Ribbons

Ribbons by J R Evans Page A

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Authors: J R Evans
office. Or his office, he supposed.
    He still hadn’t unpacked his duffel bag, but the house was quiet. Christy and Adam were staying the night at St. Jude Children’s Hospital. So was the cop—no, the police sergeant . That was a fun fact. Matt didn’t want to think about what that might mean for him. Nothing good. Potentially a special kind of bad
    Matt rubbed his forehead. At least Adam seemed to be doing all right now. The seizures had almost stopped by the time the ambulance had arrived. The blood had looked worse than it was. It turned out that Adam had bit the inside of his cheek rather than his tongue. The paramedics didn’t seem too concerned about that. They did flash a light in his eyes and jab an IV into his arm. He must have taken an ambulance ride before, because Christy seemed to know all the right things to say when the paramedics asked. She even had a card ready listing all the medications he was taking.
    Matt had been able to talk to her briefly on the phone to see how Adam was doing. It sounded like they were coming back early the next morning unless there was another episode during the night. Matt hadn’t mentioned the rambling string of words that had come out of Adam’s mouth. He couldn’t really remember exactly what the kid had said anyway. It sounded a bit fire-and-brimstone, but beyond that, it was gibberish. Probably something he had read somewhere.
    Needless to say, Matt had turned off the neon sign after the sirens had faded away. None of the girls seemed to mind. Not even Erica. Matt was glad he didn’t have to deal with her again tonight, though he would likely see her tomorrow.
    He took a deep breath and looked around the office. He remembered that Erica had taken a picture from the desk right after the reading of Uncle Quent’s will. There were several other pictures on the desk, too. Some of girls he recognized, some he didn’t. He picked up one of the pictures. It was of his uncle wearing an apron in the little kitchen downstairs. He was making pancakes. The apron said Kiss the Cook , and Christy was pointing to it while she kissed him on the cheek. It looked like Uncle Quent was tolerating it the way an eight-year-old might tolerate a kiss from a grandparent.
    Matt spoke to the man in the picture. “What the hell were you thinking? Did you think this would be funny?” Matt put down the picture. “It probably is. If you’re not me.”
    Next to the picture was a wooden cigar box. Matt didn’t smoke, but he was curious. He couldn’t remember ever actually holding a cigar. Maybe he would just put one in his mouth and chew on it. He flipped open the lid. “Whoa.”
    Matt reached into the box, and his hand came out holding a pistol. It was pretty for a gun, though he hadn’t seen too many before, and certainly not long enough to take in all the detail. Uncle Quent’s pistol was a revolver. He wasn’t sure if it was considered a big gun, but it seemed like it was somewhere between Maverick and Dirty Harry . It was shiny. Maybe this was what they meant by nickel-plated. The handle was made of some kind of wood—light, with a fine grain. There was scrollwork engraving on the handle and along the barrel, too. Some of the scrollwork suggested writing, but if it was text, Matt couldn’t make it out. Its design didn’t really seem to reflect its previous owner at all.
    He pointed it high and looked along the barrel at the sight. He felt pretty badass. He was tempted to cock the hammer and was wondering if a gun like this had a safety, when he noticed something on the ceiling.
    He lowered the gun and squinted up at the exposed rafters.
    “What . . .”
    He took a step closer. Then rubbed his eyes and tried to blink the image away.
    “The . . .”
    The image remained. Burned into one of the rafter beams was a symbol—an arrow connected to a cross, connected to a circle, connected to a crescent. The lines were thick like a cattle brand, and some sort of old coin had been nailed to

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