The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  Copper Gulch proved a perfect medium for the exile of Leland Graves because of humiliation before the others—less talented to be sure—who knew him from the beginning. They’d temper an ego run amok. True enough, the business encouraged egos, even fostered them as a corporate best practice, but this Leland Graves soared to new levels of insubordination. Perhaps this little shock therapy in front of the home crowd would nudge Leland Graves back into his old self.

  Those morons do not know picking souls from picking cotton, Leland Graves thought as he watched Hattie Jackson fade further away…and upset a display of small knives that sat behind the counter. She winced at the clatter while he probed with his eyes, sizing up and cataloging her unique aura.

  Here is what the masters did not know: Leland Graves relished the sabbatical. Proximity to Sally Jackson and that wondrous, albeit rebellious—his grin broadened—orb buoyed his attitude and teased him with savory visions of death and his future. And he never grew tired of bullying the others…hoped one would move against him.

  Leland Graves tabled visions of perfect vengeance—his masters, the others, Sally Jackson—and brought the moment back to the business at hand…the girl in front of him. This could end up eons more profitable than anticipated…enough so that he could see the nuclear flash, Not discovered yet, he remembered, of a freelance career mushrooming on the horizon.

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, July 13, 10:47 pm, Vienna, Alabama, Grimes Hospital

  1

  "I’m concerned,” Dr. Walters said. “The lab reports will give us a better picture.” Am I babbling? “Heart irregularities probably caused the episode. She seems normal for her age...all but her blood pressure. A bit low."

  "Heart attack or maybe a stroke?" Tom whispered the words as if to say the possibilities out loud would make them so.

  "I wouldn't rule out anything right now,” Doctor Walters said. “The probability of a stroke is remote; a heart attack, unlikely."

  "Then what is your best guess, Cassie? And," he said, "don't put credence in anything Aunt Hattie tells you. She could have one foot in the grave and swear she felt just fine."

  The way he used her first name again…she was a doctor, not a cocktail waitress. At first Cassandra relished the mean streak in her answer. “Paroxysmal Supra Ventricular Tachycardia,” she said, and regretted the words as each one seemed to crush a portion of color from his face. Shoulders slumped, breath expelled, Tom looked as if the weight of despair would send him to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

  “The short name is PSVT, and it’s much more common among younger people…characterized by a sensation of palpitations and decreased pumping efficiency.”

  Tom did not need to ask the question, she saw it in his eyes.

  “It’s rarely fatal, though it may be an indication of other things.”

  She saw Tom inhale—Finally—at the sound of “rarely fatal.”

  "I don't have enough information. Hopefully the lab reports will tell us,” she said. Both stood in silent in their own thoughts for a few moments. “Anything else you can think of that might help?"

  "I'm not sure,” Tom said. “Like I said, she called in a panic."

  "I suppose Ms. Jackson is the kind of woman who rarely loses composure."

  "Bingo, Cassie."

  The first name again but she did not retaliate this time.

  "Her phone call scared me. I convinced myself I'd find her dead.” He paused, then “I guess you always imagine the worst with family. Anyway, Aunt Hattie never gets sick, not even a head cold,” he said, but after a moment added “more likely she just does not complain. For her to call for help, well, I knew something was wrong.”

  Cassandra said, "The lab tests will take a while. They'll keep your, ah, Aunt Hattie busy."

  “Actually,” Tom said, “Hattie’s more a surrogate mother…or maybe grandmother.” He must have seen the question mark in her eyes. "It's a long story." He softened his voice. "Too long for right now...tonight."

  "Does everyone call her Aunt Hattie?” she asked.

  He acknowledged with a faint smile, but she saw his eyes weren’t smiling. Cassandra turned to the volunteer receptionist. "Page me when you need me." Then, to Tom, "Come on, I'll buy the coffee. It's already been a long night for me and I can use the walk."

  Caught him off guard…for a change.

