The Apostasy

by Ted Minkinow

  "Didn’t get much sleep at the emergency room last night. Mind if I lie down for a nap upstairs?"

  "Of course not.”

  She stood. "Jeremiah, it's great to meet you."

  6

  Both men followed her progress out of the kitchen and after she disappeared, Tom turned to Jeremiah with a grin on his face.

  "Not bad, Torch, not bad." Jeremiah nodded as he spoke.

  "What do you mean not bad," Tom replied. "She's a once in a lifetime."

  "That would be Celia Johnson. But if you really feel that way my friend," Jeremiah said, his tone turning serious, "treat her right.”

  Tom did not reply.

  “Oh, and one other thing," Jeremiah added, almost as an afterthought. "I applaud your emerging standards."

  "What are you talking about?"

  “Man, don't you see it?"

  "See what?” Tom furrowed his brow and Jeremiah decided his old pilot really didn’t know.

  Jeremiah smiled. “Your new and incredibly beautiful lady is at least one-half African-American." Jeremiah relished the shock on his friend's face and added, "I heartily approve.”

  7

  Tom sat on the floor beside Cassandra’s bed for more than an hour…she slept a restless sleep that left her tangled in the comforter. At times her breathing sounded frantic.

  "Who are you fighting?" Tom said in a whisper. His mind answered, but not the way Tom expected.

  Half African-American. That’s what Jeremiah said before he left for his own nap. Tom looked at Cassie’s skin and it made sense to him. What would my parents say?

  CHAPTER 59

  Tuesday, July 17, 1:31 pm, City Hall, Vienna, Alabama

  Warren Anderson had forgotten what it felt like to get drunk. He seldom cracked a beer since becoming Chief of Police for Vienna and never permitted anything stronger to pass his lips. Tonight he planned to address that record. Feet propped on desk, outer room barred from sight by his door, he reached far behind the files in the third drawer and retrieved the bottle.

  First came the vagrant, John Doe. The council worried more about town image than they did old Johnny. Age would mellow that murder in the same manner it made the whisky slide down easier…an urban legend in the making…some respectable scare value to campfires.

  Sam Howard. It would end up a suicide, heart attack, or maybe some other bad but identifiable event that happens when old men fly small—Experimental—airplanes.

  Take the two deaths one at a time or put them in a bowl together and stir. Nothing…no common thread…mutually exclusive and statistically independent. Warren took a sip. Until you throw in Jolly Rogers.

  Three deaths in as many days and whenever the left side of the Chief’s brain claimed inroads toward a solution…the right side blew raspberries. Tilbury seemed promising at first, but now?

  Dead end, Warren thought. And then, At least he won’t be coming by for an apology.

  Tilbury’s apartment burned to the ground; and it happened within an hour of the Chief’s departure from that spot. Arson was involved. Unless that old Jerry spilled itself all over the apartment then struck a match to boot. He took another pull on the bottle and hoped the little weasel took over Eric Rudolph’s lease in North Carolina.

  Warren refilled his glass. "Stuff is actually beginning to taste good," he told nobody as he plopped back into his chair. He peered through blurred eyes at a photograph hanging on the wall opposite him. "Fourth of July, 1976."

  The entire Vienna PD posed for the picture, no wide-angle lens required. Warren saw himself in living color and twenty or so pounds lighter, staring back from the dime store frame. He also saw Jolly Rogers.

  "Jolly, you stupid son-of-a..." Warren dropped his head to his hands.

  "Howdy Chief, hope you don't mind my coming in to see you."

  The voice startled him. Warren looked up to see a generously overweight, middle-aged white male standing a few feet in front of his desk. The clothes appeared homespun, his hair looked like an advertisement for Quaker State, and the smell spoke for itself.

  Could knock a buzzard clean off a decomposing skunk at half a mile.

  Beyond the stranger, the Chief could see that the office door remained closed and he wondered how the toad snuck in.

  "Just who in Hades are you?" Warren asked, neglecting to add the civic “sir.”

  "The name's McCarran, Constable. Rufus McCarran."

  CHAPTER 60

  Tuesday, July 17, 1:31 pm, Brewton-Brunson Mansion, Vienna, Alabama

  1

  Jeremiah did not protest when, due to afternoon temperatures, Tom scrubbed the fishing excursion. They would remain indoors until time to depart for Hattie's house. Tom pointed to an antique mahogany bookcase with glass doors.

  "Jeremiah," he said, "pick your movie."

  Jeremiah moved to the bookcase and pulled a DVD from the hundred or so on the shelves. Cassandra chose next, and as Tom ejected the second movie Cassandra said, “Time out for a popcorn break,” and left to nuke another bag.

  "What's it going to be?" Tom said. He shuffled through the stack. “The Outlaw Josey Wales ought to wash the taste out of our mouths." Tom looked up to see Jeremiah gazing out the window. "How about a self-help video to combat a wandering mind."

