The 7th Tarot Card (19 page)

“
You only have one life. You might as well make it interesting.” —Ted Turner, entrepreneur and yacht racing’s America’s Cup winner

*******

Shortly after Amanda and Carl were pre-boarded, Julie and I gratefully entered the first class cabin on Alaska Airlines Flight 603 and located our seats. We stowed our luggage (shopping bags) in the overhead bins, sleepily pulled plastic wrap off the fresh pillows and blankets placed in our seats, and fastened our safety belts. Wrapped up snuggly in warm blankets, we settled in for the relaxing journey home.

Across the aisle from us and
two rows back sat Amanda. On the seat next to her was Carl, still inside his carrier and securely strapped in by the seatbelt that threaded through specially constructed loops for air travel. Carl always has his own first class seat whenever he flies. He would accept nothing less. Absent from our triumphant, but weary team of warriors were Laini and Mark. They needed to stay one more day in Vegas to wrap up police matters, and were flying back to Seattle in the morning.

Pain-filled
sounds of ooches and ouches spilled out of Julie as she rooted around, trying to find a comfortable position. “I don’t know why I’m so sore today,” she said as she punched her pillow and readjusted it against the window. “I didn’t do that much dancing, and I’m in pretty good shape.”

“
You don’t know why you’re so sore? Really?”

She turned and gave me a look.
“No, Victoria, I don’t.”

“
I’ll tell you why. Perhaps it’s because of the fall you took from the mechanical bull last night. Or maybe it was the second time you got bucked off. I can’t believe you hopped back on it again, and in that dress.”

“
Vic! I did not ride the mechanical bull. You must be thinking of someone else,” she huffed.

“
Oh, it was you all right. To prove it, I’ve got a delightful shot of you on my camera phone upside-down in mid-air, legs flailing. Wanna see it?”

“
You show that to anyone and you’re dead meat.”

“
I’ll just file it away for sometime in the future, when I might need a little leverage.” I smiled wickedly at her and she glared back at me. Knowledge is power.

“
Victoria Morgan, do you understand the concept of mutually assured destruction?”

“
Are you saying you have something on me?”

“
I have many things on you. Remember the potato incident?”

“
You’re bluffing,” I challenged.

“
Try me, sweetcakes.”

“
Jeez you’re crabby when you’re hung-over, Julie.”

“
And, I’m
not
hung-over. I’m just tired and in pain.”

I decided to leave her alone,
opened the new detective novel I’d picked up at the airport newsstand, and began to read. The flight was smooth and steady, the constant drone of the engines, soothing. Still mentally and physically weary from the mob ordeal, we nodded off, waiting for the flight attendant to come by with our warm meals—I mean our microscopic, cold rations.

A
few minor bouts of turbulence jostled me awake, so I took a sip from the plastic cup of ice water sitting on my tray table. Julie looked over at me, repositioned her pillow, then closed her eyes again.

“
You know, Julie,” I began, “this episode in Vegas got me thinking some wild new thoughts.”

“
That’s nice,” she mumbled.

“
In spite of it all—the danger, the lack of sleep, the craziness—you have to admit, it was exhilarating.”

Julie
didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. She just said, “You mean the cowboys were exhilarating. Everything else was scary as hell.”

“
Weren’t they though?” I said, grinning wistfully. “Too bad Bobby has a girlfriend back home. But you and I make a pretty good team, don’t you think?”

 
”I guess,” she said, eyes still closed.

“
Call me crazy,” I continued, “but I’ve been doing some reflecting on the events of the past few days and I have a proposition for you. What if we went into business together? Opened our own private detective agency? This was our first case and we saved two lives and helped apprehend a dangerous fugitive. Not bad work for two neophytes, wouldn’t you say? Imagine how fabulous we’d be with some training under our belts.”

 
Julie sat straight up in her seat and looked at me. “You’re not serious? We almost died. Twice.”

“
Let’s not dwell on that.”

She shook her head and said,
“If the threat of death is not enough of a deterrent for you, there are a thousand other arguments as to why this is a bad idea.”

“
Okay, give me three good reasons why we shouldn’t try something new, become entrepreneurs, take a chance.”

“
Oh, I don’t know . . . safety, stability, sanity come to mind,” she said.

“
Well if you’re going to speak in ‘S’ words, how about ‘short,’ as in ‘Life is Short.’ We would only take on low-key, safe investigations—a little surveillance work here and there—nothing risky. I’m bored to tears with my job. I need a career change, and you’ve been considering early retirement. This would give you something interesting to do. Look how heroic you were under pressure; how you kicked that gun right out of Lenny’s hand and took down that whack job, Crystal. You were nothing less than amazing.”

 
”Well, that was just years of training, but it did go fairly well didn’t it?” she said, trying hard to suppress a smile. “But seriously, Victoria, for two women to run a successful detective agency, they’d have to be a couple of hardcore, badass chicks.”

