Ancient Forces Collection (34 page)

A pained look crossed his father’s face. He took a sip from the can. “You what?”

“I ran out — ”

“I heard you the first time. Now sit down.”

Philip took a seat at the kitchen table. He had an idea of what was coming and desperately wanted to avoid another argument. But how? Once Dad started drinking, it was impossible to have a rational conversation.

“You expect me to believe that story, buddy boy?” his dad said, staggering toward the table. “Well, I don’t. I wasn’t born yesterday. You were out with that . . . that Missy girl.”

“It’s Krissi, and no, I wasn’t out with her, Dad. Actually, can we talk about this tomorrow?”

His dad waved him off. “How come you’re soaking wet?”

“It’s raining, remember?”

“Hey, watch it, buster.” His dad finished the beer and reached for another from the refrigerator. “I want to talk to you about . . . about your college plans.”

Philip shook his head. “Please, Dad, not again. I — ”

His dad smacked the table with his palm. “We’re done talking when I say we’re done. Got it?”

“Dad, cut me some slack here,” Philip said, starting to rise. “It’s late and I’d like to get some dry clothes on.”

“Shut up . . . and sit down.”

“Dad, come on,” Philip said, moving toward the stairway. “You’re drunk. Let’s talk in the morning, okay? I promise.”

His dad swore and then threw an empty beer can in Philip’s direction. It ricocheted off a cabinet and, falling to the floor, flipped several times before coming to a stop. A trickle of beer leaked out. “You’re just like your mother . . . always looking for a quick exit. Go on. Get out of here. I can’t stop you from ruining your life.”

Glad to make his getaway, glad to distance himself from his drunken father, Philip ran up the stairs two steps at a time. He tossed off his wet clothing, dried himself off, and pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. He snapped off the lights and jumped into bed. He exhaled a long, tired breath.

Alone in the darkness, Philip tried to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking about Krissi. On the one hand, he was dying to call her, to hear her voice, to know that everything would still work out between them. Maybe if he, like Scott, apologized, they’d get back together.

On the other hand, maybe Madame Theo was right. Maybe Krissi was holding him back. Maybe she wasn’t good enough for him and she, like his mother, would dump him when things got tough. Then again, it bothered him that Madame Theo might be hiding something. But what? Was she really who she claimed to be? He had been so quick to believe everything she had been saying. What if she was just another scam artist after a quick buck?

Philip rolled over onto his side and thought about the hunting knife hidden between his mattresses. Why did life have to be so hard? Why was he under such pressure to perform? To please his dad? To get good grades? Why couldn’t he get a grip? Would anybody really miss him if he were gone? The more he thought things through, the more depressed he became.

In the darkness he slipped out of bed, sat on the floor, and reached for the knife. He rested the blade across his lap and slumped against the bed. With this final desperate act, he could settle his struggles once and for all. Death would free him from the heavy burden that had weighed him down for years.

No more encounters with a drunken parent.

No more upset girlfriends.

No more unanswered questions.

No more uncertainty about the future.

Death was the answer. Or was it? His heartbeat quickened.

There was something about the finality of death that scared him. What happened when he died? Did he just cease to exist? Or was there something or someone out there? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t ready to face the great unknown. It was then that a face came to his mind.

Becka.

Of all the people he knew from school, Becka seemed different. There was an irresistible warmth behind her smile. A brightness in her eyes. A self-confidence that didn’t appear forced. Sure, she had problems. She made mistakes. But there was something about Becka that he couldn’t ignore.

Becka had peace.

That’s it, Philip decided. No matter the circumstances, she seemed at peace. And she wasn’t afraid to stand for what she believed, even when battling evil spirits. Why? What was it about Becka that gave her the strength to carry on — even after the untimely plane crash involving the dad she loved?

He knew Becka claimed to be a Christian and that she believed in Jesus. But he couldn’t figure how that would make any real difference. In fact, Philip remembered a time when he had been curious about Jesus too. But his interest was sidetracked by other important stuff — like Krissi and school and his car.

Now, hanging on to the end of his rope, there was a part of him wishing he had been as thorough in his investigation of Christianity as he was of Madame Theo’s tarot cards. Was it too late to reconsider Jesus?

In the cold, dark shadows of the night, Philip broke into a sweat. His breathing was hard and labored. His head ached as if he’d been clobbered by a baseball bat. More than anything, he wished he had someone to talk to. Someone who might pull him back from the cliff. Someone, anyone, who cared.

God, if you’re there . . . I need a sign . . . a friend . . . just
something —

Philip hadn’t finished his prayer when the phone by his bed purred. His heart leaped.
Probably a wrong number,
he thought. It rang again. And it rang a third time as he reached for the phone. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Dude, it’s Scott.”

Philip’s heart skipped a beat. “Hey, Scott.”

“Hope I didn’t wake you up. You okay?”

“Sure, why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Just felt this need to call you,” Scott said. “I mean, I know this may sound far out — ”

“No, go ahead,” Philip said, hoping he didn’t sound as shocked as he felt.

“Well, ever since I got home, I’ve had this impression like God wanted me to call.” Scott paused.

Philip held the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he studied the knife. “Uh, everything’s okay. I’m just kind of burned-out. You know how that goes.”

“I do,” Scott said. “Hey, I’ll be praying for you.”

Philip swallowed. “Thanks, Scott.”

“By the way, I sent an email to Z tonight and told him about the whole Rita Thomas thing,” Scott announced. “Maybe
he can dig something up on her. Hope you don’t mind. He’s amazing. I bet he’ll come up with something.”

“That’s cool,” Philip said.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure.”

