The Palm Reader Read online

  “Maybe not the substance, but surely those people who gave it to you, and the Satanists as well—”

  “All a coincidence.”

  “There is no such thing. These occurrences were meant to happen.”

  “Where are those real estate files?” Jack messed around with his satchel.

  Nathaniel said, “I’ve experienced a vision for several nights in a row. A raven sits inside a cage, pecking at the lock that binds it, its beak bloodied by the constant pecking. Last night, the bird broke its bonds and flew away from the cage.”

  “Okay, so how does this concern me?”

  “In the vision, I can see you in the distance. The raven flies toward you, Jackson.”

  Jack sat for a moment deep in thought. That fucking bird better not cross my path. He grinned, trying to defuse the old man’s bunk.

  “Think, Jackson, the riddle is simple.”

  “I know, Gramps, I’m not a moron. The raven represents someone dark, who has been imprisoned. It could only be Mason Matye. All the rest of those satanic fuckers are dead. That’s if you believe all of this nonsense.”

  “I have lived by these visions my entire life, as have my forefathers. These people, the Devil Spawn, know how to harbor a grudge, or maybe it’s the power down below that will not let it go. They will try to find retribution. If in fact this man is on the loose, he will seek you out. I can feel it.”

  “Okay, so say I believe you, just a little. What am I supposed to do?” Jack crossed his legs uncomfortably. “I haven’t heard squat from any of those bastards in five years.”

  “I would like you to spend more time with your cousin, Josh. I’ll talk to Peter and add him to the retainer. A man like Mason does not play by the rules. He will do whatever he needs to do to fulfill his mandate. You . . . are a law-abiding citizen, which puts you at a disadvantage.”

  Jack tipped his head to the side in semi-acquiescence. “How so?”

  “If it’s true he’s escaped, he’ll resort to anything, even suicide, to not go back to jail. You would be wise to keep both your eyes on the lookout, if nothing else, and be a little more careful in the near future.” He looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “Do this for your grandfather.”

  “Okay wonderful, Gramps. Let’s get to those files. I’ve had enough mumbo jumbo.”

  Gramps nodded, accepting his grandson’s disdain for the old ways of the Seminoles.

  ****

  Jack pulled out of the parking lot, his head abuzz, the conversation with his gramps still fresh in his mind. He floored the gas pedal as he turned onto the highway, kicking up stones behind him. “Why me again?” he said out loud. “Bullshit!” He punched the hands-free. “Call Perry,” he told his Bluetooth and waited for the system to dial.

  His friend’s voice rang out through the speakers. “Wassup, bro?”

  “Bit of a bad mood. Snook fishin’ tomorrow morning?”

  “Have t’kick the girl out early, but sure, what the hell. Where at?”

  “I’ll pick you up. We’ll launch at the Sanibel causeway, head up to Captiva. We can net some white bait by the bridge pilings . . . 6 AM.”

  “I’m there, bro.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LOLITA SHIFTED HER LARGE frame in the overstuffed chair and looked across the small round table at her client. It had been a long day and she slept little the night before. The room glowed softly, lit by an overabundance of randomly-placed candles, the decor heavy and full of warm colors. Her cat, Princess, sat on a chair in the corner preening her black fur. Lolita gently took the woman’s small, white hands into her large dark palms, engulfing them in warmth. She rubbed the tops with her thumbs, pulling the client into her presence, Lolita’s voice soothing and deep. She turned the hands over, examining them carefully. Each set of hands showed their own story. Sometimes that story came to her as a vision, and sometimes she had to rely on the creases and lines to divine the truth.

  The spirits felt strong the past few days, and she was startled by what she saw. Lolita closed her eyes, not wanting her turned-up whites to scare her customer. Once the vision passed, she opened her eyes and examined the lines in the woman’s palms, not really taking notice. Lolita tried to come to terms with what she needed to tell her. Sandy Templeton, twenty-six years old, lived in Bonita Springs. She’d been given an hour’s time with Lolita by her friends as a wedding shower gift, which was very common. Lolita, by her own admission, could be wrong in her palmistry and even her tarot readings from time to time, but the visions never failed her.

