was he a little distant, or was that my imagination?

  “It might be nothing,” I began, “but I just got home and all my lights are out. I’m kind of afraid to go into my condo alone. Normally this wouldn’t be any major concern, but I received a strange text message yesterday, so it seems borderline suspicious to me.” He asked me about the message and furrowed his brow as I related it to him.

  After he closed and locked his door we walked over to my door, where he stopped, bent down, and lifted up his right pant leg. To my shock and surprise, he pulled a .38 Smith and Wesson out of an ankle holster.

  I stepped back away from him. “Whoa. You’re wearing a gun?”

  “It’s just a little gun,” he said, smoothing out his jeans.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long, boring story. I’ll tell you all about it sometime over a bottle of wine. Can you unlock the door for me?”

  It may be a long story, I thought, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be boring. Obediently, I unlocked the door, then shoved the keys into the side pocket of my purse and stood aside, making way for him to enter.

  “I don’t suppose you have a flashlight in that giant handbag of yours?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, I do. Here, use this,” I whispered back as I retrieved my keychain and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s my cow flashlight. Just squeeze the button on his belly, and the light shines out of his nose. It’s deceptively bright.”

  He gave me a look, then took the light. “Stay close to me,” he directed, keeping his voice low.

  Gladly, I thought, and grabbed hold of the back of his knit shirt.

  Judah twisted the doorknob slowly, then quietly pushed the door open. He entered the dark, soundless condo, holding the gun in his right hand, the cow in his left. When he pressed the button to activate the flashlight, a loud moooooooooo pierced the silence of the room.

  “Nice,” he said, as he shot me a look. “Where’re the circuit breakers?” Still clenching his shirt, I guided him towards the fuse box in the far hallway, inadvertently stepping on the backs of his shoes a couple of times. He stopped, turned, and patiently suggested I back up a bit, then continued the trek, quickly illuminated each room that we passed. The kitchen, dining area, and living room were all clear. When we reached the fuse box I held the cow light for him as, one by one, he popped the switches back into place and the lights came on.

  I asked, “Doesn’t this seem strange? I’ve been away for two days. How could all of my fuses have blown?”

  “Good question. Why don’t you check out your valuables while I take a look around.” He moved through my condo, searching every room and closet, every door and window. He even looked under the beds. “Anything missing?” he asked when he finished his inspection and joined me in my bedroom.

  “No,” I replied distracted, watching him bend down and return the gun to his ankle holster. I forced myself to focus and continued, “I checked everything of value: my jewelry, my perfume bottle collection, and my emergency cash I keep in the freezer.” Everything seemed to be in order but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was off. “False alarm, I guess.” I took one more look around my bedroom. And that’s when I saw it.

  “Oh, no,” I said as I caught my breath.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “My pillows. My pillows are wrong. When I make my bed, I put the two white pillows on the bottom and the pink satin pillow on top. But look at my bed. The pink pillow is on the bottom.” I froze, staring at the bed as a chill ran down my spine and my mouth went dry. “Should I . . . should I call the police?”

  He gave me a sidelong glance. “And tell them what? That someone broke into your home and rearranged your pillows?”

  “But someone has broken into my home. And they’ve probably been in my bed,” I responded as the disgusting thought hit me with a punch.

  He looked skeptical. “Maybe you left in a hurry and mixed your pillows up. It happens.”

  I turned and looked at him. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m crazy. You think I’m a kook!” I blurted out. My voice climbed an octave with each assertion. A wave of nausea washed over me and I felt paralyzed for a minute. Then hot tears began to well up in my eyes. I fought them valiantly, struggling to maintain my composure. I’ve always considered myself a fairly strong person, and I think I handled the near-death experiences in Vegas pretty well under the circumstances, but come home to a stalker in your bed and it’s a game changer.

  A couple of tears escaped and ran down my cheeks. I swiped at them with the back of my hand. But then, the floodgates broke open and there was no holding back. I began crying uncontrollably. All the stress and aggravation bottled up inside of me for the past few days came gushing out like a sudden eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Sobbing and embarrassed, I ran out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, following me out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.

  “I need a tissue,” I managed to say between sobs. “Thanks for your help. You should go now.”

  “Look, I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said, resting his hand on my quivering shoulder while I blubbered into my crumpled, soggy tissue. His manner was sympathetic, consoling, his voice soft and sexy. “If you think someone moved your pillows, then I believe you. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.” His comforting words finally got to me, and I slowly stopped my sobbing.

