The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  Hattie pulled the comforter over her legs and replayed the old story—where Nana Sally’s tale intersected with Tommy’s family tree—in her mind.

  Fulmer and Ellen Brewton included Sally on family outings and travels, treating her almost as a third child. Jackson and Emily accepted her as more an adopted sibling than a servant…a euphemism southern gentry used to put a finer garment on the word slave. Hattie recalled her Nana describing how tragedy struck the family just before the outbreak of the war. By that time, Jackson Brewton had already graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point and returned home from a three-year posting in the army as an artillery officer. Fulmer Brewton served in the Alabama legislature.

  During a meeting laced with secessionist fire, one state senator extolled the virtues of state's rights and called for Alabama’s departure from the Union. Fulmer Brewton stood to urge caution and deeper thought before taking further action. He received, instead, a lead ball in the side of his head from the hothead's pistol. Though mostly a grazing shot, pneumonia followed infection and Fulmer died three and a half agonizing weeks later.

  The process frayed Ellen’s physical and emotional health to the degree that Jackson feared his mother would soon occupy the plot next to his father. Jackson asked Sally to pack his mother's and sister's belongings and he sent them both to his grandparent's estate in Mississippi.

  Ellen remained in Corinth until her death; Emily returned to Vienna to settle affairs after Jackson died in the war. There Emily Brewton met Andrew Brunson, a young Confederate cavalry officer who distinguished himself in several battles. Six months later, the two married and settled in the Brewton house.

  Tommy’s house, thought Hattie.

  “Something happened to you, didn't it Nana?” Hattie took another long look at the picture, as if her questioning eyes could coax the fading image into answers.

  Nana Sally gave birth to a child, Hattie’s father, before the war's end. Rumors flew though Sally never identified the father. And given the state of confusion and lawlessness at the time, nobody took time to care. The boy would grow to manhood and marry twice, resulting in eight children. Only Hattie remained of that family.

  Hattie closed the photo album and emptied the final item from the box, a stack of letters tied by a faded yellow ribbon…all addressed to Sally Jackson by her secret lover during the war. None bore postmarks or stamps.

  Hattie knew each by heart and believed they came from a Confederate officer. That meant Sally's love, and thus Hattie’s grandfather, was a white man. Even the most insistent interrogations by a young Hattie Jackson did nothing to gain the man’s identity. Though Hattie felt certain something happened during the war or just after because the two parted ways.

  Hattie shuffled through the letters and chose one of her favorites. She unfolded the brittle paper and began to read.

  My Dearest Sweetness,

  I hope this letter finds you hale in physical and spiritual health. I apologize for not writing sooner, but rain has fallen each day this week and we dare not pitch a camp in the midst of the Yankees. I assure you, my love, your image remains steadfast in my mind, and my heart speaks your name in every beat.

  I moved the men across the river this morning to afford time to attend to matters such as this. We intend a day’s repose, maybe another night, then to return.

  Please do not worry after me as I remain in splendid health under the merciful countenance of our Creator. Say prayers though, for my men and for all of us to soon witness the end of this struggle. Our soldiers perform heroically, but as more are lost I want for replacements.

  My Dear Love, only my knowledge of you affords me strength to continue the fight; otherwise, I would surely have lain down this meaningless life many months ago to seek the glory of our Father in heaven.

  The matter we discussed at our rendezvous previous remains to the moment both mysterious and unresolved. This morning we chanced upon two Yankee soldiers slain in the foulest manner. The perpetrator of so callous an act against our enemy must surely see justice, or the wrath of the Yankee government will fall upon citizen and soldier in unfettered and equal portions. The men feel foreboding in the air, and although I attempt with earnest to allay their fears, I admit the odd sensation in my consciousness. Use caution in all activities, Dear Love. Please do not venture from the protection of the house and the Yankee garrison until this unfortunate situation is resolved.

  I pray to the Almighty for the day I once again feel your warmth. Know that wherever I find myself, I take you in my heart and that I love you.

