Prologue
Loss; Chaos; Destruction
Harry Larson turned into the rough dirt clearing that surrounded the old Cheyenne water tower. He drove in a wide, slow arc, facing the car in the direction he had come. He wanted to be ready to leave in a hurry.
The headlights shone through the rust-covered legs of the tower, casting an eerie shadow like a huge, misshapen spider waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting victim. Harry turned off the lights and killed the engine.
Darkness enveloped him. There was no moon tonight. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Harry strained to hear a noise. The roar of a motor, perhaps, or the crunch of tires. But there was nothing; not a sound.
At last he was able to discern vague objects: the silent water tower humped above him. The withered stalks of a November cornfield on one side of the tower. The nameless, leaning tombstones of an ancient cemetery on the other.
There was a shape in the far corner of the lot. A bulky shape, boxy and squat. It was a car. How long had it been sitting there? Harry squinted, trying to see better. He thought he could make out a dark figure sitting on the hood. His heart thumped in his chest.
He chuckled nervously, running his hands through his thinning brown hair. His errand was serious, no doubt of that; but he was letting the overgrown cemetery influence him too much. Next, he'd have the figure flapping a monstrous set of bat wings and flying off into the night. Ridiculous.
He opened the car door. The cold North Dakota wind rushed in and surrounded him. He got out and slammed the door to try to retain some of the heat. His eyes never leaving the still figure, he walked away from his car, his cocoon of safety, into the overgrown back corner of the lot.
The figure watched Harry approach but made no move to meet him halfway. It waited for him to come close.
Harry was within fifteen feet now. Twelve. Ten. He could still turn and walk away; run, if he had to. He didn't have to go through with it. If he didn't say anything, no one else would ever find out.
He thought of Janet. Sweet wife. What would she think of him if she knew? Would she want him to close his eyes, to pretend he didn't see what was happening right under his nose? Would she put personal safety above integrity? Then there was Laura. When she grew up, would she be ashamed to discover that her Daddy was a coward?
Harry squared his shoulders. He would do what he had set out to do. He would stop the thing before anyone got hurt.
The figure was in front of him now. Having decided his course, Harry plunged in.
"I know what you've been up to. I know all about it. Did you really think I wouldn't find out? You didn't cover your tracks very well."
The figure grimaced. "You have more intelligence than I gave you credit for, I admit."
"You can't believe you'll get away with it. If I found out, then other people will, too. Sooner or later you'll be stopped."
"I don't think so." The voice was thick with conceit. "I have--as the saying goes-- friends in high places."
"Do you think they'll go out on a limb for you? Jeopardize themselves, their careers, to protect you?"
"Yes. They have to. They're in no position to do otherwise. I have certain...information about them. Information that could be very embarrassing, to say the least, if it were to come out."
"I see." Harry rubbed his hands together in the frigid night air, stalling for time. "That still leaves me. You can't possibly have anything incriminating on me, and I don't intend to back down."
There was a short silence. "We're both reasonable people," the figure said at last. "I can make it worth your while to keep this quiet. Think of all the things you could do for your family with a large 'bonus.' You'll find I'm very generous with my friends."
Harry waved his hand. "No deal. You can't buy my silence."
The dark figure clenched its fists, raising them to chest level. "Then you give me no choice. I won't let you stop me. Do you hear? You can't stop me!"
"Oh, can't I?" Harry shook his head in disgust. "I never should have agreed to meet you out here. When you asked me this afternoon to meet you here, I hoped you'd had a change of heart, and I was willing to support you. I would have stood by you all the way. Obviously, I was wrong. I've been a fool."
He turned away and started back toward his own car. The night air was crisp in his nostrils; a light snow was beginning to fall. Though disappointed at the outcome, he felt shaky with relief that the ordeal was over.
He heard a sudden, furtive noise behind him. Harry jumped, started to turn. Before he could see the source of the sound, face his foe, he felt a crushing blow on the back of his head. A million hot sparks exploded behind his eyes as he sank down toward the cold, hard ground. By the time he reached it, everything went dark.
For a moment, the quiet night air was full of unwonted sound. Heavy footsteps. Muffled rustling. The jingle of keys. A car door slammed; tires spun. Then a chilling stillness settled over the tiny dirt plot and its silent occupant.
Chapter 1
A Friend Will Seek Advice
Lottie Baldwin turned with a sigh from her bedroom window with its monotonous view of gray skies and swirling flakes. She stopped to inspect her reflection in the full- length mirror at the end of the upstairs hall. She had placed the mirror there so she could view herself from a distance, as well as up close. Some days she was pleased with her expressive gray eyes and well-proportioned figure. That was a sure sign the day's events would be favorable. On other days, her unruly blonde curls or short stature annoyed her. She had learned to take life easy on those days; there was bound to be trouble.
She scrutinized her image. The ankle-length, flowing caftan, covered with bold fuschia flowers, was one of her favorites. Today it appeared gaudy, cheap. The heavy white sweater she had pulled on over the caftan to keep out the November chill had a loose, baggy air. Her eyes matched the leaden, overcast skies, while her riotous curls hinted at no firsthand knowledge of a comb. She sighed and turned away. Today was shaping up to be a
doozy.
Lottie knew from experience there was little she could do to avert whatever unpleasant events the day brought. The best thing she could do was wait, and try to roll with the punches.
She walked gingerly down the narrow, steep stairs, promising herself for the hundredth time to have a handrail put in, and turned into the kitchen. She rinsed the teakettle, then filled it and set it on the stove to boil. Tea had soothing properties; it seemed she would need them today.
Opening the cupboard above the sink, she inspected what amounted to a miniature tea shop. Brightly colored boxes and cans tumbled over each other, competing for a front row position. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled out a yellow and black box of chamomile tea. Chamomile wasn't her favorite, but it never failed to calm her.
