The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  2

  Best practices dictated that the transaction never catch sight of the hand stirring the pot. But many millennia elapsed since Leland Graves combined that rule with many of the others and turned them into his version of a handkerchief. And now here was Hattie Jackson, granddaughter of Sally, standing near enough for..

  That aura.

  The tingle.

  That mysterious sensation returned and now Leland Graves wanted to lose himself in a marvelous shudder that worked its way from chest to head and then back down to toes. It was as if a piece of Hattie Jackson’s aura found its way into his essence. Leland Graves wanted more.

  “All,” he said as much to himself as to the old woman and the greed he heard in his voice acted to tinder a fire that threatened to burn away self-control. Leland Graves understood the perilous situation…the perfect aura…the orb that flew away—But not up—the Great Unsigned Contract. He moved to withdraw the blade from his walking stick much as the drug addict had withdrawn a needle of his own before spilling his orb into Copper Gulch a few days prior. Leland Graves fought to think…struggled for some measure of prudence to exert control. He spoke.

  “Now.”

  3

  Hattie could feel her heart quicken in the same way you feel the speed of a car build on a tar road if the accelerator is all the way down and the windows are open. The world began to spin…but only the background blurred. Leland Graves remained in rock-steady focus…and her eyes were pinned to his face…to a smile so malevolent and knowing.

  “You,” Hattie said as she began to wobble and then felt balance give way.

  “Me,” said Leland Graves…and he returned the half-drawn blade to the walking stick.

  Hattie saw the mock bow…the salacious wink.

  “All will be mine,” Leland Graves said. And then he repeated “All.”

  Hattie felt death waiting for her like some gaudily-dressed usher reaching with skeleton’s hands for her life’s ticket to rip it in half and open passage into the dark room beyond.

  Death, Hattie thought…and for the moment it was all that mattered to her. Her death...and she wasn’t ready to go…couldn’t see how she ever would be. She gasped as the full weight of her body landed on her knees.

  “Didn’t invite you,” she said…and in the foggy cavern her mind Hattie wondered where those words came from. That mystery ended when Hattie’s face hit the ground.

  4

  Body lies before me, thought Leland Graves, and that much was true. But Leland Graves once more found himself confused…hesitant. The body never interested him because shells provide no rewards.

  Body. The word skipped through his mind and brought him to the verge of something important…he could feel that much. He thought of Sally Jackson…of the dead soldier Jackson Brewton and the perfect orb.

  Body. Knowledge just beyond his reach, as useless to him as the grapes to Tantalus. Defeat the body, own the soul. It worked before…but not always, thought Leland Graves. He invested too much into this to forfeit the fair day goose through misstep.

  Body…heart is weak, easy enough; his kind could sense and leverage human disease. A faraway bell tinkled a hint. “Heart is weak,” said Leland Graves. “Body is weak.” Thomas Brunson and Cassandra Walters came to mind. “Body is weak,” and Leland Graves thought he understood…the reason why attacking corollaries sometimes closed challenging transactions.

  Though he did not touch Hattie—obeyed the commandment of the Great Unsigned Contract—Leland Graves did organize her return inside the house. That sorted, he retreated.

  CHAPTER 53

  Monday, July 16, 11:53 pm, Main Street, Vienna, Alabama

  Mike “Jeremiah” Johnson stopped his car beside the first old house on Main Street, read the number, and collected his bearings. "Should be the one over there," he said, and laid eyes on Tom’s ancestral home. Man, it's big. On the trail of that thought, Big…and lily-white Southern. A light shone outside on the front porch. He parked along the curb in the front yard and opened the door.

  Wet heat stifled his first breaths. Steam room in the Pentagon gym. Jeremiah took another breath. Pentagon gym never smelled like honeysuckle. He slammed the door and faced the house, and that’s when he put to words the question that bothered him for the past four hundred miles. "What am I really doing in Vienna, Alabama?" An answer returned from somewhere deep inside his mind.

  I'll tell you what you're doing. Turn your butt around, get back in your new car with its independent left and right seat air conditioning and brand new payment book, and get away from this redneck town and its street full of white mass’r houses. Renegade thoughts? Maybe not, thought Jeremiah, though he did feel ashamed.

  Afraid you'll slip into a time warp and they'll sell you down river? He forced a grin even though it did not seem funny. That's it, isn't it, Jeremiah. How many brothers broke their backs to build this house? He thought perhaps that perfume smell—the honeysuckle—couldn’t quite conceal the stench of that ugly truth.

  He took a self-conscious glance around…just in case someone was watching. Nobody there. Great. Jeremiah shook his head and a thousand memories flashed through his mind.

  Their first ride together in fighter training …One hundred officers' club bars in every corner of the world…The missile and Torch’s aggressive but futile fight to defeat it…Pulling Tom Brunson's limp body out of the parachute harness on that god-forsaken patch of hell in middle of the Arabian dessert. Finally, he remembered the hospital stay that left his friend bitter, changed, and without a career. A sad smile formed on Jeremiah's lips.

