The Fool Card

The Tarot Mysteries - Series Book 1

"...it is in pushing back against the world

that a soul is defined."

Eliot Pattison, Water Touching Stone

=1=

I lead a very quiet life, by intention. It is not yet a dotty old lady life, but I find eventfulness unpleasant.

A few months ago I was stretched out on the couch, with Katana curled up on the armrest behind my shoulders and Meeka purring next to my feet on the ottoman.

I was content. It was late at night, dark and foggy outside, and I had crushed lemon verbena and sage leaves into a salver. The fragrance was fresh but not distracting. I was rereading Nero Wolfe, enjoying Archie and the orchids and the shad roe dinners. Mr. Brubeck was playing soothing ballads.

The fog was in—it's pretty much always in on 48th Avenue—and the Monterey Cypresses in Sutro Park were looming shapes in the cold mist that flew past the big plate glass window. Waves boomed against Seal Rock.

Then came the thunk. It felt like a car had hit my house. Now, my house sits almost directly on the San Andreas Fault, so I am used to the occasional thunk that feels like a car has hit my house, followed by a few seconds of chink-chink-chink as the crockery rattles and the plant leaves quiver and the chandelier Fred Astaires elegantly back and forth, dancing on the ceiling.

This thunk was followed by the sound of a car door opening and footsteps scraping on the sidewalk. Damn. My house really had been hit by a car.

The cats, being cats, skittered for someplace low and dark. The two mongrels, Kinsey the small brown one and Hawk the large black one, stood up and trotted to the top of the stairs leading down to the front door. They looked attentively at me, Hamlet-like, for guidance. To bark or not to bark? The readiness is all.

Then the doorbell buzzed in an odd stutter and the dogs' question was no longer a question. They barreled downstairs, giving it the full Baskerville, and kept it up until I shouted "Quiet." They went quiet.

When I reached the ground floor landing, I peered out the window in the upper half of the door. Nobody there. I stood on tiptoe and could see a long leg extending down my two front steps into the circle of front door lamplight. There was a large buff suede work boot laced onto a big foot.

I deduced that someone, likely a male someone, was sitting on my doorstep, leaning against the front door. It was either a one-legged someone, or there was a second leg tucked up out of sight from my angle.

Beyond the leg was a black Porsche whose bumper had taken a chunk out of the stucco beside my garage door. The house had taken a reciprocal chunk out of the Porsche.

"Who is it?" I spoke up, projecting my especially no-nonsense tone of voice. Hawk huffed anxiously until I pointed at him. He stopped huffing.

"Please help me." I heard it, but only just. A deep hoarse voice.

"I asked who you are."

"Thorne Ardall."

"I'll call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance."

"No!" Now there was power in the voice.

"Mister, I don't know you, and I'm not opening the door. If you're hurt I'll call 911. That's it."