On Thursday morning Madame Theo sat in the stuffed leather chair facing the desk of Fred Stoner, her producer. The new time slot worked great. Her guest was wonderful. The phone bank in Utah was swamped with callers looking to get a peek at their future. The money was starting to roll in. The first round of syndication was working. But, at the moment, none of that mattered.

She studied Fred’s face like a hawk as he flipped through several documents — secret papers sent to her from Zack Zimmerman, her lawyer in Los Angeles. As far as she could tell, Fred was unmoved by what he saw. He showed about as much emotion as a houseplant. He f lipped over another page and, scanning the contents, shook his head.

“This is what you were concerned about?” he said after a prolonged silence.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Madame Theo asked, puzzled by his indifference.

“Not in the least,” he said, dropping the papers to his desk. “It’s old news. I’m no lawyer, but it seems to me that the statute of limitations has run out on these . . . these — ”

“Crimes,” she said, adjusting her turban. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not offended to use the right term.”

“Listen to me,” he said, massaging his temples. “That was then. This is now. And you’re hot. Do you understand that?”

Madame Theo tried to appear surprised.

“I’m telling you,” Fred said, flashing a mouth full of highly polished teeth, “you’re about to step into the big time. I’m talking hyperspace. I’m talking mounds of cash once we ramp up to full syndication. This . . . this stuff is old news. In my view, you don’t have anything to lose sleep over.”

Madame Theo folded her arms. “Really? You think so?”

“Really.” Fred Stoner walked to her side, helped her up, and guided her toward the hall. “It’s late. Get some rest. Tomorrow I’ll pull out all the stops. We’ll go live in Los Angeles. Nothing can go wrong.”

“But — ”

Fred put an arm around Madame Theo’s shoulders. “Trust me. Who’s gonna know our little secret, anyway? Right?”

13

S
cott raced through the halls between classes. He had an idea of where Philip would be — or should be was more like it. So far, four periods into Thursday morning and still no sign of Philip anywhere. None of Philip’s friends had spotted him either. Scott was getting anxious after what had happened last night.

All morning, Scott replayed the phone conversation from the previous night in his mind. Something in Philip’s voice scared him. Not in the words spoken. No. There was just something very dark about his tone. Philip sounded desperate. Distant. Depressed. And a bit edgy. But why?

Even though Scott was no expert, Philip’s erratic behavior the last few days struck him as borderline suicidal. Would Philip take his own life? Scott refused to think Philip would do something so drastic. Or would he? Come to think of it, what was Philip doing way out on that deserted country road in the middle of the night?

Scott dashed into the cafeteria and scanned the mass of faces around the tables.

Off to his left, somebody called his name. “Hey, Scott, over here.”

Scott turned. Krissi, Ryan, and Becka were sitting together at a table by the far wall. He waved and then worked his way through the crowded lunch room.

“What’s up, Scott?” Ryan said, studying Scott’s face as he approached. “You look like someone died.”

Scott shot him a look. “That’s not funny.”

“It was a joke, Scott.”

“Whatever.” Scott ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen. Have you guys seen Philip?”

Krissi flushed. Ryan and Becka exchanged a look.

“What did I say?” Scott said, stealing a fry from Becka’s plate.

“It’s just that Krissi broke up with Philip last night,” Becka said, smacking Scott’s hand as he reached for another fry.

“Wow,” Scott said. “That’s a bummer. Still, did you guys see him today?”

Krissi, her cheeks red as roses, shook her head. “No.”

“Me neither,” Ryan said, then looked at Becka.

Becka frowned. “No. Is something up?”

Scott’s eyes zoomed around the room to see if anybody was eavesdropping. He had learned his lesson during study hall and didn’t care to cause more damage. He leaned forward as if revealing a national secret. “Last night, I wanna say around eleven-ish, I had this really strong feeling that I needed to call him. You know, one of those God-prompting things our pastor is always talking about.”

“Really?” Becka said, her eyebrows raised. “I had a sense that I should pray for him too.”

“Anyway, I called and he sounded — ” Scott paused, unsure whether or not to say something that might make Krissi worry. “He sounded really down.”

Krissi folded her arms together. “What makes you say a thing like that?”

“Call it a guy’s intuition — ”

“There’s no such thing,” Krissi said with a flick of her hair.

“Still,” Scott said, unfazed by her protest, “I think he’s into this tarot card craze deeper than even he realizes.”

“How’s that?” Becka asked, looking worried.

Scott stole another look around. “Just that he’s really hung up about what’s in the future — you know, like, about college, friends, stuff like that.”

Ryan put an arm around Becka. “He’s not the only one with those kind of questions,” he said. “Take your sister and me. We’re wondering what God has for us down the road too.”

Scott’s right eyebrow shot up. He nudged Becka with an elbow. “What’s this I’m hearing, sis?”

Becka looked away. Her face turned four shades of red.

“Oh, now I get it,” Scott said, as if solving a great mystery.

“Get what?” Becka said, guarded.

“Well, if things are cruising between you two,” Scott said with a wink, “that explains why you were singing happy songs while washing the dishes.”

Becka nailed him in the shoulder with a fist. “SCOTT! You are
so
clueless.”

“The point is,” Ryan said, rescuing Becka from further embarrassment, “we’ve been studying what the Bible says about our future, you know, next year with college and all of that.”

“And?” Scott asked, checking his sister’s reaction.

“That’s the interesting part,” Becka said. “There’s a verse in Zechariah — ”

“It’s chapter ten, verse two,” Ryan said, nodding.

“Ooh, bonus points.” Scott laughed.

“ANYWAY,” Becka said, rolling her eyes, “it
says, ‘The idols speak deceit, diviners see visions that lie; they tell dreams that are false, they give comfort in vain.’ ”

“Which means?” Krissi asked.

Ryan stretched. “Well, it definitely means using stuff like tarot cards is out of the question.”