  Maybe it's the heat. He took another long glance up and down the dark street. “Maybe it's because I've ended up on the moon and I forgot my passport.”

  A metallic creak startled Jeremiah. The door inched open and man dressed in gym shorts and a "Beat Army" T-shirt emerged from behind the heavy oak.

  "Jeremiah! What the hell you doing trashing up my street with that hunk of junk?"

  Jeremiah’s hesitation evaporated.

  "Say hunk of junk? I just parked it here because the man down the street says you detail cars. And don’t go using a fake chamois.”

  They laughed. Tom approached his ex-backseater.

  Let's take a day, go fishing, then I gotta be back at the Pentagon. Jeremiah rehearsed the words and almost let them pass his lips. But Tom looked...Terrible, Jeremiah thought, and it made his heart sink a few octaves. A slight limp…Hair’s long…no shave.

  The two men embraced, both trying to blockade lumps forming in their throats.

  "Good to see you, Jeremiah." Tom's whisper barely broke the silence. "Come on in." Each grabbed a suitcase from the trunk.

  "How was the drive?" Tom led Jeremiah to the front door.

  "So easy it should be illegal. Highways just…” Jeremiah paused before stepping through the threshold. Though muted by his conversation with Tom, the little voice inside still pleaded, Go Home. Turn around.

  "Highways just about what?" Tom kept walking though Jeremiah stopped.

  "Just about all the way," Jeremiah said as he resumed his stride.

  The instant he entered Tom's house all doubts as to whether or not he wasted the drive evaporated. Thick. The only way the mind could describe what his body felt. The atmosphere felt thick and weighty. As Tom closed the door, an impulsive urge spurred Jeremiah to stop him. Can't we just leave it cracked a little? Let the rest of the world know we're in here. He held his words as Tom slid the bolt into the lock.

  "This way to the Presidential Suite, sir," Tom said in a Cambridge accent.

  Jeremiah followed up the stairs and into the guest room.

  Jeremiah said, "Pretty fancy," and then, “You watch the decorating channel?”

  Tom ignored the remark. "Television's inside here." He opened a cabinet. “Why don't you unpack, settle in, and I'll grab some refreshments."

  "Thanks Torch."

  Jeremiah watched as his friend disappeared through the door. He tu
rned to the bed, noticed all the pillows, and wondered how long it would take—or even if he could—set the thing right in the morning.

  No wonder he always passed me the tab, boy spent all his money on bric-a-brac and potpourri. Jeremiah grinned at the thought of Tom in an accessory boutique. He pulled out his cell phone and Celia answered on the first ring. Already he missed her more than he would admit to himself or anyone else.

  As he spoke, Jeremiah felt a third sensation settling its arms around him. What’s with me tonight? At first the feeling pawed, and then it squeezed him to the point he thought his ribs might crack. “I'm supposed to be here.” He spoke the words before better judgment halted them. Celia, in mid-sentence description of some event or other at the office ceased talking.

  "What did you just say?"

  "Nothing baby; just a random neuron firing in the brain." He waited for a reply but she said nothing. "You know dear," he filled the uncomfortable silence, "I hate when that happens."

  "Listen baby," she said.

  Jeremiah cringed. “Listen baby,” was usually followed with some sharp but accurate observation.

  "Promise me," she said, "you'll get some sleep tonight. I know it's been a while for you two, but don't try to catch up on the backlog in one night. Call me if you need me …and for sure when you wake up tomorrow.”

  Jeremiah pushed the off button and the room went quiet. He winced. "Supposed," he said, “in the middle of Celia's story. What did I say? I'm supposed to be here?" Jeremiah wondered why, despite the moist heat outside, the room felt chilly.

  Not just cold. Like the air around me is to sucking out warmth. He glanced down and observed hundreds of tiny goose bumps dotting his forearms.

  Tom’s got the AC set on Antarctica. Nobody could afford that bill in this heat. To prove the point, Jeremiah put his hand in front of the air conditioning outlet just above the bed. He felt nothing…no frigid air, no breeze of any sort. Unexpected.

  Supposed to be here kept turning through his brain. Jeremiah attempted to shift his focus.

  What's taking Torch so long?

  CHAPTER 54

  Tuesday, July 17, 00:23 am, Grimes Hospital, Vienna, Alabama

  Cassandra floated on clouds of light sleep, the place where the brain sees fine but is also willing to follow stray butterflies down rabbit holes. A lull in business offered opportunity for a nap and Cassandra made avail of an ER bed…in the treatment cubicle hidden in the far corner.

  Footsteps, and her mind saw Tom walk into the ER and lay down beside her. She found that warm, protecting cranny of a man’s body and snuggled in. Calm and still—just like yesterday—Tom kept his arms a modest distance from her breasts and legs…at first.

  But hands began to move and soon the soft lover’s touch morphed into intrusive gropes. To make matters worse, a foul odor filled her nose. The stench disarmed as much as it confused and combined with the rakings across her leg, represented violations both inside and out.

  Cassandra reached one hand to bat away the assault and the other to fend off the horrible odor. She grasped the offending arm…an arm that felt nothing like Tom.

