Page 51 of I Am the Messenger

I hold it.

It's in my eyes.

I read it.

You know when you do something and realize only a few seconds afterward that you've actually done it? That's what I've done now, and as a result, I'm reading the Ace of Clubs, expecting another list of addresses.

I'm wrong.

Typically, it's not going to be that easy. There are no addresses this time. There's no uniform to this. There's nothing to make any part of it secure. Each part is a test, and part of that is in the unexpected.

This time, it's words.

Only words.

The card reads:

Say a prayer

at the stones of home

So could you tell me, please? Could you please tell me what that might mean? At least the addresses were cut-and-dried. The stones of home could be anything. Anywhere. Anybody. How do I find a place that has no face and nothing to point me in the right direction?

The words whisper to me.

The card softly speaks itself in my ear as if recollection should be immediate.

There's nothing, though.

Only the card, me, and a sleeping dog who gently snores.

Later on I wake up, crumpled on the couch, realizing that I've been bleeding again from the back of my head. There's blood on the couch and rust on my neck. The pain's back, but not sharp or gashing anymore. Just constant.

The card's on the coffee table, floating on the dust. Growing among it.

Outside is dark.

The kitchen light is loud.

It deafens me as I walk toward it.

The rusty blood scratches my neck and reaches down my back. I decide on the way that I need a drink, hit the light, and stumble through the dark toward the fridge. At the bottom I find a beer and go back to the lounge room, attempting to drink and be merry. In my case, merry means ignoring the card. I pat the Doorman with my feet, wondering what day and time it is and what might be on TV if I can be bothered getting up to turn it on. Some books sit on the floor. I won't be reading them.

Something leaks down my back.

My head's bleeding again.

"Another one?"

"Another one."

"What suit this time?"

"Clubs."

"And you still have no idea who's sending them?" Audrey's noticing the spilled beer on my jacket and now the crusty putrid blood on my neck. "God, what happened to you last night?"

"Don't worry."