The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  “You said I nuke a mean can of soup.”

  “Oh,” said Tom, “yeah…you do.” An awkward pause and then, “Thanks…hits the spot.”

  Cassandra wanted to ask the question. She wanted to know about the fade-away man she thought she saw sitting on the other side of the room. But then, how could he possibly answer? “Yes, Cassandra, we are both nuttier than pralines,” or “Ghost? Yeah, but I don’t bother him because he doesn’t eat much.”

  She could keep her mouth shut—could do that much—but her blessed brain rebuffed any attempt at restraint. The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself the man was real…not a dream or a vision. Her eyes worked fine.

  Tom's phone rang.

  "Jeremiah? Two calls in one day!” Tom said, and then listened for a moment. "Say what?" she heard him ask, and it looked like he would need a winch to retract his jaw.

  "That's great! I'll leave the front door unlocked. You got the address on Main Street," and then, "She's not with you?"

  He sounded disappointed.

  "No foul, buddy. Even a navigator like you can find my place. See you a little later."

  Tom put down the phone and looked over to her.

  "Jeremiah’s driving here…all the way from Washington, DC"

  "That's wonderful, Tom,” she said. And then, “Why so sudden?”

  "I wondered exactly that." He pushed his lips together and thought for a moment. "Don’t know. But," he said, "It’ll be great to see him.”

  She smiled. Tom beamed too…for a moment. Then the smile fell from his face.

  "Cassie, we need to get over to the police station and check on Tilbury."

  "Why would we do that?" Cassandra asked, hoping he could not come up with a compelling reason to interrupt their evening together. She needed a little more time to figure out how to broach the man-in-chair subject…wanted to get it out in the open.

  "If what Jeremiah said is true, and Jeremiah is never wrong…” He paused. “By the way, don’t quote me on that one. Anyway, no matter what Tilbury’s accused of, the man deserves a fair shake."

  Cassandra frowned.

  "He earned the Medal of Honor. You know as well as I do this guy’s social zip code puts him in another galaxy.”

  Cassandra nodded.

  “Can’t say that I blame them—the police, I mean—but I get the feeling they’re low on fuel and any runway looks good to them about now. Chances are they hauled him in because he’s about as close as there is to a stranger living in town. Heaven knows," Tom added, "If they passed an ordinance against recluses, they'd have carted me away years ago."

  Cassandra stood up, walked around the table, and stopped behind him. She put her chin on his shoulder and lowered her voice.

  "Me too," she said. "But didn’t his relationship with Aunt Hattie trouble you?"

  "The thought still doesn’t thrill me. My doubts don't make him guilty of anything though, do they?"

  "No, I guess they don't," she said, but wondered if he could hear doubt in her voice.

  "So it's settled?" he asked, turning to kiss her cheek.

  "Yes it is," she replied, "You check on Tilbury; I need to go home and get ready for the night shift."

  Tom looked at his watch as if a dog had just squatted and deposited it on his wrist. "Guess it's getting about that time?"

  She heard disappointment and smiled. "I'm just going to the hospital, not to Outer Mongolia."

  "I know, Cassie. I've enjoyed your company. Just don't want it to end."

  "I don't either." She hoped he could not read the full measure of her feelings.

  CHAPTER 49

  Monday, July 16, 7:37 pm, Grimes Hospital, Vienna, Alabama

  Greg Beasley jettisoned Tilbury in the hospital parking lot. The policeman sat in the idling cruiser while Marlin started the engine and backed out of his space, and then Greg pulled in close behind as Marlin drove away. Chief Anderson instructed Beasley to watch Mr. Skinny Spaceman Citizen’s every move…”Make the police presence obvious.” Headlights in the rearview should do the trick.

  Beasley radioed the Chief at regular intervals. If Mr. S. Spaceman Citizen noticed the squad car he appeared unfazed as he drove to the spot above Copper Gulch. Greg parked the cruiser several lengths behind Tilbury and observed as the janitor emerged from his rusted and dented heap and headed straight for the path leading to the crime scene.

  Monday, July 16, 7:48 pm, City Hall, Vienna, Alabama

  "Did I hear correctly?" Warren boomed to nobody in particular while he gathered his hat and checked his pistol. "Tell that boy I'm on the way, Myra. You tell him not to move until I get there. What the heck is going on here? I'd just like to know what the name of the Crimson Tide is happening!" Warren Anderson stormed out. The drive took less than three minutes.

  "Tell me he didn't take that path over there," Warren said as he emerged from his car.

  "That he did Chief. Walked right over like it was his driveway and disappeared toward the Gulch." The younger officer pointed the direction.

  “Son,” Warren said, “Put your arm down. I know where you meant.”

  Warren put his hand over his chin and scratched his cheek; it provided the double benefit of a muzzle to his angry mouth and service to a mosquito bite.

  "Well," he said, resigned to an unpalatable course of action, "let's go see what our little rabbit’s up to.” Anderson stepped over the curb then paused to say without looking back, “And Greg, mind we don't get separated."

