The 731 Legacy

by Lynn Sholes

The cameraman moved closer, flipped on the camera-mounted floodlight, and focused.

  The man muttered a few words, followed by a flow of frothy blood foaming from his mouth.

  "I didn't understand you," Cotten said, ignoring Ted and going to her knees.

  The fast-approaching sound of sirens heralded the arrival of NYC Fire and Rescue.

  The man tried to speak, with no success. Cotten lifted his head. He coughed, and crimson-lined bubbles swelled and burst out his nostrils. A thin thread of glistening red mucous dangled from his bottom lip.

  She heard the sirens build to a crescendo before suddenly going quiet on the street outside. "What did you say?" she asked him.

  "Step aside! Move back!" shouted security from the direction of the lobby doors as the paramedics rushed toward her.

  Cotten bent close to the man's face. His glazed-over eyes finally found their target and latched on to hers. "Tell me," Cotten said.

  "Black Needles," he barely mumbled before closing his eyes.

  8

  DOA

  After the excitement settled down, employees began filing out of the SNN

  lobby to return to work. Through the glass doors, Cotten and Ted watched the medics load the sick man into the ambulance.

  "What did he say to you?" Ted asked.

  Cotten threaded her tea-colored hair behind one ear and shrugged. "He was delirious. Mumbled something about dirty needles, I think. Probably a junkie."

  "We need to reevaluate our building's security procedures," Ted said, looking over his shoulder at maintenance cleaning up the area where the man had collapsed. He and Cotten walked across the marble floor inlaid with the gold satellite dish and SNN world globe logo. Entering the elevators, Ted pushed the eighth-floor button. "How's John?"

  "He's great. In town for meetings with some people from the FBI and the State Department." She watched the digital floor indicator click off the levels as the elevator climbed to the eighth floor where the network had its news department, video edit suites, and archives.

  Cotten shifted her gaze to Ted's reflection in the polished bronze walls of the elevator, thinking how much she appreciated and respected him. The gray around his temples was becoming more pronounced, and she knew a great deal of it was her doing. He was a handsome black man, with a face etched with strength and eyes filled with a sparkle that always inspired her and the rest of his staff. He was a constant source of unequivocal support—in the best and worst times of her career. And she'd had her share of major screwups. But when she did, Ted was there to remind her that it was okay to make mistakes, just not to make them again. His recent second heart attack forced him to slow down his work schedule and Cotten worried about him, but Ted didn't like anyone fussing over him. Even with the health issues, he still made a strong, commanding figure as news director.

  "It's hard for you, isn't it?" he said to her reflection in the bronze.

  "What?"

  "John coming in and out of your life."

  "It's that obvious?" Cotten looked away.

  "Want my typical fatherly advice?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "Enjoy the time you have together. After my close calls with the Grim Reaper, I've learned to live in the moment, not in the next one. Everything else is a waste of time."

  The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened.

  Ted put his arm around Cotten's shoulders and gave a comforting hug.

  9

  "Live in the moment," he said, then let her exit first. "We've had enough excitement for one day, kiddo."

  "You're right. That guy was pretty sick. Hope he makes it." She glanced around the newsroom at the reporters and editors moving like bees in a hive.

  "Talk to you later, Ted."

  He waved as they parted, and Cotten headed for her office. But something kept nagging like an unscratchable itch; why had the guy in the lobby asked for her?

  ***

  Late that afternoon, a young intern fresh out of journalism school came to Cotten's door. "Here's the first draft of the Shroud of Turin piece, Ms. Stone."

  "Thanks." She motioned the girl in. "Do me a favor."

  "Sure. I'd be glad to."

  "You heard about the commotion in the lobby earlier?"

  "Yeah. Poor guy."

  "See if you can find out which hospital they transported him to and the status of his condition."

  "Do you have his name?"

  Cotten shook her head. "He had no ID."

  "Okay, I'll see what I can come up with." She spun on her heels and scurried away.

  Cotten glanced at her phone for the umpteenth time, just in case the message light was blinking and John had called while she was on the line. She swiveled her chair and peered out her window at Central Park West. This was her favorite time of year, particularly with the leaves turning and the brisk air she enjoyed during her walk to work each morning. Only when the elements would become unbearable later in the season did she give up her sidewalk commute and take a cab.

  She scanned the Shroud story—a report of a new test on pollen traces found in the Shroud of Turin. The pollen was identified as a type of thistle plant calledGundelia tournefortii which was thought to have been used to fashion the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus Christ at the Crucifixion. The plant is found primarily in Israel, around Jerusalem.

  After reading the script, Cotten wrotepossible second segment across the top. She hosted a weekly science-and religion-based program called Relics that explored the facts and myths of ancient objects. This might make a good filler piece, she thought. Her prime story for the next show was the debunking of the bones thought to belong to Joan of Arc.