  As with the others, this letter bore no signature. Probably for security reasons, Hattie thought. In case it fell into occupation hands. She started to fold the paper when it struck her. Hattie reread the next to last paragraph three times.

  Odd sensation in my consciousness...callous act...slain in the foulest manner…

  Excitement brushed her ribs. Could he have been talking about? She read the rest of the letters in a new light, divining meanings hidden between the lines for a century and a half.

  CHAPTER 38

  Sunday, July 15, 8:55 pm, Warren Anderson’s Home, Vienna, Alabama

  Warren felt helpless as a spider in a porcelain sink. No matter where he turned the view looked the same; and no chance for a foothold. The last few days’ leads resulted in illusory progress at best. Just like the spider, he ended up sliding back down to the starting point of nothingness…the bottom…ground zero.

  Myra's phone call caught him in the fog of consternation. She sounded upset; and that captured Warren’s full attention.

  “What do you mean you can’t contact him?” Warren said. And then, “How long did you say?” Cobwebs evaporated from his mind as she explained that Jolly missed the shift change…overdue by more than an hour and counting.

  Not like Jolly to go missing, thought Warren. Unless it’s bowling night. An ember of hope. Warren would chew Jolly’s kiester for blowing off the shift change. He’d tone it down, though…what was the harm of vamoosing in time to meet the wife? And on a Sunday night. But still, Warren thought. Myra’s next words stamped out that hope just like a cockroach that didn’t have any business being there.

  Aaron Moseley reported finding Jolly’s vehicle—portable radio in the backseat—parked beside a curb. And it couldn’t be just any curb, no such luck. "This curb," Myra said, "was above Copper Gulch. Aaron wants to know what you want him to do."

  "Tell him to stay put…not to leave his squad car or radio contact." Warren thought for a moment and added, "You tell him if he doesn't he'll be looking for another job tomorrow.” Warren added “with my size eleven tattooed on his backside.”

  "You got it." Myra hung up without another word.

  Warren stumbled into his clothes. He couldn’t see how all this spelled anything but trouble. Inside of fifteen minutes he pulled up beside Moseley's flashing lights and Jolly Roger's empty squad car.

  "Get your light…let's take the trail over there and see what we can find."

  Moseley obeyed and followed. Though neither of the two said anything about drawing weapons, Warren noticed they both had them out of the holsters.

  The flashlight cut through darkness…Warren spotted footprints in the muck.

  “Why only one set of tracks?” Warren said.

  Moseley gave no answer and in the silence Warren heard his own stomach gurgle. Aaron slipped and splattered as they reached the spot where the trail descended and Warren found himself on the edge of losing balance several times. They almost followed the trail straight through a clearing when luck intervened.

  Aaron fell, and in his spasmodic descent he kicked one shoe off beyond range of his flashlight. Warren paused and swept his own beam across the field while Moseley played with his shoestrings. The light bounced off a lump of earth. Warren steadied the flashlight and his heart took the shortcut into his stomach.

  "May God have mercy on us," he said.

  Moseley looked to the Chief's fac
e then followed the older man’s gape to the crumpled body of Jolly Rogers…lying face down and still.

  Warren did not delay the call to Huntsville. The HPD helped in setting up the crime scene and about an hour later the ambulance dispatched by the Madison County coroner's office arrived to collect the body. Med-techs waited to tag and bag Warren’s best friend as the Chief went about his business with numbed detachment. He expected it all to stagger him…later. “Got a job to do here,” he thought as he bent over Jolly’s body.

  "What spooked you?” Warren asked his friend’s corpse in a voice low enough that nobody could hear. He teetered on the verge of anger. “Why were you in Copper Gulch…And why didn't you call for backup?" The Chief saw Jolly's pistol lying beside the body.

  "Looks like he chambered a round, Chief," said a husky detective from Huntsville. "Chambered,” the man sniffed the barrel, “but not fired."

