Blood pooled at the corners of the lady’s eyes.
Unnoticed in the doorway shadows, Rachel Willingdon observed the phenomenon in the tiny space. Blinds drawn against the late winter light, Freddie and Ethel Henderson’s sitting room was dark save for the brilliant glow that bathed a small, linen-covered table in the east corner. The heat from the powerful overhead beam was stifling and Rachel was thankful for the slight breeze drifting in from the screened front door.
She eyed the believers, especially those kneeling awkwardly among the plastic-topped coffee and end tables, and for a second, felt pity. But only for a second. They were weak. She, part-time mystic debunker extraordinaire, was here to destroy the illusion that had duped and shamed them. Then she was going to have a double whiskey, neat. As a start.
“It’s a miracle, a miracle!” a large woman shouted from behind the television set. “Lord God in Heaven, a miracle.” Glancing quickly at a skinny, leather-faced man—the husband? Rachel thought—the woman bowed her head and began noisily praying. The others in the room joined suit. Rachel almost smiled at the unnaturally blonde grandma, a perfect plant with her carefully curled hair and zealous attitude.
As the kneeling onlookers gasped, blood slid down the figure’s robin’s-egg-blue robe, puddling finally at her bare feet.
“See?” Freddie crowed to his five paying customers, scrawny hands wringing in delight. “Told y'all! Now, give your thanks and move on. It’s after four an’ others are waitin’.”
Amused, Rachel watched his mud-brown eyes sparkle as he wiped the sweat and greasy hair from his creased brow. It was the third day of the alleged blessed visitation and she knew ol’ Freddie was making a killing. Eastend, New Mexico, population 372, would never be the same now that the Blessed Virgin was bleeding in Freddie Henderson’s sitting room.
Rachel examined her twenty-eight-year-old fingers, then clenched her fists and edged into the room. Revulsion filled her throat, and she gulped trying to swallow it.
She was haunted by sunken faces from the past. She thought of her childhood as a vast cage, the mind-numbing horrors barely contained inside. Somehow, each time she exposed the truth behind a spiritual hoax, she welded another bar across that cage, yet some memories always punched free.
Her bizarre upbringing was the main reason she had become a sculptor. Carving wood offered the hands-on power and control that she craved, and the creation of something new and unique imbued her with strength and purpose. Her success as an artist afforded her the luxury of a flexible schedule and sufficient cash to fund her debunking sideline, but nothing gave her complete freedom from her past.
Freddie marched over to Rachel. He yanked himself up to his full five-foot-six-inch height and looked directly into her eyes. “Where’ve I seen you before, sweet thing?”
He paused, apparently thrown by her hard expression, then tried again. “Come on in,” he purred, hitching his belt suggestively. “Wanna see my miracle?”
Rachel smiled, confident in the fun soon to be had in bursting this jerk’s bubble.
Freddie’s expression darkened.
“Yeah, baby,” Rachel replied. “If you got it, flaunt it.”
