The 7th Tarot Card (6 page)

Julie
cleared her throat. “Named it?”

“
Yes. What do you think about ‘Code Name Wolverine?’”

Julie
stared at me. I couldn’t see her eyes under her sunglasses, but I was pretty sure she was rolling them.

“
Well, if that’s what you’d like, Vic, but as far as a picnic goes, this is a serious operation. We need to stay focused here. Let’s have a picnic on another day.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “Maybe just breakfast cookies.”

She changed the subject.
“Tell me about this stalker. What’s been going on?”

While we waited for our food to arrive,
I recounted all the events of the past several days and she listened in silence, until I finished my story.

“
What do you have for protection?” she asked me. I proudly pulled the steak knife out of my purse, showed it to her, then quickly shoved it back before anyone noticed.

“
Well, that’s okay, Vic, but not the best idea,” she said. “A strong guy could overpower you, grab the knife and use it on you. You need some pepper spray, or maybe even a stun gun. There’s a military surplus store on Eighty-Fifth in Redmond. Go there on your way home and pick up something.”

I
hesitated for a moment, then said, “Just because he’s a stalker, doesn’t necessarily make him dangerous, right? I mean, he sent flowers and a CD. Maybe he’s a nice stalker.”

Julie
looked at me. “Yes, in Victoria-land I’m sure all the stalkers are super nice people, and this guy could be harmless, but you should carry something with you, just in case.” She leaned forward, touched my arm, and continued, “Also, and I don’t mean to scare you, but seventy-six percent of murdered women were stalked before they were killed, so you need to take this seriously. Be aware of your surroundings. Get in the habit of checking your rear-view mirror to see if you’re being followed. If you are, drive directly to the nearest police station or even fire station—but don’t get out of the car—just stay locked in and start honking your horn.”

All this talk about
stalkers and self-defense had me riddled with anxiety, and I wasn’t sure I could spray pepper on someone’s head without spraying myself too. We finished our lunch in thoughtful silence, then walked back to our cars. Before she left, Julie offered me one last piece of advice, “Change up the way you do things. Steer clear of routine behavior. Take different routes to work; leave at unpredictable times. Go in earlier some days. Stay later on other days.”

“
Okay, Mom,” I said.

She
shook her head, waited until I entered and locked my car, then gave me a supportive smile and waved goodbye.

I knew her warnings were given with
the most loving of intentions, but now I was freaking out. I started my engine and pulled out of the parking lot, fully intending to follow her wise counsel, but after a brief mental debate, changed my mind. I needed retail therapy, and I needed it bad. Maybe I’ll buy some pepper spray tomorrow, I thought, after we wrap up Operation Wolverine.

I
turned south towards the mall, taking the scenic, back-streets route. Easily blending into moderate traffic, I hit all green lights, making good time. When I finally came to a stop at a red light, I recalled Julie’s advice about being aware of my surroundings, so, dutifully, I checked my rear- and side-view mirrors. Immediately behind me idled a red Miata convertible with the top down. Two teenage girls in cheerleading uniforms and sunglasses bobbed their heads in time with the music blaring from their stereo. Pretty sure they weren’t a threat. Directly behind them, a slender boy of about fifteen sat atop a Moped, utterly entranced with the girls. The third car back was a black SUV with tinted windows. Just for the heck of it, I decided to change my course and turned left. I glanced back at the other traffic, and everyone proceeded forward when the light turned green, except for the black SUV, which also turned left and was now about a half a block behind me. I drove down two streets, made another left turn at the next intersection and kept an eye on my rear-view mirror. The SUV followed me and turned left as well. This could just be a coincidence, I told myself, but I drove around the block and the SUV maintained a position of about a half block behind me. Now I began to get a bit concerned. I decided to circle the block one more time, but this time the SUV drove off.

“
Well, I can’t go to the mall now,” I said out loud as I reversed my course and headed north. Guess it was time to pay a visit to the military surplus store after all.

“
Think like a queen. A queen is not afraid to fail. Failure is another steppingstone to greatness.”
—
Oprah Winfrey, American television personality, actress, and producer

*******

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of Big Sal’s Defense Depot. During the drive I’d repeatedly examined my rear- and side-view mirrors. I even peeked down every side street, but the black car never reappeared. That SUV thing was probably just a coincidence and I was undoubtedly overreacting, I thought. But, since I was there, might as well go in and take a look-see. Couldn’t hurt.

This was my first
excursion into a military surplus store and I really felt out of my element. The interior of the store reeked with testosterone. Killing devices of all shapes and sizes lined the walls and shelves. There were hunting knives, cross bows, fishing gear, and guns galore. Two men with bulging biceps and crew cuts, dressed in T-shirts and camo cargo pants were examining the scope of a rifle. I wandered around aimlessly, trying to find the pepper spray department when one of the store clerks approached me. His name badge said Sal and he looked like he could be ex-Marine: buff, shaved head, about six-foot-two, and a good two-hundred-fifty pounds.

