Dead and Gone

deep theological thinker, I sometimes wondered if crisis moments in my life hadn’t come down to two choices: be a bad Christian or die.
    I’d chosen life every time.
    Was I looking at this right? Was there another point of view that would enlighten me? I couldn’t think of anyone to ask. I tried to imagine the Methodist minister’s face if I asked him, “Would it be better to stab someone to keep yourself safe, or let them go on and kill you? Would it be better to break a vow I made in front of God, or refuse to break my friend’s hand to bits?” These were choices I had faced. Maybe I owed God a big debt. Or maybe I was protecting myself like he wanted me to. I just didn’t know, and I couldn’t think deep enough to figure out the Ultimate Right Answer.
    Would the people I was serving laugh, if they knew what I was thinking? Would my anxiety over the state of my soul amuse them? Lots of them would probably tell me that all situations are covered in the Bible, and that if I read the Book more, I’d find my answers there.
    That hadn’t worked for me so far, but I wasn’t giving up. I abandoned my circular thoughts and listened in on the people around me to give my brain a rest.
    Sara Weiss thought that I seemed like a simple young woman, and she decided I was incredibly lucky to have been given a gift, as she considered it. She believed everything Lattesta had told her about what had happened at the Pyramid, because underneath her practical approach to life there was a streak of mysticism. Lattesta, too, thought it was almost possible I was psychic; he’d listened to accounts of the Rhodes first responders with great interest, and now that he’d met me, he’d come to think they were speaking the truth. He wanted to know what I could do for my country and his career. He wondered if he’d get a promotion if he could get me to trust him enough to be my handler throughout my time of helping the FBI. If he could acquire my male accomplice, as well, his upward trajectory would be assured. He would be stationed at FBI headquarters in Washington. He would be launched up the ladder.
    I considered asking Amelia to lay a spell on the FBI agents, but that seemed like cheating somehow. They weren’t supes. They were just doing what they’d been told to do. They didn’t bear me any ill will; in fact, Lattesta believed he was doing me a favor, because he could get me out of this parish backwater and into the national limelight, or at least high in the esteem of the FBI.
    As if that mattered to me.
    As I went about my duties, smiling and exchanging chitchat with the regular customers, I tried to imagine leaving Bon Temps with Lattesta. They’d devise some test to measure my accuracy. They’d finally believe I wasn’t psychic but telepathic. When they found out what the limits of my talent were, they’d take me places where awful things had happened so I could find survivors. They’d put me in rooms with the intelligence agents of other countries or with Americans they suspected of awful things. I’d have to tell the FBI whether or not those people were guilty of whatever crime the FBI imagined they might have committed. I’d have to be close to mass murderers, maybe. I imagined what I might see in the mind of such a person, and I felt sick.
    But wouldn’t the knowledge I gained be a great help to the living? Maybe I’d learn about plots far enough in advance to prevent deaths.
    I shook my head. My mind was wandering too far afield. All that might happen. A serial killer might be thinking of where his victims were buried just at the moment I was listening to his thoughts. But in my extensive experience, people seldom thought, “Yes, I buried that body at 1218 Clover Drive under the rosebush,” or, “That money I stole sure is safe in my bank account numbered 12345 in the Switzerland National Bank.” Much less, “I’m plotting to blow up the XYZ building on May 4, and my six confederates are . . .”
    Yes, there would be some good I could do. But whatever I could achieve would never reach the expectations of the government. And I’d never be free again. I didn’t think they’d hold me in a cell or anything—I’m not that paranoid. But I didn’t think I’d ever get to live my own life as I wanted.
    So once again, I decided that maybe I was being a bad Christian, or at least a bad American. But I knew that unless I was forced to do so, I wasn’t going to leave Bon Temps with Agent Weiss or