  She placed Sandy’s hands palms down on the table. “Sweetheart,” she said in her South Floridian drawl, “I rarely do this, as I need the money, but this is important. I’m going to give you your gift card back and I want you to make an appointment to come back and see me.”

  “But—”

  “Sweetheart, your fiancé . . . is he tall with dirty-blond hair, and a scar under his right eye?”

  “Why yes, ma’am.” Fear crept over her pretty face.

  “Is he planning on going over water in the near future?”

  Hesitating, she grew paler by the second. “He’s gonna go fishing with his buddies this evening after work.”

  “Sweetheart, I want you to go now, and when he comes home, I want you to make love to him like you’ve never loved a man before. I want you to take your time and ease into making him not want to leave the house. Do you follow?”

  “Yes ma’am. What is it?”

  “Will he be on the water tomorrow?”

  “No. We have plans. He won’t be happy.”

  “Let me put it this way: No one will be happy if you let him walk out that door tonight. I want you to go now and shine up that pretty little white ass and shake it for all it’s worth.”

  ****

  Lolita turned the deadbolt on the door after the young woman left. She didn’t like doing what she’d just done. Sandy would probably be able to seduce and keep her future husband from leaving and there would be no way of proving the vision would have come to fruition. Sandy would think her a crazy old black lady and never come back. It would be a smudge on Lolita’s reputation. She shook her head and went back into the parlor, picking up her tarot cards. Lolita eased her large posterior back into her old, rickety chair.

  She had seen the drowning of Sandy’s future husband. The vision appeared abruptly and was gone within seconds. What appeared immediately after the first vison seemed clearly unrelated to the young woman—an augury jumping over the drowning fisherman. No less important, but the calling appeared stronger. Lolita knew better than to ignore the spirits. She saw two more deaths, one being her own.

  Shuffling the cards, she thought about her question until the vision appeared crystal clear. A tall man with dark hair—Seminole blood. Strange how the Seminoles often crept into her head. They were strong in spirit. She’d heard of an old Indian man who lived on the southern edge of the Everglades. She made a pact with herself to bless him with her presence one day.

  The young man she envisioned lived locally, somewhat famous for a recent endeavor. He appeared to be in grave danger. She saw his grisly death, a death that needed to be averted. The man looked to be destined for greatness, a champion of South Florida. The vision was conflicted, depicting both their endings, but neither was clear; she saw a vague, this-or-that vision. Most dangerous. She shivered.

  She flipped over the first card. Strength. Yes, she’d seen strength in the young man’s face. His grounding and past? Solid. The Seven of Wands . . . Yes, there will be a battle, which can be won, but how will I be involved? There was no doubt she would be. He would spurn her—she would need to be persistent.

  Lolita sipped her tea, now quite cold. She turned the next card. The Fool, inverted. Is he apathetic? Do I dare get involved? She clearly needed to, but the card indicated that the quaere, or “seeker,” appeared foolhardy, a risk-taker. She didn’t have money to lose, so there was little risk monetarily. She flipped again. The Queen of Swords. There wo
uld be a battle of wits. Very interesting.

  One last card, and when she flipped it, her hand went to her mouth.

  The Devil.

  ****

  Lolita gathered the cards together and blew out the many candles spread about the small house, which served as both her place of business and her home. The spirits didn’t need any more encouragement today. A cold sweat formed on her brow and moistened her shirt. Who is this person? Going downstairs, she turned on her desktop and searched for a while, turning up loose ends and improbabilities. After an hour, she switched tactics and typed Paranormal/Ft. Myers celebrities.

  She went on a tangent relating to Satanism for a good half an hour before she struck gold. An article in the Miami Herald mentioned a Jackson Walker, part Seminole, who brought down a South Florida cult, the Church of Set. Two seconds after she saw Walker’s picture, she knew him to be her target.

  It began to fall into place. Lolita remembered him as the hero who took down the witch Henrietta LePley. Smiling, Lolita muttered to herself, “Anyone who has the balls to take on that woman deserves to be saved.” This was not Lolita’s first encounter with the woman. She’d seen her a few times, and each time her inner voice told her to steer clear of the witch! That was Henrietta—malevolent to the core, vindictive, evil—a plethora of bad words might describe her. Lolita shivered, crossing herself to ask for a blessing even though she wasn’t Catholic.