  She did some line edits on the Shroud story, then a little more research on the Internet. But no matter what she tried to do to distract herself, two things remained on her mind for the rest of the afternoon—John Tyler and the man in the lobby.

  10

  She assumed John's meeting had run long, and was about to pack it in for the day when there came a knock. The new intern stood in her doorway. "Come in. Have a seat."

  The girl smiled broadly.

  "What's up?" Cotten asked.

  After hesitating, she said, "I don't want this to come off sounding like a major suck-up, Ms. Stone, but I just needed to say what an honor it is to be able to work with you."

  "Well, thank you," Cotten said. "You just made my day. And please, call me Cotten."

  The girl smiled again and dropped into a chair. "Did you know we studied you in broadcasting? There's an elective on how ancient religious objects have changed our lives. It's a lot about the impact of your reporting work. When I found out SNN had accepted me into the internship program, I hoped I would just get to meet you, much less work with you."

  "You're awfully sweet, and I appreciate the kind words. We work as a team at SNN, and it's only with everyone giving their all that we make those worthy accomplishments happen."

  "Well, I'm just proud to be a part of it."

  "So, what did you find out about our mystery man?"

  The intern stared at the paper in her hand. "I followed the story right up to a dead end. I can't believe it's the first assignment you give me, and I couldn't..." She looked at Cotten. "I hope you won't be too disappointed in me."

  "Give me what you've got."

  She unfolded the paper and handed it to Cotten. "He died en route to the hospital. The name of the ER physician I spoke to is on there."

  "Did they determine cause of death?"

  "The doctor said that they brought the guy in, but there was some kind of mix-up. Somebody released the body to a mortuary before the coroner picked it up to do the autopsy."

  Cotten rolled her eyes. "How does this happen? Typical of the right hand not knowing, blah, blah, blah. Incompetence at its best. I guess they'll get it straight in the end. So, where did they take the body? You can follow up with the mortuary."

  "That's just it. Nobody could find the documentation identifying the funeral home.
"

  DEVIL'S DEATH PING

  Luther Sutton stared out the farmhouse window at the grave markers where generations of Suttons rested atop a distant crest. Two hundred fifty-five acres of land in the middle of West Virginia had been in the family for over a hundred years. At the age of sixty-three, he was the eldest of Big Thelma's

  11

  brood. And as such, he had ambled up to the graveyard yesterday morning and checked out her spot. A long time ago, she'd laid claim to the space beside Hubert, her husband for over forty years.

  "All the good plots is taken," she said to Luther when they put Hubert in the ground. "Them first Suttons was buried under the trees when the roots was small. Can't dig under 'em now. Oh well, Hubert liked the sun. Hated the winter, he did. Sweat didn't bother him like it does me."

  The thought of laying his mother to rest without benefit of shade made his bottom lip quiver.Gotta plant a goddamn tree, he thought. It wouldn't be right for her to suffer eternally just because

  Papa tolerated the heat. Course in the winter, it would be a different story. And they had some mean West Virginia winters.

  Turning away from the window and memories of his father's passing, Luther's stare returned to the front room where twelve other Suttons had gathered at his request. His step-daddy, Daniel, sat in the corner whittling. Daniel was a good man, but had lost his mind over the last few years. Dementia, the doctors called it. Sometimes Daniel knew where he was and who his family members were, but most often he was no different than a stranger.

  Luther sat on a chair near the window and stroked his gray beard before taking out his watch from the pocket of his flannel shirt. He dangled it by the chain before palming it to see the time. "Guess Mary couldn't make it," he said, referring to one of his sisters. "She's been feeling down in her back lately."

  He returned the watch to his pocket, rested both hands on top of his cane, and propped it between his legs. He took another visual assessment of all those present before rapping the cane on the wood floor. The sound had the effect of a courtroom gavel.

  "I've called this meeting cause of being the oldest child of Big Thelma. Mother is tired now and says she wants to go home to her Maker. I know it makes us all full of sorrow, but she's a good woman and has led a long life. She'll be rewarded in Heaven. She's wanting to say her goodbyes and—"

  "Luther, why aren't you taking her to the hospital over in—"

  Luther slammed the cane on the floor and glared at the interrupter.

  "Quiet, Everett Roy. I'm not finished yet." He cleared his throat. "Mother said Grandpa Calvin came to her last night in a vision and said he was coming to take her home. She said she's ready to go."

  "But Luther," cousin Belle said. "Why—"

  Luther's eyes darted to her. He lifted his cane shoulder height, like it was an extension of his arm, and pointed it at her. "I said I ain't finished yet." His voice, harsh with anger, filled the parlor.