  When I reached for another tissue, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and screamed. My mascara had run in black rivulets down my red, swollen face. I looked like Alice Cooper after a long night of binge drinking. I grabbed the nearest towel and threw it over my head, then felt around on the wall for the light switch and flipped it off.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice filled with amused tenderness.

  I cried out from under the towel, “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous.”

  “Don’t be silly, you’re not hideous. You’re beautiful. Come here.” He put his arms around me and pulled me to him. At his touch, I felt a warmth pour over me, seep through me, and my anxiety began to melt away. He held me close, patiently waiting until I stopped shaking, then gently pulled the towel off my head. I buried my mascara-laden face in his clean, white shirt and struggled to regain my composure.

&nbs
p; “There,” he said, “that’s much better. Tomorrow we’ll install a deadbolt lock and decide what to do about this loser, okay?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Okay?” he asked again, more firmly. I mumbled a garbled response into his chest, offering to pay for his inevitable dry cleaning bill, but even I couldn’t understand what I just said. He put two fingers under my chin and gently lifted my face up to his. His mouth was dangerously close to mine and I knew I should turn my head away, but all I wanted at that moment was to feel the touch of his lips, the warmth of his mouth. At first he resisted, hesitating for a moment as if conflicted, then his mouth came down on mine and he kissed me, a long lingering kiss filled with a passion that both surprised and thrilled me. I melted into him and wrapped my arms around his neck, never wanting the moment to end.

  But end, it did, when abruptly, Judah pulled back, apologized and said he had to go. He reminded me that he was next door if I needed him, then left quickly, leaving me confused and off balance.

  What is it with him? What is it with me? Being with him was exciting, and yet unsettling, sort of like watching Jaws. The movie was electrifying, but now I can’t step foot in the ocean. Clearly, he didn’t want to get involved with me. The more I got to know him, the more questions I had.

  I locked the door behind him, then propped a chair up against it, like they do in the movies. There was no way I was going to sleep in my bed tonight, so I grabbed what every girl needs: a blanket, a pillow, and a Taser, then sacked out on the couch. Emotionally and physically spent, I couldn’t even cry. I was all cried out. “How did my life get so out of control?” I asked myself as I stared up at the ceiling. Two days ago I was running from the mob in Vegas. Then I came home to find that a stalker has probably been in my bed, and fifteen minutes ago I was making out in my bathroom with a guy who wears a gun strapped to his leg. And I don’t even know his last name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” —Mark Twain, American author and humorist

  *******

  The next morning began with a hot shower while my coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the kitchen. My showerhead, dialed to the highest pulse setting, pummeled my shoulders and back until the stress finally began to fade way, repairing my nerves and restoring balance. When I finally had enough, I toweled off and splurged with some expensive body butter that I normally saved for special occasions. While I blew dry my hair, I looked in the mirror and pondered my current state of upheaval. The question was, do I become a victim, or do I take charge of my life? I was in serious need of a turnaround plan.

  Anger began to flow through me, and anger is a much more productive feeling than fear. Surprisingly, it can be a useful emotion. Fear paralyzes; anger mobilizes. My determination grew. In the living room, I searched through my CD collection until I found Epiphany: Best of Chaka Khan, popped it into my stereo, and selected “I’m Every Woman.” I cranked up the volume (sorry down there, Steve) sang along with Chaka, and danced into the kitchen. It was time to get in touch with my inner warrior, my inner Charlie’s Angel: strong, lethal if necessary, yet fashionable with great hair.

  As my good friend, Marilyn Monroe, once said, “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” and one thing I knew for sure was that the stalker had to go. And so did Judah. It was all too clear.

  After a power breakfast of eggs, toast, and blueberries, I put on some makeup, slipped into a pair of faded jeans, white tank top, and navy boyfriend jacket, and decided to pay a visit to the police station. The next stop would be a locksmith. But first, I had to take care of Judah.

  I rehearsed what I was going to say over and over in my mind until I felt confident and ready. Here goes—I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, then picked up my cordless phone and dialed Judah’s number. He answered on the second ring and said, “Hi, Victoria.”

  “Hello, Judah,” I said firmly. “This is Victoria.”

  “Right.”

  “Uh . . . I wanted to call and thank you again for helping me with the lights last night, and also to let you know that I won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I realized that I’ve imposed on you long enough. It’s time for me to make some decisions about how to handle this problem on my own, so this morning I’m going to the police station and then to the locksmith. My mind is made up. So, anyway, thanks again for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Well, goodbye then.”

  “Goodbye.”

  That went well, I thought as I hung up the phone. I was firm, yet polite. No emotions involved, just the facts, ma’am. He seemed aloof and distant in his responses, what few there were of them, I reflected. Mr. Cool Cat. Well, two can play at that game.