  Skinny, she thought, too skinny for Tom...and cold.

  Laughing brought her to consciousness.

  Cassandra's eyes opened and focused on a stranger. A tallish, beanpole thin black man stood over her waist. He grinned and raised his wrist…the one Cassandra still held.

  "What the?" the horrible odor stifled her words. Her hand released the man and flew reflexively to her mouth, as if its presence could block the vomit marshaling for eruption.

  "Hello again, Missy."

  She jumped from the sudden voice belching from the bed's other side. Rotten Teeth…the man from the airport. Cassandra wanted to scream for help...to reach under the covers and find a scalpel or clamp or something. Fear bogged movement.

  "If you don't leave this instant I'll call security," she tried to sound brave. Cassandra made an effort to sit up. She stopped short when the fat man pressed a long, rusty-looking knife to her breastbone.

  "Go ahead, Missy, summon more." He formed his mouth into a gaping grin. "But then, your soul might answer to a larger till."

  Tuesday, July 17, 00:24 am, Brewton-Brunson Mansion, Vienna, Alabama

  Jeremiah rummaged through the box for the last slice of pizza. He sat on the bed, Tom on the guest room sofa as they watched the Braves battle the Dodgers…an early morning cable TV repeat.

  "So how have you really been?" Jeremiah's question was more a statement.

  Tom wanted to tell Jeremiah about Sam Howard and the accident at Blown Oak. He wanted to say that since Hattie's medical scare and the transient's murder down in the Gulch a few days earlier, things around town seemed different. The policeman's death sent just about everyone stepping right up to the edge of panic. And his house.

  What could he say? How about, “Yo Jeremiah, don't worry about ghosts and goblins.” Tom wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. “You've got to understand I'm skittish because I'm not quite used to the place. I've only lived here my entire life.” He brought the cola bottle to his mouth…mostly to suppress a lunatic’s cackle. Tom's hesitation spoke volumes.

  "Beam down Torch,” Jeremiah said. “I forgot how a simple question can put a pilot in mental gridlock.”

  "Okay, I guess." Tom smirked at his own cowardice.

  "How about the love life?" Jeremiah shifted topics. "You know, she calls every six months or so.”

  That got Tom’s attention.

  “I don't think she’s so enamored with that guy. Probably not too exciting after living with a real United States Air Force fighter pilot," Jeremiah said.

  Tom said, "I think that's the first time I've thought about her without having to pull the dagger out of my chest and clean blood off my floor." He thought for a moment and said, "Got to admit old buddy, the love life's going pretty good right now."

  "Before you go any further Torch, calm my fears."

  "About what?"

  "I don't want to hear about her until you assure me she's not something you deflate and stow in the morning."

  Tom chuckled. "Not only human Jeremiah, but also a fine judge of men," he said.

  "She can't be overly smart."

  "She's a doctor."

  Jeremiah gave Tom a nodding, sideways glance. "When do I get to meet Florence Nightingale?"

  "How about breakfast in the morning? Right now she's pulling the late shift in the emergency room."

  Tuesday, July 17, 00:27 am, Grimes Hospital, Vienna, Alabama

  Cassandra fought the urge to scream.

  "That's a good girl, Missy. Nice and quiet," the fat man said. Then to his partner, "Whatcha think there Julius? Like to have this for your own?"

  "Looks like to me Rufus," the black man said. "I could have this one as I please." He punctuated the statement by running a spindly finger from her knee up to her thigh.

  Cassandra felt as defenseless as her cadaver in medical school.

  "Hate to intrude on y’all’s courting’" said the fat man, "but I want you to know old Rufus McCarran here, he knows all about your ilk."

  He leaned closer and his face hovered inches above her mouth…he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I know what you planning with that half-wit white boy of yours."

  Fetid breath made her gag.

  "You see, Missy, I ‘came quainted with a whore just like you a few years back."

  Cassandra pressed the back of her head harder into the pillow…anything for a little space.

  "That woman fooled about everyone." He moved the blade between her shirt's buttons then slid it underneath all she wore. "But didn't fool me at all.” He grinned. “Daddy always said dark and white meat goes on separate plates." The blade moved along the entire length of her delicate skin beneath. "We fixed her. Yes ma'am, we fixed her but good."

  Cassandra wanted to grab the knife and push it away. She closed her eyes and prayed the two would disappear when she opened then once more. She almost di
d what survival experts say not to do…she came close to giving up all hope.

  "So you’re not as invincible as you thought, are you Dr. Walters," her mind said. "Thought everyone in the world would quake at your confidence and harsh tongue.”

  To her tormentors, “If you're going to kill me then do it or get on out of here!" Even as the words passed her lips she wanted to retract them.

  The fat man brought his sweating lip into a snarl and Cassandra saw her doom reflected in his black eyes. Someone new stepped through the door at the other end of the ER.

  Gracious no! her mind pleaded. They're going to kill me. The fat man moved the knife to Cassandra's temple.

  "No ma'am," he said in a barely audible tone. "You ain't fooling no one again."