  It was uncommon for the visions to appear in pictures. When the future was painted for her, she would be foolish to ignore it. She felt blessed on most occasions to be close with the spirits. Conversely, she felt wary whenever the omen appeared dangerous. If Jackson Walker was tied up with the Church of Satan or Set, whichever demigod one preferred, he would be a sketchy person to be around. Possibly deadly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JACK DIDN’T SLEEP VERY well through the night. His dreams were jumbled and repetitive. He never slept well when his dreams looped. He remembered a vision of Mason Matye with a big kitchen knife. While Mason didn’t try to cut him with it, he carried it around threateningly. Over and over, different situations popped up, until finally Jack woke up in a ball of sweat, the blankets wrapped around his legs.

  He’d rented a small bungalow in the south part of Ft. Myers Beach on a little street called Ibis Lane. He loved that spot and the island. The southern end was quiet, while the north tended to be a little more honky-tonk. He made a pot of coffee and went about preparing for his fishing trip with Perry. He packed lots of water, a few beers, beef jerky, and a couple of sandwiches made from the dregs of his fridge on half-stale Kaiser rolls. They would do.

  The one luxury he’d afforded himself since being hired by Peter Robertson was his fishing boat: a 24-foot Ranger with a 250-horsepower Yamaha outboard. It was big enough to take some chop, yet able to get into tight places in the mangroves. He grabbed some frozen cut bait from the freezer, just in case a few tarpon showed up.

  Jack pulled out of his driveway with the boat hooked up to his Jeep and headed to Estero Boulevard, where he turned north. Early in the morning there would be no traffic. Coming home, even in May, it would be a different story. Estero was chopped to rat shit for new services and the traffic would be a shit-show. Before picking up Perry, he stopped in at Anderson’s Bait and Tackle to pick up two dozen pinfish.

  Perry never kept him waiting. He was ready, his rods resting against his cooler—a fanatic when it came to fishing. “You ready to catch some fish, bro?” Jack chortled out the window of the Jeep.

  “Hell yeah. Let’s get at her!” Perry loaded his stuff into the boat and slid into the passenger seat, handing Jack a coffee.

  It didn’t take them long to get to the boat launch at the beginning of the causeway to Sanibel. They dumped the boat in the water and parked the Jeep and trailer. Within ten minutes they were jockeying around the pillars of the Sanibel causeway looking for white bait. Jack, being an expert, filled the live well with three casts of his net, and then they were off to Captiva.

  ****

  After a fifteen-minute ride, Jack settled the boat into one of his favorite spots off the edge of the Ding Darling nature preserve. They would hit Captiva if they struck out here. Perry hooked a greenback through the nose and threw it under the edge of a mangrove. Jack tossed a few squished-up baitfish under the canopy to attract attention. He preferred the fly rod and threw a Norm Zeigler Schminnow not far from where Perry placed his live bait.

  Within seconds they had a simultaneous hookup, both snook. That’s how it was if the snook were biting—life was good. They could turn off as quickly as they turned on. Perry had a twenty-five-incher released before Jack could get his slot specimen in with the much more finicky fly rod.

  Perry released Jack’s fish. “Amazing how you can’t catch a slot snook in season and you get one five days after it closes in one cast.” Snook could only be kept within season between twenty-eight and thirty-two inches, which was referred to as the slot.

  “It’s fate, Perry. A pretty fish. We’ll get some reds off the oyster beds near Blind Pass.”

  “Sure. You said you were in a bad mood. I figured you wanted to talk,” Perry said, rigging up another bait.

  “Yep, but catching a few fish eases the pain, bro. I’ve been given my first real case.”

  “Weren’t you looking after your grandfather’s business?”

  “Yeah, but it’s pretty mundane shit and Robertson specializes in criminal law. I’ve been handed a doozy! The real estate stuff is something I can do in my sleep.”

  “Come on, then.”

  “I’m supposed to help Pete defend a pedophile . . . No. Let me rephrase that to an accused pedophile. He wants me to head up the research.”