  They made their way to a break room the size of a state employee’s cubicle: enough space for a coffee maker, a vending machine, and a white linoleum table serviced by four lime-colored plastic chairs that looked ready to surrender. Cassandra found two cups in the sink, rinsed them, and filled each with coffee.

  "How do you like yours?"

  2

  Hot coffee eased his tension. Tom appraised as she fiddled with her cup in the chair across from his. Thick, black hair. Green medical scrubs accented her skin color—malted milk—a hue slightly darker than his.

  He found large eyes most attractive in a woman. Hers dominated the upper half of her face. Wide, expressive, and so deep a chocolate he had difficulty distinguishing where the iris ended and the pupil began. Hispanic? Maybe Italian.

  "I guess it's about time we formally introduce ourselves," Cassandra said. “I'm Cassandra Walters."

  She held out her hand. He took it in his own.

  "Tom Brunson."

  He gripped the soft hand for an instant and then released it.

  "I guess I should ask if you mind if I call you Cassie."

  "Now there's a bit of manners I wouldn't have expected from you about thirty minutes ago,” she said, and then smiled. “Back then I minded, now I don't."

  "Great, Cassie's your call sign; my friends call me Torch."

  She picked up on the pilot talk. "Let me get used to Tom first."

  He held up his coffee mug in a mock toast. She smiled and raised her cup.

  "You are definitely not from this area are you Cassie?”

  "Where do you think I'm from?"

  "I'd guess Florida or California. Tan…sun worshipper and all that."

  "You mean I have dark skin. I'm from Birmingham. I grew up less than sixty miles from here."

  That surprised Tom. "Are your parents also from Birmingham?” He expanded his excavation, prepared to retreat if she became irritated.

  "My father is from Trussville, a suburb, and Europe for my mother." Just because this Tom guy pried didn’t mean he deserved the truth…in personal matters.

  "Let me guess, Spain, Portugal, Italy?"

  “No, she’s from Sweden."

  Cassandra almost laughed out loud at that one.

  White lie, she thought and worked to stifle a sophomoric giggle at the double entendre. She barely knew the guy. That made quibbling legal, didn’t it?

  3

  Tom was uncertain. She might look O.K. in a bathing suit but he could not picture her on the Swedish tanning team.

  "What about you, you don't really seem to fit small-town Alabama yourself."

  Tom replied in the same way any Southerner who can trace their roots beyond the Great War would—in detail.

  "Don't fit here? My family defines here. I grew up down the road in good old Vienna, Alabama, as did my parents, and theirs, and back about five more generations. From there it gets convoluted. The majority of the Brunson clan lives in Georgia.” He paused for a sip of coffee.

  4

  "Still, you don't look like a local. Where did you go to college?" She regretted the question as soon as it came out. What if he never attended college?

  "In Maryland, how about you?" She noticed his subtle attempt to change the subject and fought the urge to follow the conversation down a dirt road.

  "Where in Maryland?"

  "The Naval Academy."

  "Then you were in the Navy?"

  "No, I accepted my commission in the Air Force."

  "What did you do in the Air Force?"

  "If I may quote an age old cliché, If I told you-"

  "I know," she inte
rrupted. "If you told me you would have to kill me. Why don't you give me a hint instead and just beat me up?"

  He smiled.

  “Long story,” Tom said. “How’d you end up in this more rustic portion of our state?

  "The University of Alabama in Birmingham for my undergraduate work. Saved money by living at home. For reasons unknown to me, Vanderbilt University accepted me into their medical program. After that, I came home to fill a residency in a Birmingham city hospital."

  "Why would you leave Birmingham?"

  “Knife fights, gunshot wounds, and accident victims. I needed to get away but love living in Alabama. So I looked for a more,” she paused, “casual area…one close to home. This town gives me more of a chance to help patients avoid death.” She smiled. “Get a bit frustrated at accidents and violence. Up until tonight I have seen neither here."