  “Nearly right, Torch,” Jeremiah wanted to say, because the two movies screened thus far commanded less than half his attention. Everything else focused on the Confederate cavalryman…the visitor last night.

  Why had his brain cooked up that character? Earlier contemplation regarding slave, master, and the construction of this house? The old black and white newsreels depicting the struggle for civil rights in Alabama? The Confederate seemed frantic to hide something...and Jeremiah remembered the letter…the stash of letters.

  “Kirk to Enterprise, beam down Commander Johnson,” Tom held the TV remote to his lips as if it were a space communicator.

  "Sorry, Torch." Jeremiah decided to finesse his question. "You've got a lot of nice antiques around here."

  "Cracker crap is how you put it last night."

  "Don't interrupt my first serious thought of the day. Celia's been after me to find some antiques to spruce up the house. Maybe you can help."

  "You know," Tom said, "I'm getting nervous Cassie's going to get back before we get the next movie going. If that happens, we're in for another hour and forty five minutes of..."

  Jeremiah would not allow himself to get sidetracked.

  "I've seen a lot of old furniture in your house. Have I missed anything?"

  Tom considered. "Only what's in the attic."

  "Mind if we go and have a look? I mean, it could give me some ideas as to what's available…you know, impress Celia."

  "Sure," said Tom. "But I hope you know it'll cost us our turn with the movie selection."

  Cassandra returned as the two men stood. "Come on, Cassie, we're going furniture shopping." She followed them up the stairs.

  Jeremiah half expected the cliché, a dark, musty room containing oversized furniture draped in dusty white sheets, and maybe the obligatory birdcage or ubiquitous baby pram. What he saw instead when Tom opened the door—not locked and no skeleton key—and pushed it open—no spine-buzzing creak to the hinges—was a clean, well-organized storage area.

  “My lord, look at this,” Cassandra said after Tom opened the door.

  2

  Cassandra’s parents dragged her to every antique auction within a ninety-mile radius of Birmingham, and sometimes to the big one in Atlanta where Hollywood stars and rock idols nibbled sushi while spending obscene amounts of cash. She couldn’t help but learn a bit.

  A circa-1855 plantation desk hibernated behind matching buffets offered a vast writing surface with a ceiling-height, glass-enclosed bookcase mounted to the rear. Beside the plantation desk stood a French armoire complete with original mirrors mounted in fancily carved doors. Pieces from various eras lined the adjoining wall.

  3

  Jeremiah found what he hoped
he would not see in front of a wall of stacked and labeled boxes. It was the sofa table from his dreams, the one with the Roman-looking support column.

  “Wow,” he thought he said to himself, but Cassandra said, “You can say that again.”

  Tom said, “Knock yourself out.”

  Jeremiah did not hesitate. He strode to the little sofa table and gently laid it on one side. “You got any tools up here Torch?”

  “I said knock yourself out, not my granny’s furniture,” said Tom, though he sounded amused. “Think you can build one of these on your own? Forget it.”

  Tom knelt and glanced under the table. Everything was held together by a metal rod running the length of the column and secured by a rusty-looking nut. Jeremiah tested the hold on that piece of hardware. It did not budge.

  “If you really want to take the thing apart, I think there’s a pair of pliers in that box right there that will do the trick.” Tom pulled a carton off the stack and rummaged through it. He produced the pliers. “You might want me to do this in case the nut doesn’t give and the rod snaps from torque.”

  Jeremiah moved to the side and Tom worked at the nut. In the time it took to utter a couple of manly grunts he was making progress.

  Jeremiah touched Tom’s arm and said “I’ll take it from here.”

  4

  Jeremiah closed his eyes as he stood the column on the floor and both Tom and Cassandra could see it was not solid. Instead, roughly-hollowed compartment dished to a depth of about 4 inches. Inside sat a small bundle of letters held together by a silk ribbon. Though Tom would have bet the estate that the letters sat there for quite a while, the envelopes seemed new because they held their original ivory hue.

  Nobody moved to touch the bundle.

  “Torch, you remember what I said when I gave you the poop on Tilbury?”

  “I do.”

  “Once again, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Tuesday, July 17, 1:32 pm, City Hall, Vienna, Alabama

  1

  “What can I do for you Mr. McCarran?” Owing to his alcohol-hued mood which he had to admit was already poor prior to the first sip, Anderson would have much preferred “Get your redneck, skunk rear-end out of my office before my boys have at you with a wire brush and Comet.” But the mayor never met a vote he did not love. Maybe I should direct this guy to that old possum’s office.

  “Right friendly to offer, but I reckon what matters is what I can do for you.”

  That reached through the whiskey and got Warren’s attention.

  “Why don’t you explain, Mr. McCarran. Please have a seat.”

  Rufus did not move closer. “You see Chief, I been living round these parts for a spell, and I seen some odd occurrences lately.”