  “Christ!”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. The guy says he’s not guilty, but he’s got ten gigs’ worth of shit on his computer. Things you don’t wanna see.”

  “You are complicated, Jack. That’s all I can say. I’d help you if I could, and you know it.”

  Jack nodded as he threw another fly under the mangrove canopy. “Gonna get ahead of you,” he said as he stripped his line in.

  “Not with that pussy buggy whip.” Perry baited his hook and tossed it at a stump jutting into the bay. “You got some bug spray? No-see-ums are bad this morning.”

  “Yeah, under the dash. You need some Seminole blood in you.”

  Perry nodded as he covered his neck and legs.

  Jack threw again and was rewarded with an instant hookup, and a big one. “Monster snook, bro!”

  “You fucking bastard!”

  Jack laughed. “Remember me telling you about the French guy, the one who headed the Church of Satan? Mason Matye?”

  “Yeah . . . watch the prop!” Jack’s snook looked to be way over slot and was giving him a hell of a time.

  “Gramps thinks he escaped from prison last week. He’s the fucking guy who vowed to make me pay for my transgressions against Satan, remember?”

  Perry looked at the sky. “Why you tellin’ me this? Why don’t you stop in at the Catholic Church on Ft. Myers Beach? Speak to a fucking exorcist or something.” He scratched his head. “What exactly do you mean by ‘Gramps thinks he escaped’?”

  “Gotta tell someone.” He guided the fish along the boat. Perry picked it up by its lip and belly—a fat breeder. “Says he saw it in his dreams.”

  Perry shook his head. “This is massive, forty-five inches by my reckoning. Has he ever been wrong?”

  “Not to the best of my recollection. Let’s get a picture.”

  The released fish swam away strong. “Can’t you call the police? Or the state, or something?”

  “What the fuck they gonna do? I’m not even sure he was incarcerated in Florida. It might have been Mississippi. We were told he was wanted there on several charges.”

  Perry sat and cracked open a Monster energy drink. “Definitely off-putting.”

  “Just sayin’. Gramps is gonna have Josh hang around with me, like some
sort of bodyguard.”

  “He’s probably right for the time being.” Perry cast another bait out. “This all comes back to you screwing around with that pussy I told you not to screw around with, remember?”

  Jack chuckled. “I got nothin’ on the go, pussy-wise. So, you can’t gimme shit.”

  “You get some questionable pussy, you call the Perr guy.”

  “Oh, come on. It was once, and you sound like a fucking Aircon salesman.”

  “All it takes, bro. The pedophile?”

  Jack stopped him, putting up his hand. “Alleged pedophile.”

  “Ya ya, legal mumbo jumbo. I wish you the best. You know you can call me if you need anything.”

  Jack smiled. “Redfish, snapper or tarpon?”

  “I feel like eatin’ today. Snapper.”

  “Okay, there’s a rock pile close to North Captiva a friend showed me. Snapper will be thick. We can work our way back to the launch after we get our limit, maybe hook up on a tarpon.”

  Perry smiled. “You the man, Jackson.”

  Jack reeled in, pulled up the anchor spike and guided the boat out of the mangroves toward open water.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BASEMENT FELT COOL with the lights dimmed—a reprieve from Florida’s midday heat. Solomon liked the anonymity of the basement. Only here could he be himself, away from the prying eyes of society.

  He peeled off his work clothes, stripping to his white undershirt and pants. He resisted the urge to pull the paneling away from the wall. Behind the wall were his treasures, treasures he should no longer keep. He sipped a Budweiser and sat on the old orange-and-black couch, derelict and in the same spot since he’d bought the place twenty years ago, the springs allowing his rather large buttocks to sink all the way to the floor.

  His workdays were long, and he sat in the darkness for a time before he switched on the television. The WINK midday news popped on, the reporter talking about yet another murder in North Ft. Myers. He removed the hairpiece covering his bald head, throwing it on the back of a chair that was in no better state than the couch. He watched the rest of the news, sipping from the bottle, fidgeting ever so slightly. He eyed the blank piece of paneled wall, downing the remains of his beer.