Of Grave Concern by Max McCoy Page A

pale hand. I pointed, and all heads swiveled to look at him.
    â€œThis is your question, sir?”
    He nodded.
    â€œSir, I hesitate to give you the answer the spirits have imparted. Are you prepared to learn the truth?”
    â€œYes,” he said, almost a whisper.
    â€œYour beloved Martha will return to you only when you quit your drinking,” I said. “The choice is yours. That is all the spirits have to say.”
    The shopkeeper’s chin dropped to his chest.
    â€œOh, this is a fraud!” a cowboy, with a carefully tended chinstrap beard and auburn curls down to his shoulders, declared. He was sitting in the front row, slouched in the chair. His arms were crossed defiantly. “These two must be in on it.”
    â€œHow could they?” the old man who had collected the envelopes asked. “They were sealed and passed directly from our hands to hers. There was never the possibility of fraud.”
    â€œIt’s a trick,” the cowboy said.
    â€œHow?” the old man asked.
    â€œI don’t know. . . .”
    I smiled at the doubting cowboy.
    â€œBelieve, brother,” I said. “Just believe.”
    I took the next envelope, and then I frowned.
    â€œWho wants to know if he will regain the use of his right arm?”
    A left hand went up in the balcony.
    â€œI’m sorry, the spirits are silent. I advise you to find a doctor you trust, study the Good Book, and put your faith in Jesus Christ.”
    I took up the next envelope, clasped it to my heart, and stared at Judge Grout. The table rapped sharply, three times. Pause. Then three more urgent raps.
    â€œThe spirits are signaling a particularly important question,” I said. “They tell me the individual who submits this question wishes to remain anonymous, so I will not ask him to hold up his hand or otherwise identify himself after the spirits have answered the question.”
    â€œThen how will we know it’s a real question?” It was the doubting cowboy again.
    â€œI guess you won’t,” I said. “Now, please, I need silence—and faith—in order to commune with the spirits.”
    I swallowed hard.
    â€œThe question . . . ,” I said. “Oh, my. The question is from a father who wants to know if he is to blame for the death of his little boy.”
    I opened the envelope.
    â€œThat’s all,” I said. “There are no names or other information on the slip of paper. But the spirits know.”
    I stared at Judge Grout.
    â€œThe spirits say that this poor man has tortured himself for too long for the death of his son. Too long has this man, a respected and learned man, believed that he failed his precious eight-year-old son, Thomas, who contracted scarlet fever and passed over three winters ago.”
    â€œShe’s talking about Judge Grout,” someone whispered.
    I shook my head and put a finger to my lips.
    â€œThis loving child was buried elsewhere, the spirits tell me. Ohio? Perhaps. Or Illinois? No matter. What is important, the spirits say, is that this loving father should know he was not to blame. It was all part of Providence’s plan that this angel of a boy would leave this earth so soon, and that Tommy sends happy greetings from the other side.”
    I paused.
    Judge Grout was slumped in his chair. A cowboy reached out and put a hand beneath his arm to keep him from going all the way to the floor.
    â€œThere is one other thing,” I said. “Tommy wants his father to know that there is no death—that father and mother and son will all be reunited one joyous day in Summerland.”
    Tears rolled down the judge’s face.
    Three cowboys offered bandanas.
    Cheers and applause rocked the hall.
    Jack Calder walked out.
    I went on telepathically reading questions and giving miraculous answers from the other side. The doubting cowboy was right, of course; it was all a trick, an old con known as “the One Ahead.”