Chapter 20

How ironic were the words of Dan the tattoo artist three and a half years ago? It’ll ooze blood some, but that’s normal. A shiver slithered over Zeke’s back.

Was it irony? Or was it prophesy?

Wait a minute. Did he really believe in prophecy? His mother did, but did he?

Every tattoo bleeds ... at first. What tattoo bleeds over three years later? And why did his bleed only when he got close to the wishing well? Was he letting his imagination carry him away? Was he being sucked into Luther’s delusional dementia? Yet, he couldn’t deny—weird stuff did happen at the well.

The air became thin. Too thin. He staggered out of the prayer room and down the hall. He slipped out the kitchen door and sucked in the fresh mountain air. He bent over at the waist, like a runner at the end of a race. He needed to talk to Clifford.

... and Pastor V.

He pulled out his cell and dialed the law office. He waited through the dial tones.

Clifford’s pleasant voice answered, but it was the recording. “You have reached the law office...”

He lowered the phone and looked at the screen, 4:30 PM, Saturday. The law office was closed. He redialed Clifford’s cell this time. Again he heard Clifford’s voice, but another recording. He waited for the beep.

“Clifford, this is Zeke. Call me back.” He nodded. Short and sweet.

Why didn’t Clifford answer his cell phone?

He looked through the kitchen door at the counter where he had stacked everything. He shuffled through the pile until he found the pastor’s card and dialed the number.

“You have reached the Cañon City Community Church...” the recorded message began. He disconnected, read the card again, and dialed the cell number.

“Vince James,” the pastor answered.

He leaned against the counter. “Pastor V, this is Zeke Clay.”

“Oh, yes Zeke. Did you get into the Prayer Room?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact—”

“Good. So, are you ready to talk?”

“Yes.” Zeke cleared his throat. “I guess I am. I have questions, Pastor.”

“Of course. Would you like for me to come over?”

“Yes, please. If it’s not too much troub—”

“Not at all. I can wrap up here and be there within the hour.”

“Okay.” Zeke exhaled and released his back teeth’s vice grip.

“See you then.” Pastor James hung up.

Zeke’s phone was silent. He stared at the heap of papers.

What was Uncle Luther leading him to? He had thought of it as a scavenger hunt, all these clues. Perhaps it was more than that—more than a game. Everything led him to—what? What was the common denominator?

The family?

The curse?

The land?

He rolled his eyes. God?

He exhaled a long sigh. Destiny?

He shook his head, tried to let his jumbled mind settle. It wouldn’t.

The wishing well?

The ... ghosts...?

Was it true? Rosa and Otto were ghosts?

Why? Why were they locked into staying at the well? Were they affected by the curse? Would breaking the curse free them? Was that what Uncle meant by, “resolve true love?” If he could “resolve true love,” would it let them go to the other side? Like the Ghost Speaker or whatever that show was. His eyes darted around the kitchen.

But the curse was made by the Indians. How did God and an Indian curse weave together with a wishing well? These were the questions he would ask the pastor.

Hunger roiled in his stomach. He checked the time. In the freezer, he found a box of microwavable pretzel-bread hot pockets.

“That’ll do.” He popped them in the microwave. Four minutes later he was blowing on each bite, but eating. He dragged out a Mountain Dew and washed down the salty cheese snack. The distinctive rumble of the pastor’s Harley came up the drive, and Zeke opened the front door. Leather-clad as usual, the pastor strolled in as if he’d been entering a biker’s bar. Instead, he was helping guide the lost soul of one who was putting together a puzzle crafted from the grave.

His heart raced. Where to begin? “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. I told you I would.”

“I know. I’m just saying, I appreciate it.” Zeke cursed the heat in his face.

“Sure. Besides, I promised Luther.”

“He said I could trust you.”

Pastor James smiled.

“Frankly, I’m not sure I trust myself right now,” Zeke confessed.

“How so?”

“It’s ... hard to explain. I ... I just—”

“Let’s sit down,” the pastor offered.

Zeke swallowed against his dry throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, water.”

“Cool.” Zeke pulled two from the refrigerator.

They both sat down on the cowhide couch in the great room. Pastor James sipped from the bottled water and calmly watched Zeke.

So many things had happened. He didn’t know where to start. The Jesus moment in the gym. The ghosts at the wishing well? The vision at the well? The letter with the key from Luther? The Family Bible? The writing on the wall?

“Zeke, let’s begin with a word of prayer,” the pastor said.

Before Zeke could respond, Pastor bowed his head and began speaking. “Heavenly Father...”

Zeke stared at the man a moment, and instinctively bowed his head, too.

“I thank you for this opportunity for Zeke and me to come together. I thank you for the gifts you have given him. Guide us here today, Lord. Help me to help him unravel the mysteries You have divinely placed in his life. Give us the wisdom and the understanding to fulfill Your will here today. May it all be for Your honor and Your glory. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

Zeke mumbled, “Amen.”

It had been a long time since he bowed his head in prayer. To be honest, it felt good to do it again. Zeke had a strange sense of bearing. He knew what to say. “Okay, I opened the prayer room and I read Uncle Luther’s letter.”

“Okay.” James leaned, elbows on knees.

“Well, I have questions.”

“Good.” The pastor nodded with a smile and leaned back.

“Luther said in his letter, ‘Once you give your heart to God, the rest of this challenge will unfold.’”

“Yes.” Pastor James nodded.

He must have read the letter, too. Why not? The envelope wasn’t sealed. “Okay, here’s the heart of my question.”

The thoughts were neatly organized in his mind. All he had to do was succinctly speak the words. He wished he had the power of the Vulcans and could perform a mind melt with the pastor to convey his thoughts directly. But, alas, he could not.

Zeke cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “Okay, I have been asked to break a family curse. In order to break the curse, I am supposed to pray the same prayer as Jabez, in the Bible, and God will grant my request. Have I got this right so far?”

The pastor nodded but remained silent.

Zeke nodded. “The curse I am supposed to break is—” He jumped up and began to pace. “See this is where I get fuzzy. The curse is an Indian curse, but I’m supposed to break it by Christian means. How does God and an Indian curse go together, here? And...” Zeke took a breath. “If I pray this prayer, for which I have been named—and I have to mean it...” Zeke stopped and pointed a loose hand at the pastor. “Luther said his first prayer for me is to ‘let God into my life, allow Him to bless me.’ Then I will be able to pray this prayer and break the curse?”