A False Dawn

ELEVEN

As I drove slowly through the fish camp, I tried to match any one of the trailers or cabins with Billie. They all looked pretty much the same. A 1950’s feel. Sagging trailers with aged aluminum the tint of potato peels. The wooden cabins were painted in varied shades of army green. Most had screen doors. All had tin roofs.

A middle-aged woman stood next to a vintage trailer and watered flowers that looked plastic. A sign in her patch of green yard read: Psychic Readings by Rev. Jane.

I stopped and stepped out of the Jeep. Her head didn’t turn, but I could tell she was watching me. Her hair was swept back, covered by a strawberry-colored scarf. She wore a smock-like dress, dark blue with the images of yellow owls on it. I stepped closer. Her skin was alabaster white with tiny blue spider veins just below the surface on her forehead. Wide emerald green eyes masked detachment.

A breeze picked up across the river, and wind chimes began tinkling. The chimes hung like holiday ornaments from the lower branches of the oak.

She waited for me to speak. “Do you live here?”

“Two years now. Moved up from a spiritualist’s camp in Cassadaga.”

Her voice was beyond flat. It was more distant than the moon.

“Saw your sign. Thought you might have some information. I need—”

She held up one hand. “I know why you’re here. You want something.”

“Good guess. Let me guess, you’re Reverend Jane, right?” She nodded and watered a sunflower the size of a pie plate.

“It wasn’t a guess. You want something. Everybody who comes here does.”

“And what do you want, Reverend Jane?” She ignored me, turning to water her flowers. “Sure, I’d like some information.”

Her colorless lips pursed for a brief moment. “Come inside.”

I looked toward Max, who watched without a bark. Not a good sign for Max.

“Maybe I can just ask you a couple of questions here in the yard.”

She turned off the water and dropped the hose. “I don’t do readings outside.”

“Not looking for a reading.”

“I know what you’re looking for.”

“Everybody is searching for something.”

“Not everybody is hunting for who you want.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Indian. I don’t work for free.” She turned to go inside. I followed her through a curtain of beads into a dark room illuminated by three burning candles. The scent of candles was layered with the odor of cigarette smoke, cat urine, and incense. We sat at a round wooden table. Tarot cards on its surface. Cup of black liquid to one side.

She looked up at me through eyes the now the color of a fresh-cut lime. “Your dog’s okay where she is. Nobody’s gonna mess with her.” She sipped from the black drink. “Would you like tea?”

“No thanks.”

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s not here?”

“Joe Billie. Isn’t that who you want?”

“I suppose you know the answer to that. Did Carl in the bait shop tip you off?”

“Questions like that don’t bother me. Not anymore.”

“You know who I’m looking for. Where can I find him?”

“He’ll find you. That’s if he wants to. He’s mostly Seminole. Which means he’s mostly found if he wants to be.”

“Does he live at this fish camp?”

“He’s here sometimes. Visits the reservation, too. Where he really lives, even I can’t see that.”

“Where does he stay?”

Her eyes dropped back to mine. “The silver trailer next to the river.”

“Thank you.” I stood to leave.

“That’s twenty dollars.”

As I reached in my back pocket for my wallet, she stared above my head, her eyes narrowing, mouth opening like a baby bird.

“She fears for you,” said the woman, her voice now with a hint of compassion.

“What are you saying? My wife? Sherri?”

“Angela is her name.”

“Ask her who killed her!”

Catlike, the lime-green in the woman’s eyes changed shades, darkening some. Her skin twitched once below her right eye. She was silent.

“What’s her last name? What’s Angela’s last name?”

“I see nothing else.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I’m tired.”

I dropped a twenty-dollar bill down to the table. It landed directly on one of the Tarot cards, covering it. She opened her eyes and looked at the money for a long moment, picking it up and slowly turning over the single card. A red patch appeared on her neck. She continued staring at the card. “Be warned of the three men. He’ll send them first. If you survive, then he will come.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“He wears the mark of the serpents. If you see it the mark…it will be too late.”

“Stop the riddles and cut to the chase.”

“This is not a riddle. It’s a prophecy.” She seemed to breathe for the first time since she sat down. The dark green eyes were now tired eyes.

“Who and what are you talking about? Is it related to the murder of the girl?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see anything now. Whatever I said, it’s up to you to decide if you want to believe it. I need to rest.” She looked away, folded the money, stood up like her body hurt, and slipped through another set of beads.

Angela. Was that the girl’s name? Had she appeared to the woman? All of my training and experience in investigations told me it was phony. Smoke, mirrors, and bullshit. Even in the stale, recycled air, my neck felt hot. The room seemed oppressive and dark as a dungeon. I looked down at the table before leaving. The single card that the woman had turned over depicted an armored skeleton riding a white horse.

At the bottom of the card was one word: DEATH.