The box was almost empty; she'd have to order more from the tea shop in New York. Lottie knew that the most she could expect from the only grocery store in Cheyenne, North Dakota was ordinary black pekoe. Ordinary didn't suit Lottie at all.
The teakettle was shrilling now. She rinsed her mug with a little hot water, poured more over the filled tea ball. She let it steep for five minutes, then pulled the ball out and discarded the soggy leaves. It was a dreadful waste, but there was no help for it; reading tea leaves had never been her
fortÈ.
Setting her mug on the dining room table, Lottie retrieved her Tarot cards from their velvet bag in her desk drawer. She might not be able to avert the day's events, but there was no reason she couldn't use the powers she possessed to prepare herself for what those events might be.
Pausing for an occasional sip, she shuffled the cards to remove any trace of influence from the last reading. She placed her significator, the card that represented herself, in the center. Then she dealt the cards into a five-pointed star pattern she had devised. She found the pattern excellent for revealing the day's general happenings.
The Queen of Pentacles appeared first. That could mean one of several people, but the most likely candidate was Janet Larson. Janet was a close friend of Lottie's; the only female friend she had, in fact, in Cheyenne. Lottie had met Janet while waiting tables in a cafeteria at the college Janet attended in Brooklyn, and they had struck up an instant friendship. Two years after graduation, when a serious affair of Lottie's had died, she felt she needed a change of scene. Never one to do things by half-measure, she packed up her belongings and moved to Cheyenne where Janet warmly welcomed her.
Most of the townspeople were turned off by Lottie's flamboyant charm. She was an oddity in the small farming community. If her personality were the only unusual thing about her, she might have won eventual acceptance. But almost everyone viewed her psychic powers with disbelief, disapproval, or outright fear. Many people sought her prophecies under cover of storm or night, but no one came openly. A "fortune teller" was more than Cheyenne could handle. From time to time she was forced to give art lessons or do taxes to stay solvent.
The Hermit surfaced beside Janet's card. A friend would seek advice and counsel from Lottie. That had to be Janet. The only other person in town who was more than civil to Lottie was Harlan Erikson, and he was sure he knew it all. Though he was willing to take her love and affection, he wouldn't ask for her advice. Like the seekers of late- night predictions, Harlan only took advice that was veiled in shadowy suggestion.
Next she turned up the King of Swords. Analytical, logical, and incorruptible, the card suited Harlan perfectly. He would play an important role in the events to come.
Trying to elicit more information about the advice-seeking friend, Lottie turned up the Ten of Swords. Treachery; a stab in the back. Was Janet in danger from someone? Or perhaps Janet's husband Harry, or their daughter Laura? The idea seemed ludicrous, yet Lottie had learned to trust her interpretation of the cards. Most often it was correct.
The final card she revealed was the Three of Swords. It foretold heartbreak, betrayal, perhaps death. Now she was becoming alarmed. Janet was willowy and frail, and it appeared she was in for a very rough time. What the problem would be, Lottie couldn't determine. But it was obvious that Janet would turn to her for help, and she had to be prepared.
Lottie gulped down the rest of her tea. She gathered up her cards, shuffled them, and replaced them in the black bag. She took her mug to the kitchen and rinsed it out, then put a full kettle of water on to boil. Having a whole potful of chamomile tea on hand wouldn't hurt.
She didn't have long to wait and wonder. The doorbell rang once, twice in close succession. As Lottie walked to the door it rang a third time.
"I'm coming, Janet," she called. She reached the wooden kitchen door, opened it, then pushed open the storm door. "Come in."
Janet's cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, but the rest of her complexion was pale as porcelain. She wore a green wool coat that matched her eyes. It wasn't buttoned, as if she'd left in a hurry, and the front of her pink sweater and long, denim-clad legs were freckled with snowflakes. Her short, dark hair also had a covering of white. It disappeared when she stepped into the warm room, leaving drops that glittered like tiny stars under the kitchen light.
"How did you know it was me?" Janet asked her as she pulled off her coat and shook it, scattering moisture all over the floor. "Never mind. You always know."
She dropped her coat and grasped Lottie's hands, clutching them with a strength Lottie never knew she possessed. "You always seem to know things other people don't. That's why I came; I need your help, Lottie. Will you help me?"
Lottie smiled stiffly through the pain in her hands. "Of course I'll help you, Janet. You know that. What are friends for?"
The throbbing in her hands abated as Janet's grip slackened. Janet sighed and her thin shoulders slumped. "Thanks, Lottie. I knew I could count on you."
Lottie retrieved Janet's coat and hung it on a hook next to the door, then steered her friend to the living room. "Sit down," she urged.
"I can't sit. I'm too nervous to sit." Janet paced back and forth like a pendulum on Lottie's orange shag rug, wringing her hands.
"Look, I know something is bothering you. You always twist your hands like that when you're upset. Why don't you tell me about it? The quicker you get it out in the open, the sooner we can deal with it."
"I'm afraid it won't be that easy." Janet shook her head. "I don't even know why I came. I doubt you can help."
"Go ahead and talk about it, anyway," Lottie encouraged. "Maybe there's something I can do. If not, at least you'll get it off your chest."
Janet turned to face her at last. "It's not me; it's Harry. I'm afraid he's in some kind of trouble. Serious trouble.
"Lottie--Harry went out last night, and he never came home."
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Illustrations from the Fatal Fortune Tarot DeckÆ, known also as the Lottie Baldwin Tarot and the Fortune Tarot, reproduced by permission of Ariana Overton, Collinsville, IL 62234, USA. Copyright ©2003 by Ariana Overton. Further reproduction prohibited.
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