  Tom didn’t push for details, so Cassandra assumed he understood her reference to the figure under the sheet. Later, she would hear how he faced the Reaper during the Gulf War…so she couldn’t know how the bloody body stretched out on the gurney reminded Tom of both himself and his flying career.

  "Doctor Walters, please report to the emergency room."

  "Looks like Aunt Hattie's lab tests are ready."

  The name slid out so easily, and why not? So many months in Vienna resulted in no real friends, just work and the drive to Birmingham every other weekend or so to visit her parents. And a possible friendship with the curious man across the table gave rise to a bit of electricity…

  Cassandra answered the page.

  Hattie waited in the examining room. Marlin Tilbury, hospital janitor, stood beside her and Nurse Delaney hovered nearby, lab reports in hand. Tilbury wore a smile until he noticed Tom and Dr. Walters approach.

  "So what's the big joke?" It came out brusquer than Cassandra intended.

  "Nothing,” Tilbury said. The janitor averted his eyes as he spoke. “Aunt Hattie just told me about today's editorial from the Atlanta newspaper."

  “Does everyone in town know Aunt Hattie?” said Cassandra. Nobody responded, so "Aunt Hattie is here for a reason. I'll need to speak with her privately.”

  "Yes ma'am, sorry to interrupt,” said Marlin. He steered his mop and bucket down the hallway without another word.

  Dr. Walters thumbed through the lab reports before speaking.

  "No indicators of heart attack, that's the good news."

  "What about her supersonic heartbeat and that PVC thing?” Tom asked.

  Again the pilot-speak, but she needed to ignore that for the moment and focus on the task at hand.

  "Many conditions cause palpitations and shortness of breath, and dizziness, for that matter. Anything from a change in diet, to a virus, to prolonged exposure to heat could induce those symptoms."

  She left something out, mostly because she wanted to discuss this part with Hattie in private, about a classic cause of PVST…fright.

  "You said good news." Tom interrupted. "What's the bad news?"

  "The bad news,” she said, “is that there is no more good news. Latest check shows an acceptable heart rate, but an hour ago I saw significant elevation.” She stopped speaking for a moment and considered. “I’m inclined to admit Aunt Hattie for the night.

  Cassandra saw outrage forming on Tom’s face and fought to stifle a smile.

  “But I don’t think we risk much by sending her home. That is,” she said to Tom, “if somebody stays with her tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Tom said.

  “Good. I’ll release her and schedule some follow-up tests in Huntsville. We want to make sure the good news stays good and the bad disappears."

  Hattie's expression did not change. Dr. Walters expected some show of relief. She found the lack of reaction disconcerting. Surely Aunt Hattie expected some sort of this.

  5

  Hattie closed her eyes. Lord, it’s happening again. And it did once before…the fast heartbeat and the feeling that a mule kicked her in the chest. But that was years ago—decades—and not a single time since.

  6

  "Aunt Hattie, the Doctor says you're in good shape." Tom snapped the spell.

  She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry children. My mind was turning in other directions. Thank you so much Doctor Walters for checking on me."

  Cassandra said, "That is why I’m here. Please don’t miss the follow up."

  "No child, the testing will commence soon," Hattie said in a low voice and to no one in particular.

  Cassandra met Tom's eyes with a question mark. Tom shrugged.

  "Sorry, just talking to myself. Happens when you get old, you know."

  Tom knew "old" did not apply to Hattie. They'd talk later.

  he helped Hattie from the chair—her chest muscles still felt ready to explode. As they broke the sensor and the automatic door whizzed open, the two stopped and Tom bent to whisper something into Hattie's ear. She nodded. He turned back to Dr. Walters.

  "When do they let you out of the penalty box?"

  "If you mean, what time do I get off work, seven tomorrow morning."

  "Meet me at the Blown Oak Airport, four pm."

  "The what?"

  "Blown Oak, take the highway one mile back toward town. Turn off on the third dirt road you see; it’s to the right. The airfield will be about a mile down the road."

  "And why would I do that?"