  Monday, July 16, 7:55 pm, Copper Gulch

  Marlin's head start put him five minutes in front of Anderson and Beasley. By the time the two took their first step in pursuit, the janitor already made his way over the steep, downhill portion and into the clearing. He recognized the destination…the same broken hovel that Jolly Rogers discovered the previous evening.

  An emaciated wisp of smoke escaped the broken chimney. Common sense begged Marlin to turn around and get as far from this unholy place as his thumb and the highway could carry him. But the shack radiated an ethereal morphine that first blocked clear thought and then sucked free will. It drew him forward until he pushed against the front door.

  A tingling enveloped his body. He sensed that old, comforting familiarity slung over his shoulder and did not need to look down to see his M-16 assault rifle riding low against his hip…his hands found it naturally and it felt right. He also knew something else by feel; his stained, frayed jeans were gone, replaced by the more comfortable and battle-tested jungle camouflage he wore in Vietnam.

  Like a beetle fighting free from its shell, Marlin shed his older part and discovered the young Corporal Tilbury underneath.

  "Welcome, my loyal comrade," the North Vietnamese officer said from a teetering, round-top table. "Punctual, I see. But then, I am not surprised. We expected no less."

  Marlin closed the door behind him. The black man and Rufus scowled from chairs on either side of the NVA. A fourth chair sat vacant.

  "Come and sit Corporal Tilbury," his smiling host invited. "We have much to discuss."

  CHAPTER 50

  Monday, July 16, 8:55 pm, Copper Gulch

  Anderson and Beasley scoured the trail for another hour…no sign of Tilbury…like the little scoundrel melted into Copper Gulch.

  "Doesn't make sense," said Warren Anderson…and then, “Beasley, let’s call this search off.” Warren reran the last sentence through his mind and stifled what surely would have sounded like a lunatic’s cackle.

  Search my big white button, he thought, no search going on here. He looked at Greg Beasley, but only for a moment because Warren could not stand the confused look on that face…and feared Beasley might detect same on him. Pitiful...and Warren didn’t mean just the search. Not more than an hour ago he thought that old Tilbury’s lawnmower was missing its blade. And now Tilbury proved smart enough to fool two thirds of the Vienna PD—Would have been all had Mosley been here.

  "The darn path leads from the street, through the cl
earing, and into the mud and water…No way anyone could get through the swamp." Greg nodded but still didn’t look so sure about anything. And then:

  "What in the name of…" Beasley said as they reached the street.

  Warren looked up and what did—or more precisely, did not—catch the boy’s attention flashed through Warren’s mind like a neon danger sign. Parked along the curb he spied his own squad car, Beasley’s…and nothing else. Sometime during their muddy trek, Mr. Tilbury returned to his rust bucket, and slithered away.

  "Son of a female Doberman," Warren said.

  "Don't see how it's possible, Chief. We must of passed him."

  Gotta calm down, Warren thought.

  "Let's take a trip over to Mr. Tilbury's place and look for our slippery pal."

  Marlin was there…at his apartment…the car was not. The old sedan would never show up again. Since no laws existed against either hiking or perhaps dissolving one’s own car, the VPD could only maintain surveillance.

  Monday, July 16, 9:33 pm, City Hall, Vienna, Alabama

  "Howdy Chief, came to see about Marlin Tilbury." Warren turned from the coffee pot and took a seat on top of his desk before answering.

  "You're a bit late for that, Tom. We already sent Mr. Tilbury back into the world." Given the peculiar behavior of the janitor, the Chief felt compelled to amend his poor choice of words. "Back into his world."

  Warren's frustrating day made him unreceptive to the conversation about to take place. Unreceptive, that is, until Tom said,

  "I've found some information on Tilbury you might find interesting."

  Anderson stood, found his way to the coffee pot, and poured another cup.

  "Let me buy you a cup of coffee, son. And suppose you tell me what you think I'll be interested in."

  Tom repeated Jeremiah’s story as he did earlier with Cassandra. The Chief sat rapt, not moving, not speaking, and not giving his coffee proper attention while Tom explained Tilbury's heroics during the Vietnam War. The tale ended with how the government lost track of Marlin about a year after President Nixon presented the Medal in a Rose Garden ceremony.

  "I'll be darned," Warren said, and his expression looked more dumbfounded than darned. Warren picked up his coffee cup, looked into for a second, and then slammed it back to his desktop. "I'll be good and darned."

  CHAPTER 51

  Monday, July 16, 10:01 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House

  Hattie burrowed into the quilt and clicked on Huntsville's local news. She kept the volume low until completing the nestling routine. Comfortable and warm, Hattie turned her attention to the tube and allowed the lead story to register in her mind. In less than a second she grasped for the remote control, not caring that she undid all the careful preparation.

  "Vienna police officer found dead in wooded area."

  Hattie doubled the volume.

  "The body of Patrolman John Rogers was discovered by Vienna police officials last night, evidently the victim of a homicide." The story went on to outline bare facts released by the Huntsville Police Department's public relations division.

  Monday, July 16, 10:01 pm, Copper Gulch

  1

  Outside Hattie's house, beyond the honeysuckle and well into the Gulch, a swirling wind formed in the summer darkness. Fine mist rose from damp wild grasses and kudzu that guarded approaches to Jolly’s clearing as the wind gained velocity. It flattened into a thin black line that suspended itself vertically above the mush.