“
Are you Big Sal?” I asked, looking up at him.

“
No, I’m little Sal. Big Sal’s my mom.” He pointed to a petite, white-haired lady perched on a tall wooden stool behind the cash register. A red bandana was tied around her head, Rambo style, and a black leather vest topped her white, short-sleeved T-shirt. The sleeves were rolled up revealing a wrinkled tattoo of a cobra on her arm. She must have been all of five-feet-tall at the most. I couldn’t decide if she was scary or spunky. I went with spunky and gave her a friendly wave. She nodded back at me.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a store like this?” Sal asked, sizing me up as he rubbed his chin.

“
Trying to decide between pepper spray and a stun gun. What would you recommend?”

“
Depends on the situation. Do you just want to carry something with you to feel safer when you’re jogging, or do you need to take out an assailant?”

“
Well, um, frankly, Sal,” I confided as I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice, “I seemed to have picked up a stalker somehow and I need some protection.”

He looked at me thoughtfully
and folded his arms across his chest. “In that case, what you need is a Taser. If it’s a windy day, pepper spray could blow back on you. A stun gun is nice, but you have to be close enough to touch the slime ball.” I followed him as he led me through the store and stopped in front of a brightly-lit display case.

“
Here’s one you might like,” he said, lifting a demo model out of the case and handing it to me. “It’s safe and friendly, but has more stopping power than a .357 Magnum. It shoots two darts attached to fifteen feet of wire. Fifty-thousand volts travel over the wires and over-ride the attacker’s central nervous system.”

My eyes widened as I
listened to his description of the weapon. He noticed my expression and said, “Scary? You bet, but look at the pretty colors it comes in.”

I swallowed hard.
“Do I need a permit to buy one?” I asked, handling it gingerly.

“
These babies aren’t considered firearms,” he said. “They’re legal to carry in most states without permits.”

He showed me several options and I finally decided on the
TASER C2 in metallic pink. It was pricy, but I bought it because it had great stopping power, and also because it came in pink and matched my Hello Kitty makeup bag.

After I picked out a few more items,
Little Sal walked me over to the cash register and Big Sal checked me out. She handed me the receipt, gave me a thumbs up, and told me not to let the assholes get me down. Good advice.

Ret
urning home, I nosed my trusty station wagon into my snug garage and shut off the engine. After removing the Taser from its packaging, and retrieving the steak knife from the bottom of my purse, I got out of my car and locked it. In my left hand I gripped the knife, in my right, the Taser. I was loaded for bear.

Cau
tiously, I poked my head out of the garage and scoped the parking lot. All seemed clear, and no one followed me into the complex. I’d made certain of that. Feeling reasonably secure, I dashed to the mail box, awkwardly collected my mail, then raced up the stairs and entered my condo in record time. Slipping off my shoes, I readjusted my toe tape, which had slid into a torturous miniature tourniquet around my toes, turned my radio on to the smooth jazz station, and spent a few minutes straightening up.

When everything looked reasonably tidy I positioned the Taser on the table next to my front door and sat down to elevate my foot for a
while. The sophisticated strains of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” played softly as I relaxed and mentally made a list of what to wear and bring with me for tomorrow morning’s mission.

Without warning,
a loud knock on my front door startled me and I jumped a mile high. Heart hammering, I silently crept over to the door, grabbing my Taser along the way. Squinting through the peephole, I saw a man standing a few feet from the door, but his back was turned to me. I hesitated, decided not to answer it, and softly tiptoed back to my couch.

A voice called out
. “Victoria?”

It sounded like Steve from downstairs
, so I went back to the door and shouted, “Just a minute, Steve.” Relief washed over me as I unlocked my door and opened it wide, but to my surprise, I found Judah standing there instead.

“
You’re not Steve,” I said.

“
Do you want me to be?” He flashed a crooked grin. I smiled back and bit my lower lip. “I have a package for you,” he continued. “This came for you today while you were out. I could have left it on your doorstep, but I thought it would be safer if I hung onto it for you. There’ve been some robberies in the area lately.” He pointed to a large cardboard box that he’d propped against the wall.

“
Oh, finally, my inversion table is here. Thank you!”

He raised an eyebrow.
“What’re you going to do with an inversion table?”

“
You hang upside down on it,” I explained “and it’s supposed to help you reduce stress, heighten mental alertness, and improve circulation, among other things.”

His eyes moved up and down my body like a searchlight.
“Are you having circulation problems?”

“
Not right now,” I managed to reply, feeling the warmth of a blush flood over my face.

A sexy smile played around his mouth.
“So . . . is everything okay?”

“
Of course,” I responded lightly. “Why do you ask?”

“
I’m blessed with a certain sixth sense. Also, you’re holding a Taser.” He motioned to my hand.