  Warren scanned every memory cell in his brain but couldn’t remember this troll. Perhaps he was some kind of modern day mountain man, but the hills of Northern Alabama weren’t the Rockies. Warren’s danger radar penetrated the alcohol haze.

  2

  Of course Leland Graves monitored, or more accurately, orchestrated. An idiot in life made an idiot afterward, and Rufus embodied the word imbecile. The average serial killer sported higher morals, a timid puppy more courage, and a coiled rattlesnake more self-restraint. Perfect qualities.

  3

  “See Mr. Anderson, I hunt, fish, and such. Well, I been noticing some skinny little feller spending lots of time in the Gulch.”

  Tilbury, came to Warren’s mind. But who in the heck was this person and why should he even listen to him? And how in devil’s stinking toilet did he get past Myra?

  “Well, this guy spends most of his time alone…watching folks from the trees. Don’t think there’s a camp though because he seems to come and go.”

  Scant information, but Warren devoured it.

  “You said he spends most of his time alone?”

  “I did indeed. But what I didn’t say was what he done last Friday night. Just before sunset he and two other fellers built up a fire on the back side of the Gulch.”

  “And?” Campfires in the woods were common.

  “Well, they put on some robes and started chanting and acting a fool. They wasn’t loud or nothing, just a bit frightening, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s all you saw?”

  “No sir. As they finished chanting, one of them held up a live jackrabbit by the legs. Another bopped the animal in the back of the head and they tossed the varmint into the fire.”

  “That’s it? Where did they go?”

  “Don’t know for sure if that was all or not. When I seen them kill that animal, well I broke camp and got myself clear.”

  Warren wondered what the story, if it could be trusted, meant. Did he have some sort of Satanic cult running around the Gulch with black robes and bloody daggers? Could the murders over the past few days somehow relate?

  He rubbed his temples, closed his eyes. If he could believe this oaf and the mumbo in the Gulch was indeed of a religious nature, well then…What? Set up a watch? He’d think about that later. Right now he needed more information…Like maybe the full name and address of Sloppy Joe here.

  His hands stopped kneading and Warren opened his eyes. ”What the…?”

  Sometime during the Chief’s reverie Tinkerbelle flew the coop. At least this time the door was left open. Warren made for Myra’s workstation.

  She knew nothing about the stranger and Warren understood the look in her eye indicated she suspected him of being at least four fingers into the hard stuff. He returned to his office. One pearl of wisdom gleaned from decades of police work: He who excuses himself accuses himself. He settled back in his chair and replayed everything. Sure bet he would find his way to the Gulch come sunset tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 62

  Tuesday, July 17, 2:16 pm, Brewton-Brunson Mansion, Vienna, Alabama

  1

  Tom stared at the letters and said, “Jeremiah?”

  “You want the short version of a long story, or the whole episode, naked scenes and all?”

  Tom said, “Speak.”

  So Jeremiah did. He stood during his narration; Tom and Cassandra sat atop one of the covered sofas.

  “I woke up clammy and about as comfortable as an Arab in an igloo. In the dream, the freezing rain fell inside your house, Torch.” He saw Tom nod…and wondered what that meant.

  “But come to think of it,” Jeremiah covered his mouth with the index finger of his right hand, “I wasn’t getting wet.”

  Jeremiah did not ham the performance. Even he couldn’t come up with anything more fantastic than the truth. When he got to the part about the Confederate soldier, Tom held up his hand.

  “Can I call time out?”

  Jeremiah replied, “Two remaining, coach.”

  “Be back in a second.”

  Tom left the attic. An unsettling sensation wrapped itself around both Jeremiah and Cassandra as they hunkered among the archeological evidence of Tom’s ancestry. The gothic furniture lent perfect ambience to Jeremiah’s spooky story.

  What Tom had in store for them would pour gasoline on the flames. He returned through the attic door holding an oversized envelope, the type with the fold-over flap and thin red tie-string.

  “Didn’t want to interrupt your story,” he began twisting he envelope’s string, “but we need to get something straight here.” Tom pulled out two pieces of card stock with a photograph wedged between. He held up the picture.

  “This is called a carte-de-visite.” Jeremiah’s jaw dropped as Tom continued. “They were used the same way we use business cards, only under somewhat more formal circumstances.”

  The clear photograph showed the waist-up view of a young man in military garb consisting of a gray tunic and black collar with three stars attached. A leather belt circled the tunic at the waist. The buckle was round, and embossed with the letters CSA.

  Jeremiah did not need binoculars, spectacles, or even a slight forward lean for positive identifica
tion. An assortment of exclamations came to his mind, as did the urge to beat feet out of the attic, start that new car, and press home to Celia. Never mind the packing.

  “That’s him,” he said. “That dude hid the letters.”

  2

  “Let me see that,” Cassandra took the photo from Tom. Things that science could not explain angered her. The carte looked original, and it looked old. She examined the reverse.