  No need to carry my rain jacket today I calculated, observing the sunlight streaming through my kitchen window. I went directly for my keys, purse, and Taser then carefully peeked through the peephole to the porch. “All systems are go,” I said out loud to myself as I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. I opened the door, stepped out, looked around, and jumped. Leaning against the stair railing, arms folded nonchalantly across his chest, was Judah, wearing sunglasses, a black T-shirt, jeans, and loafers with no socks. I silently cursed him for looking so good.

  I regained my composure, closed and locked my door. “Excuse me,” I said, cool as an autumn breeze, as I sailed past him, and descended the stairs.

  “So you really think the police are going to take your pillow problem seriously?” he asked. His voice was casual, matter of fact.

  I stopped on the stairs and turned back to face him. “No, but when I tell them about all the other things: the flowers, the phone calls and all, they’ll be persuaded. I can be very convincing when I need to be.”

  “No doubt.”

  While I turned and resumed my descent down the stairs with an exceptionally purposeful stride, he continued, “Of course, you do have another option.”

  I stopped again and turned to him. “Okay, I’ll bite. What could possibly be a better option than going to the police?”

  He slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked over the top of them. “First of all, without any concrete, actionable evidence, the police aren’t going to do anything about a few crank calls and some misplaced pillows. And, if this guy was bold enough to break into your home once, he’ll do it again. Maybe he already has.”

  “Well what do you suggest I do then?” I felt my face flush with agitation. “I can’t afford a bodyguard. What else can I do? Sit in my condo with a camera and wait for him to come back?”

  “Something like that. Do you have a friend, someone you can stay with for a few days?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “I could install a few video cameras in your home. The kind that operate on motion detectors—only come on if someone is in the room. I can have them feed into my laptop, and keep a watch on things for you. If we get any pictures of this guy, you can take them to the police. That way they’ll have solid evidence and hopefully ID this idiot and put him away.”

  “Guns, motion detector video cameras? Who are you?” I asked in exasperation.

  “Someone who might be able to help you,” was all he said.

  I hesitated, feeling my resolve weaken. He had a point and, as crazy as it seemed, I still felt I could trust him. Why was he always so cagy and mysterious? He was like a living, breathing, well-built puzzle. I was going on pure instinct now, since I had nothing else to guide me. Let’s face it, it was a gamble I was willing to take.

  I asked him, “Tell me one thing. Why are you helping me? You must have better things to do with your time.”

  Judah shrugged. “It just so happens I have some availability at the moment, so it’s no big deal. Also, I don’t like scumbags who terrorize women. But hey, if you’d rather do this your way, I understand.” He slid his glasses back into place.

  I tur
ned around and climbed back up the stairs. “You win,” I said when I stopped in front of my door. “What should I do?”

  “Call your friend and make arrangements,” he directed. “I’ll be over in a minute with my gear.”

  Spending the night at someone else’s home wasn’t exactly in my plans, but it sure beat waiting around for the stalker’s next move, and at this point I was willing to do whatever it took to stop this madness. My first call was to Julie, but surprisingly, she announced with unbridled glee that she was packing a bag and heading out to Texas and a tryst with Dakota, her cowboy in shining armor. They’d talked for hours last night on the phone and decided they couldn’t wait a month to see each other again. She actually giggled with excitement as she told me her plans. A giggle coming out of Julie was about as rare as being struck by lightning, so I wasn’t about to rain on her parade with my sad state of affairs. I wished her well and moved on to my next victim, my sister Nikki.

  Nikki J was having a birthday sleepover for her son, Jax. Eleven sugared-up nine-year-old boys running wild all night wasn’t my idea of a calming environment to hide away in while my condo was under psycho-patrol. Not sure why they call it a sleepover when there’s never much sleeping involved.

  By default, Amanda was the lucky winner. She had invited me several times in the past few months to visit her new penthouse, so this was as good a time as any, I supposed, and I had been dying to see it anyway. Plus, she had the strategic benefit of a twenty-four-hour secure lobby entrance with a concierge, on the off chance I was followed. No one can get into her penthouse unless they’ve been announced and granted access.

  I called her and explained that I had a pest problem and an exterminator was coming over, which, if you think about it, was actually true. I just didn’t want to get into the whole camera/stalker thing with her. True to form, she graciously offered to let me stay with her for as long as I needed. She had just finished decorating the guest room, she told me, and wanted my opinion, as if she needed it. Her skillful interior design in her previous home had once landed her a featured spot in Seattle Magazine.