I looked down, and realized I was still clinging tightly to my new pink Taser.
“Well, that’s, umm, that’s kind of a long story,” I said, feeling more than a little embarrassed. I stepped back inside and deposited the Taser on the table by the door.

“
I have a few minutes before I need to leave, and I’m a good listener,” Judah said. His voice took on a gentle, comforting tone. He leaned in against the door jam and shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey slacks. Smiling, he lingered there, making him very hard to resist. The top two buttons of his white dress shirt were unbuttoned, giving him a well-dressed, yet casual, appearance, and I wondered if he was going out on a date. I had to admit I experienced a vexing little twinge of jealousy.

Perhaps it wouldn
’t hurt to confide in someone, I thought. My stress level was mounting and I was down to my last few scoops of chocolate ice cream. Relenting, I opened the door wide and stepped aside as he carried the massive box into my condo and propped it against my dining room table. For some indefinable reason, just being around him made me feel safer, although I couldn’t say why. I knew practically nothing about him.

“
How about a glass of wine?” I offered. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for your trouble.”

“
No trouble. Wine sounds nice though. What’d you do to your foot?”

I shook my head and looked down at my barefoot
, bandaged toes, and said, “You don’t miss a thing do you?”

He followed me into the kitchen, leaned against the counter
, and watched me as I pulled out my good wine glasses.

“
Kind of a hazard of my occupation, I guess,” he replied. “Awareness of your surroundings is always a good thing.”

I sighed.
“Yes, I’m beginning to understand the importance of that myself.” After examining the meager offerings of my refrigerator, I gave him a choice, “I have chardonnay or chardonnay.”

He
smiled. “Maybe I’ll go with the chardonnay.”

I
explained my broken toe as I poured the wine, handed a glass to him, and we moved over to my sofa in the living room. When he lifted his glass for a toast, I noticed several jagged scars on his long, graceful fingers.

“
So what exactly is it that you do?” I asked after I took a sip.

“
A little of this, a little of that. You might say that I’m an independent contractor.”

“
I see. Well that explains everything.”

He smiled enigmatically
then said, “Why don’t you tell me about the Taser?” I told him about the breather calls, the CD in the mail, the flowers, and the voice mail message from last night. He interrupted me occasionally to ask questions. “Is there anyone at work who seems odd?”

“
No.”

“
Did you have any old boyfriends that were a bit off?”

“
Yes, most of them, but none of them are stalker types.”

He
laughed. He had a great laugh.

He continued,
“Is there anyone you know who’s even remotely a possibility?”

I put my glass down on the coffee table and turned to him.
“No, I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to come up with something, anything, but there’s no one. Back in my college days there was a guy that used to follow me around, but that was eons ago. I mean, that was a few years ago. I’m not that old. I’m actually quite young.”

He grinned, glanced at his watch and said,
“Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. Keep your doors and windows locked. Here’s my number if you need anything. You can call me anytime—doesn’t matter how late. You might want to program it into your cell phone.” He put his card on my coffee table. The only thing printed on the plain, white card was the name, Judah, and his phone number. How strange.

We
walked to the door and I thanked him for listening to my problems, then he turned and put his hand gently on my arm. We were standing very close; so close I could smell his sweet, sexy breath. I felt the craziest urge to kiss him, but I didn’t move. He hesitated, looked at me for a moment and said, “Be careful.” Then he left.

After
I closed the door behind him, I made sure it was securely locked. I glanced over at my new Taser and shook my head. This whole situation was becoming increasingly disturbing, so I decided what I needed was to hang upside down for a while, clear my head, get a new perspective on things. I retrieved my rarely used tool kit from the back of my linen closet, ripped the shipping box apart, and set up the new inversion table in the middle of my living room. In less than an hour and one dish of mint chocolate chip ice cream I was proudly hanging upside down, listening to Mozart, and waiting for transcendental bliss, or at least a modicum of tranquility. The only thing that came to me was my cell phone, when it slipped out of my pocket and bounced off my eye on its way down to the floor.

So far, I wasn
’t experiencing any of the therapeutic or meditative benefits that the ads promised. Blood rushing to your head is not as pleasant as you might think, and the restraints on my ankles were beginning to chafe. I wondered if too much blood to the face was potentially unsafe. Possibly this was an art that one needed to work into gradually. Next time, I’m going to give it a lot more time to work, at least five minutes.

When I grabbed the side handles and tried to hoist myself back upright I heard a
loud
thunk
sound and the table pitched hard into a sideways tilt. It was not a good sound as thunks go. I tried to upright myself again, but the mechanism seemed to be stuck, so I gave it another solid jerk.

Nothing
.

I waited a moment, gathered all my strength and tried one more time, flailing, yanking
, and screaming with all my might. Again, nothing. The piece of junk wouldn’t budge. And since I’m not an acrobat with the Cirque du Soleil, I didn’t have the upper body strength to curl up and unfasten the ankle restraints. I was trapped, upside down, alone in my apartment. I began to sweat. Could things get any worse?