  "We'll have a six pack of beer then go flying."

  "I hope you're not serious."

  "Sure I am. Not about the beer though, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. I'll take you up in a light airplane and show you the countryside."

  "I don't know. I’ll be tired; besides, I have some stuff to take care of at home."

  Her hesitance encouraged him.

  "And that should take all of about five minutes. Just leave the flying to me. You don’t have to worry about being tired. Hell, you could just sleep in the airplane." He grinned. “Trust me."

  Cassandra’s frown felt contrived to herself so she didn’t think she fooled the others.

  "You children can come for dinner when you're done."

  Hattie's invitation melted Cassandra’s reluctance.

  "Okay, but tentatively. If I'm not there by five o'clock go ahead and start without me. Aunt Hattie, please don't cook any extra food; just in case I don't make it."

  "You look like you could use a home cooked meal, child."

  That old lady could bottle that kindness.

  Tom said, "It's settled, then. Don't be late, Cassie. We'll want to use all available sunlight."

  With that decided, the two turned and disappeared out the automatic doors and into the night.

  She would not mind seeing him again. In less than two hours, he evoked in her indifference, dislike, frustration, and anger…Interest. She glanced at her watch and willed the hands toward seven a.m.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, July 13, 11:20 pm, Grimes Hospital, Vienna, Alabama

  Marlin rolled his mop and bucket into the storage room. It clanked against the far wall, sloshing a pungent brown mixture of water, disinfectant, and the daily grunge. The janitor grabbed the plastic grocery bag he used for his lunchbox, turned out the light, and locked the door.

  Grimes Hospital had not seen its normal weekday night. The murder victim's arrival put the evening staff in a stir. When it came to violence and death, Marlin Tilbury possessed fathoms more experience than anyone in Vienna.

  He understood the fateful implications, did not believe in chance, and therefore harbored significant concerns about the killer and what might happen next. Marlin shook his head at the naiveté of people.

  Danger proved a dogged pursuer over the last forty years. Marlin’s agility ebbed a little each season…it was just a matter of time. Tonight, he and his old enemy converged once more.

  Extra care, he thought as he passed through the clinic’s pale green, concrete-block walls.

  He faced The Man 24-7 during
his stint in Vietnam. The Man showed no face and, at the same time, he possessed hundreds. Faces unseen but ever present, always watching. Marlin never slept easy in the jungle. But Marlin survived when the others did not.

  Private Tilbury kept his weapon clean; even when his buddies drank, doped, or whatever. Private Tilbury’s head sat on a swivel, rarely exposing his back. And Private Tilbury survived The Man; or so he thought. Maybe the skin would show a tone or two darker, maybe no Vietnamese accent this time, but The Man remained constant.

  The Man made Marlin flee shadows and live at the extreme edge of sanity, toes dangling over the precipice. Now The Man found him…and fear wrapped its long, bony fingers around Marlin.

  But fear fit better than well-worn shoes. It propelled him from dive to dive in countless burgs and cities…to Vienna three years before.

  Marlin spent the night drinking coffee in a booth. The town saw few vagrants because nobody tried to roust him and he sat out the night seated against a wall of half-height windows made opaque by the light inside and darkness out. He sensed that The Man lagged far in trail. At dawn, Marlin searched a rumpled copy of the weekly newspaper. By noon, he secured a janitorial position at Grimes Hospital.

  The Army taught him how to avoid mess.

  "Never complain, never explain." This tenet kept him close to anonymous among both the hospital’s employees and town’s people. "Model employee," according to his supervisor.

  Wars never end for the combatants…Marlin Tilbury could have been the poster boy for Vietnam. It began sucking out his teenage innocence on the steamy pavement in Saigon…at Tan Son Nhut Airport. The drain continued over the next months, leaving Marlin sullen and withdrawn and crippling his ability to function. Frightened and dysfunctional satisfied him. Monsters never lurked under the bed of Marlin’s childhood. But then, the child never met The Man.