  Everyone lowered their eyes, staring at the worn plank floor. Then Luther spoke again. "Mother said she don't want us taking her back to that new Oriental doctor she saw last week. And she definitely don't want to go to no hospital. Says that's why she didn't let nobody know she was sick. If I hadn't picked up Daniel from his sister's last Sunday and brought him home from his visit, we

  12

  wouldn't have found out Mother was in a bad way. Guess one of us would have checked on her sooner or later. No mind all that, she says her time is come and she wants us to let her go. And she wants to be in the comforts of her own home, not tied up to some machine, surrounded by folks she don't know. Says that's the peaceful way. If you are wanting to speak your piece with Big Thelma, then you'll get your turn, one at a time. But I'm thinking today might be the last day she'll be speaking to any of us. She's real weak and the fever's spiked."

  There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Harlan, Luther's nephew, looked around before speaking up. "I don't think it right that you aren't going to take her to the hospital. It's not just about Big Thelma. What about the rest of us? We need to know what kind of sickness she's got. Maybe there's shots or something that could keep the rest of the family from getting it." Harlan's face reddened and the vein in the center of his forehead bulged. "It ain't right, Luther. From what you told us, Big Thelma's in an awful way.

  And I'm not at all sure any of us should go in there. We could get sick with her fever and take it home to the rest of our families."

  "Nobody's saying you got to," Luther said. "Your choice."

  Thelma's youngest son, Ellis, stood. "I'm going to say my farewells. I ain't scared of catching nothing."

  Luther shot a glare to each face. "While you be making up your minds, I'm going in to tell Mother she has company."

  Luther pushed down on the cane to help him to his feet. Before he turned his back on the Sutton family, he glanced at his stepfather sitting in the corner, a small mound of wood shavings between his mud-caked boots. "Somebody's got to tell Daniel his wife is going to meet her Maker." Then he shuffled to Big Thelma's room and cracked open the door. The sourness stung his nostrils. He slipped in and closed the door, hoping to contain the sickness from getting out.

  At her bedside he took the wet cloth from the basin on the night table, wrung it, and swabbed away the slime of bloody mucous that had dribbled out the side of her mouth and pooled on the pillowcase. He rinsed the rag, wrung it again, and wiped away the crust from her nose and the wine-colored clots from her ears. As soon as he loosened them, a trickle of fresh blood oozed out.

  He didn't blame Harlan for being afraid. Luther had never seen a sickness like this. But he figured if he was to get it, he'd already have it.

  "Mother," he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

  "Luther?" she said, sounding the most lucid she had in the last two days. Swallowed by the black sockets, her eyes were cast over with a gray film, but she seemed to focus. "Luther?"

  "I'm here, Mother."

  "Don't let nobody but the family see me like this," she whispered. "Just put me in the ground yourself. It's the devil's death."

  13

  KEEP SAFE

  "It's not often that SNN is the subject of the news, but today it walked in our front door. Now we're asking your help in identifying this man who wandered into the lobby of our Manhattan headquarters. Please be warned that the photograph we are about to show is graphic. Viewer discretion is advised."

  A close-up of a face appeared. Though SNN technicians had tried to choose a video frame that was not too detailed, it still had to be good enough to make identification possible. The blood on his lips, chin, neck, and corners of his eyes, couldn't be missed.

  "The unidentified man asked to speak to Cotten Stone, our own senior investigative correspondent. Appearing to be gravely ill, he collapsed and later died en route to the hospital. But not before delivering a two-word message to Ms. Stone which she told Headline News was 'Black Needles'.

  "Stone stated that although he seemed delirious and barely conscious, the words were clear. If you know the identity of this man or the meaning of his strange message, please contact the Satellite News

  Network at the toll-free number on your screen or online at w-w-w-dotsatellitenews-dot-org"

  Sitting on her living room couch, Cotten pressed the pause button on the TiVo remote and froze the image of the sick man's face. "It was the craziest thing, John," she said into the speaker phone. "At first, I thought he was a drug addict who wandered into the building after overdosing, but that didn't explain the blood. I figured he wanted help, and my name was the first one that popped into his head from seeing me on the news, and that's why he asked for me. And I just assumed he was talking about hypodermic needles."

  "What was the phrase again?" John asked.

  "You can clearly hear it on the video playback. It was Black Needles." There was a soft clinking sound as she sipped her Absolut over ice.

  "My first impression is the same as yours—a junkie on his last trip. But like yo
u say, that doesn't explain the blood. He may have had some other health issues."

  "Yes, but then you add in the whole issue of his body being taken from the hospital by an unidentified mortuary before the CDC could be alerted and the medical examiner could conduct an autopsy—well, it just struck me as highly suspicious."

  "What if it's nothing more than what the ER doctor suggested, a foul-up in the paperwork?"

  "Maybe. But for the heck of it, I had Headline News run the story, asking for the public to help identify the guy." She drained the glass. "I just finished watching it."

  "Maybe something will come of it."