  Warren nodded and the detective returned to the business of poking around Jolly's muddy remains. He needed to find something to do, anything to escape the horror of Jolly’s face melded with muck, arms and legs extended at odd angles.

  "I'll check the perimeter," Warren said as he turned and walked away…and stubbed his toe after three steps and nearly took the plunge he avoided earlier. Warren caught himself on one knee and looked down.

  Feels like a brick. He shined the flashlight to his left and right and discovered remains of several bricks, some exposed, others mostly buried in mud.

  Warren turned back to see the coroner's crew preparing the body for removal. He walked over to the group for farewells and thanks. The Huntsville detective said his crime team would remain on the scene gathering evidence for another couple of hours. The Chief grabbed Aaron's arm and leaned toward the young man's ear.

  "Let's go pay a visit to our janitor."

  Aaron looked at the Chief, nodded, but did not seem to be quite there. Warren took a last look at his dead friend.

  "Sorry, old pal," he said as members of the investigative team placed a plastic, zippered bag beside Jolly. "No time to grieve…not if I’m to have someone’s head on a platter."

  CHAPTER 39

  Sunday, July 15, 11:23 pm, Brewton-Brunson House

  Wet chill stabbed through Tom’s terrycloth robe like icy bolts of lightning and the atmosphere felt saturated…as if a micro weather front rolled into the house. Faint vapor puffed with every breath and it reminded Tom of his paper route days. But those were crisp December mornings, not the middle of summer with its ninety-plus degree nights.

  Turned off the darn air conditioner.

  Other matters conspired with the temperature and added to Tom’s worries. Things like the drifter’s murder, Sam's death, Marlin Tilbury's sudden interest in Aunt Hattie; each a rare event.

  But all together, thought Tom. In the space of a few days?

  Unheard of for a town the size of Vienna. And the uncertain romantic involvement completed the mud pie that had become Tom’s mind. His thoughts found their way to Cassie for what seemed the thousandth time.

  He reached for the cordless telephone and dialed the number.

  Sunday, July 15, 11:31 pm, Grimes Hospital, Vienna, Alabama

  1

  Within moments, the nurse found Doctor Walters.

  "Hello, Cassie."

  "Tom?"

  "Yeah. I hope you don't mind, but I'm having a hard time getting to sleep and thought I'd find out how the graveyard shift was treating you."

  "Just fine. Good to hear from you.” It was the truth. “What's up?"

  "Nothing much.” A pause. “Aunt Hattie keeps running through my mind,” he said.

  Cassandra did not reply out loud, but her mind said, “Hope I’m running through your mind, too.” Have to be, another part of her brain responded. He called you…right? She sat down at the nurse’s station as she heard Tom continue.

  "Her medical tests in Huntsville are scheduled for Thursday."

  The statement did not surprise Cassandra, she heard the same sort of words spoken in much the same tone many times before. He’s giving me the opportunity for reassurance.

  Cassandra wanted to throw Tom that bone…she also wanted to remain honest as possible. The first date was her cutoff for bending the truth.

  “Truth is,” her mind said, “Hattie Jackson’s condition should worry Tom.” It did her. She avoided Tom’s implied question and decided to provide truth—watered down a bit—instead of hope. Sometimes the two just did not go hand in hand.

  “Will you be taking her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good,” Cassandra said, “Because the testing might wear her down.”

  Cassandra thought the silence that followed another opportunity offered for her to step in with good news. She fought the urge to provide it.

  "I guess we'll know for sure next week,” said Tom. “But her health is not all that's on my mind."

  "Oh?" Cassandra's tone provided an invitation for more.

  "This Marlin Tilbury guy…their whole deal worries me."

  Tom could not see her gape in surprise. Not more than three hours earlier the Chief of Police and another officer had come to the hospital with more than a passing interest in the janitor. They marshaled him into an examining room and chatted with him at length.

  "I see," she replied but had to force the words.