“
I know. That’s totally us, don’t you think? But in a nice way.”

She
responded with a blank stare, so, feeling like I was making inroads, I pressed on, “Imagine if you will, a red brick, storefront office. The sign on the door says: Morgan and Thompson, Private Investigators.” I made a sweeping flourish with my hands.

“
How about Thompson and Morgan?”

I grinned.
“So, you think it’s a good idea?”

“
I think it’s a terrible idea. However, I’ll admit it does sound somewhat interesting, in an insane, self-destructive sort of way. But then there’s Dakota to consider. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“
That’s all I ask,” I said as I reclined my seat, closed my eyes, and smiled. I went back to my plotting as visions of a new career danced through my head.

~

The wheels of the Boeing 737 squealed as we lightly touched down, arriving back in Seattle, safe and sound. I leaned across Julie and gazed through the window at the enveloping dusk as we taxied to the terminal, and for the first time in a long time, really appreciated the beauty of the tall evergreen trees as they gently swayed back and forth in the early evening breeze. Never had it felt so good to be coming home. A misty rain falling from silver-lined clouds softly spritzed against the window, but instead of feeling gloomy it felt comforting, like putting on a pair of favorite old sweats. It was the kind of moody evening where you just wanted to light a couple of candles and listen to some smooth jazz.

Julie
and I said our goodbyes to Amanda and Carl as they went off in search of the courtesy van for the Park-and-Ride, then we left the terminal and crossed the street to the parking garage. The rain-soaked air smelled fresh and pure, thick with the scents of pine trees and the sweet damp earth. I inhaled deeply as we walked across the wet pavement. For the third time in as many days I reflected on how good it was to be alive.

In her Jeep on
the way to my car, we rode together in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts. After some time, I interrupted the quiet and said to Julie, “Tell me honestly. Do you think this whole situation has changed me?”

She turned to me,
“What do you mean?”

“
I shot a man. What does that make me now? A treacherous killer woman? A menace to society?”

“
Technically speaking,” she responded, “you didn’t shoot a man. You shot
at
a man. And, if it wasn’t for that lucky ricochet, we’d all be dead now. On top of that, it was self-defense. Don’t over-think it,” she advised, always the pragmatist.

O
f course, she was right. So why did I feel guilty about defending myself? Is that a female thing? Little girls are brought up to be polite, accommodating, and nurturing. Sugar and spice and everything nice. They aren’t supposed to go around whacking people. I deliberated on that until we reached the parking lot, where she dropped me off and reminded me one last time to be careful.

Under Julie
’s watchful eye, I climbed behind the wheel of my faithful Subaru and locked the doors. Even with over 100,000 miles on her, this wagon still ran like a sewing machine. I felt for the Taser beneath the seat, pulled it out and placed it in my lap where I could quickly get to it if need be. As good as it was to be home, there was still the looming stalker situation to be considered. Julie invited me to stay with her for a few days, but I had to go home sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. She waited until I started my car and safely pulled out of the parking lot before she departed and turned south, heading away from me.

Watching her drive away in my
rear-view mirror, I suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. The text message—
When are you coming home?
—haunted me. Who was this guy and how did he know I’d been out of town? How did he get my cell phone number? Why was he harassing me?

M
y heartbeat quickened as I eased onto I-405 northbound. Hunched over the steering wheel like a near-sighted ninety-year-old, I shot furtive looks around and behind me as I blended into the last remnants of Thursday’s rush hour traffic. Throwing my Action Plan to the wind, I started biting my fingernails, when it occurred to me—what would Emma Peel
do? Would she dissolve into a lily-livered chicken-heart? I think not. Any self-respecting
Avengers
fan knows that. This could actually be an opportunity to hone my detective skills and practice some diversionary maneuvers. It’s all in how you think about it.

I
pulled myself together, sat back in my seat with a brand-new attitude, and calculated. First things first: change lanes several times and be on the lookout for a tail. Check. Then, I alternated my speed, took a different exit further north of my usual, predictable route, and doubled back. Traffic moved around and past me, and no one followed me off the exit or into my condominium complex. Either I was exceptionally gifted at losing a tail, or no one had been tracking me in the first place. Whichever one was the case, I felt an empowering sense of achievement and the burgeoning of a new resourcefulness.

By the time I pulled into my garage
, the sky had already darkened. It felt like I’d been gone a week, instead of just two nights. With my bags clenched in my left hand and the Taser gripped firmly in my right, I left the car and closed the garage door. Carefully scanning the parking lot, I scampered across the wet pavement and up the stairs. After the crowds of tourists and craziness of the past two days, I looked forward to some blissful solitude in my home, my haven, my sanctuary for contemplation, my—what the . . . ?

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?”