  A ripping noise and the line opened a gash between two levels of existence. Sounds from the Copper Gulch side of the line ceased as if God had hit the mute button…even the mosquitoes knew enough to keep quiet. Leland Graves stepped through the portal and then shut it.

  He would conduct this sortie solo…even admiring eyes could pry from time to time and Leland Graves knew this visit would land him east of Corporate Policy.

  The prize, thought Leland Graves…and anticipation of controlling the perfect orb…Intimidate the creditor, lock out the old ones.

  “They of the Great Unsigned Contract,” Leland Graves said out loud. He paused to listen for a response—from this world or his—and smiled when none came. “You would not change a thing,” he said and understood the creditor would not respond.

  The way Leland Graves saw it, the creditor survived on vengeance…and destruction wrought by a contractual breech would end the continuum of vengeance…render the creditor’s existence meaningless. “You need us more than we need you.”

  Leland Graves resumed his short journey. The perfect certainty of his logic and the endless possibilities for the future made him tingle…and that made him stop once more.

  Never in the history of his kind had a transaction report made mention of a tingle.

  2

  The auditor felt the situation growing beyond his ability. Authority insisted Leland Graves’s vanity would make watching and reporting simple tasks.

  “Always leaving the door ajar,” ensured Authority. “Like King Hezekiah allowing the Babylonian envoys a peak at the treasury…and the armory,” he said.

  And Authority seemed to lose interest in the auditor’s questions at that point. He had a reputation for nostalgic interludes at the mention of Babylon.

  Despite the assurances, here the Auditor stood as helpless as the feebles surrounding him, behind a closed portal…with no way of opening it.

  3

  Leland Graves shook away the doubt…or at least he tried to. Too much was at stake…a new corporation on the horizon with Leland Graves at the helm. One could expect glitches in such complex undertakings…Couldn’t they? He decided yes and continued according to plan.

  No sounds emerged as he crossed over briars and moist, fallen branches and he kept a measured pace, even when the first step on Hattie’s street fomented anticipation. He could see her now, right through wood and drywall.

  Monday, July 16, 10:03 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House

  1

  Policeman murdered? Hattie grabbed her cordless phone and punched in Tom’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  "Tommy?" She forced calmness into her tone.

  "Hey Aunt Hattie, what's up?"

  "I need to talk to you…Tomorrow."

  "About? Hey, are you feeling OK?" His voice reached through the phone line and touched her heart. "Do you want me to come over?"

  Hattie considered but decided it best to take a day for preparation; to collect her thoughts.

  "No, there’s no emergency, baby. Tomorrow would be fine. Can you make it?"

  2

  Leland Graves watched and listened...this body he used did not possess a soul, but it did have a finger. He reached for Hattie Jackson’s door.

  3

  "Sure, Aunt Hattie, anytime," Tom said. He hoped she would pick any time but the morning, when Cassandra’s shift ended, or the evening, when he planned to take her to dinner.

  "How about supper?"

  Air rushed out of his balloon. He paused to formulate his answer, and to give his brain a moment to tap its small store of diplomacy and tact.

  "Could we make it earlier?" It sounded weak to his own ears. A better excuse bloomed.

  "I’ve got an Air Force buddy coming in.”

  "Good. I'll expect you to bring them both along.”

  “Both?”

  “Tommy, I may be old but…”

  “Okay. Okay,” he said. “I’ll bring Jeremiah…and Cassie.” Cassandra wouldn’t mind…Jeremiah; he’d just have to get over it. Besides, he wanted to talk to Aunt Hattie about Tilbury.

  “Be here at Six thirty," Hattie said. "I'll have supper ready by seven."

  Tom never refused a request, or as in this case, an order, from his Aunt Hattie.

  "Yes ma'am," he said. "Six thirty."

  "See you tomorrow, baby."

  Tom heard Aunt Hattie’s doorbell ring.

  Hattie said, “I’ve got to go now.”

  Monday, July 16, 10:03 pm, Marlin Tilbury’s Apartment

/>   Marlin Tilbury sat on the edge of his bed. Trapped. No matter deeply he pondered, all roads led Marlin to the same dead end conclusion. Even suicide, a possibility several hours ago, would prove useless. Death, he somehow knew, would bind his soul in servitude to the North Vietnamese officer.

  He considered the police…and laughed.

  The more he thought the more he understood his best bet for continued existence lay in cooperation with the NVA Officer…and he already proved himself too much of a coward to do anything else. Equally afraid of consciousness and sleep, Marlin spent the rest of the night seated on the corner of his bed; awareness slipping from his brain like raw grits from an open palm.

  CHAPTER 52

  Monday, July 16, 10:05 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House

  1

  Hattie turned on the porch light and opened the door. The motion swept sweet honeysuckle past Hattie’s face and she looked up to see the late-night visitor standing with his back to the door. Cloud cover defeated attempts by the moon to shed light on the earth below, and a thousand different Alabama insects chirped in desperate warnings as the visitor turned to face Hattie.