  Though she would not have thought it possible, Warren Anderson's face showed more stress earlier tonight than it did the evening of the drifter's murder. That other policeman looked worse than any of the patients in the waiting room. It all ended with Marlin in handcuffs, staring at his knees as they drove him away. She knew that much because she watched them through the window in the doctor’s lounge.

  That news would kill any chance for his sleep…and she thought Tom needed rest. Besides, the facts would not change with passage of a few hours.

  Sunday, July 15, 11:34 pm, Brewton-Brunson House

  "Tom, I'm getting off the night shift at around seven in the morning. I'll treat for breakfast."

  "Zero seven hundred in the A.M.?" He feigned shock.

  "If it's too early we could make it later," Cassandra replied.

  Cassie, I'd drive there tonight and stand beside my car until morning. His mouth said, “Free breakfast? I’m in.” He hoped she could not see his grin through the phone lines.

  "Okay, I'll see you at seven."

  "Goodnight, Cassie."

  "Goodnight."

  The conversation failed to help the insomnia. His toes and fingers still tingled in wet air that now seemed everywhere. Even so, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. And to make matters worse that “I’ve got company” feeling from the night before was back…he couldn’t shake the feeling the room was not as empty as it appeared.

  “Somebody's watching me,” and then, “Sure, there is, you stupid jerk," he said and was startled by his own voice.

  2

  The entity hovered over Tom’s bed. The last sixty hours allowed time for burgeoning awareness of self, though confusion still consumed significant energy. It longed for the nearby life force…untapped and shining with promise.

  Despite that lust for existence the entity understood the magnetism represented more than desire…more than an opportunity for a quick meal. It sought Tom for enigmatic reasons no more solid than its own wisp of consciousness. It wanted to communicate. But how?

  The entity reached for Tom.

  3

  Loosing a compulsive shudder in response to cold, hot, and then returning to cold tingles, Tom could not get Marlin Tilbury out of his mind. He reviewed the scant information he gleaned from Aunt Hattie. None of the data seemed remarkable, so he scoured the list a second and third time before an answer finally dawned.

  Aunt Hattie said Tilbury served in the military so Tom reasoned some file must exist at the Pentagon. Progress, he thought.

  He hit the speed dial on his cell phone for the number in Alexandria, Virginia. Tom eyed the clock on the nightstand. Mid
night in Vienna meant 1 a.m. there.

  CHAPTER 40

  Monday, July 16, 00:03 am, Brewton-Brunson House

  "Hello?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded somewhere between sleepy and snoring.

  "Jeremiah, you big pansy, don't you have anything better to do at one in the morning than sleep?"

  "Torch?" Recognition made the voice come alive. "Torch! How you doing, buddy?"

  "Doing great; just thought I'd conduct a no-notice hospitality check on my old backseater Captain turned Major."

  "I'm on the Lieutenant Colonel's list, Torch. Pin on the new rank in two months."

  "You…a Light Colonel? Heck, if you can make that kind of rank I'd be a general by now."

  "Yeah, General Screw-up maybe."

  Both men laughed. Tom heard a tired, feminine voice in the background.

  "Who is it, baby?"

  "Torch Brunson, honey."

  "So how's married life treating you, Jeremiah? I mean, can your beautiful wife still hide her blindness?"

  "What do you mean blind? She knew what heaven looked like when she laid eyes on my bad, black, flight-suited body."

  "I hear you. Just want to know how you blackmailed her father."

  Monday, July 16, 01:04 am Eastern Time, Jeremiah’s Condominium, Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Mike Johnson knew that Tom did nothing on a whim. "So what burning issue compels you to rouse my wife and wake the dog?" He paused and then, “Have to get dressed now…the fur-ball will deposit half his body weight on the floor if I don’t take him out when he wakes up.”

  Tom said, "It's good to hear your voice, I miss you, my friend."

  Not an answer, thought Mike Johnson. That worried him. He forgot about the hour, forgot about the early rise for work later in the morning.

  "You too, Torch." For the second time Mike asked, “What’s up?”