by Ted Minkinow
Here it comes, Hattie thought.
“You have always had it all wrong,” he said. Only the center of his lips moved; the corners of his grin remained fixed.
“Sure, there was one of you in the beginning, and then two, but that all happened after us, that is, after we became.” Leland Graves closed his mouth for a second and it seemed to Hattie that he said something unintended in that simple sentence. There was no blink this time, so perhaps she only imagined it.
“Your books are written as if the whole thing transpired in an instant…” Leland Graves snapped his fingers to indicate the concept.
“But in truth, centuries passed while you languished in ignorance.” Another pause, and then, “Chance after chance, that is what you were given, and time after time you disappointed.”
A few hours earlier, the sum of Hattie’s knowledge added up to little more than a bingo card with only the free space covered. Now she covered more buttons, but nothing aligned horizontally, vertically, or diagonally…though something clicked in her mind and she covered another mental square.
“You are talking about creation.”
Another smile cut the air and Leland Graves’s eyes crawled over Hattie like swamp leeches. He lowered his voice into raspy sneer.
“That was the primal apostasy.” Leland Graves twirled his cane…inspected the silver tip. “I like the way your book describes it; a culinary dalliance, shall we say?”
Hattie still did not understand where this would lead, but now they had something—some information—and she felt an immediate need to end this conversation…to get Leland Graves out and delay the more deadly confrontation sure to come. Once more she rolled the dice.
“We are interested in neither your fibs nor your fantasies. You need to let us continue our evening.”
Leland Graves made no motion to depart.
“You heard the lady,” said Jeremiah, and he rose from his chair.
“Don’t.” It was Tom that spoke.
2
The move took Leland Graves by surprise, but that didn’t matter. He just needed to make sure he did not touch one of them…not directly.
Not till I get Hattie’s orb…the wondrous luster of Hattie’s aura captivated him…made him want to kill them all and avoid further distraction. After the orb, he thought, they all die. Leland Graves would get personal with that bit of business…after he voided the Great Unsigned Contract.
For now, he thought, and he raised one arm to throw his influence into the room.
3
Jeremiah blitzed Leland Graves. He half-slowed for a moment and sent a quick look toward Tom…and surprise painted his face—just for a second but it was there for everyone to see—when he saw Tom still sat motionless in the chair.
4
For his part, Tom wanted to help Jeremiah and would have done so, but his legs and feet would not obey. He could not move, could not even flex a toe.
“Jeremiah,” Tom said, “Stop!” The fighter pilot preferred death to inaction…heard his heart beat in an accusatory “Wimp…Wimp…Wimp.” But body would not, could not obey. Every step Jeremiah took brought him closer to death and Tom knew he needed to act. He heard Cassandra.
“No…Mike, for God’s sake.” She looked at Tom, and he could see she wanted him to do something…to stop his friend.
Jeremiah reached for Leland Graves, obviously intending to grab a handful of shirt and escort the old coot out the door, off the porch, and then skip him down the driveway like a flat rock over a Lake Guntersville.
5
Leland Graves anticipated Jeremiah’s action and shifted time. Shifting time…Leland Graves coined the phrase himself, though he heard rumors the employ scrolls detailed the procedure in a techniques vignette. It described the power—at a limited and local level—to alter time. For that, Leland Graves took advantage of the creditor’s design.
Increase efficiency in a victim’s brain. The greater processing power made time appear to stand still, similar to the sensation Tom experienced as the missile closed in for the kill during the Gulf War.
Leland Graves got to work.
First, he released Tom; restraint was no longer necessary. The seed Leland Graves planted would germinate with catastrophic affect for Tom Brunson.
Next came the squint, he loosed the full double-eyed version and hoped those gathered appreciated the extra effort. Human minds kicked into high gear…images sped from eyes to brains to understanding with unprecedented efficiency.
Leland Graves pivoted away from Jeremiah and waved a hand like an usher passing a guest into the theater. That motion lifted Jeremiah a few inches above the floor and in an instant—a brief span of time elongated in the minds of his victims—Leland Graves flung Jeremiah out the door and into the night.
That accomplished, he squared his body to face those left, and released their minds and retracted the snaking influence from the labyrinth of arteries and jellied brain wrinkles. But it did not happen in an instant.
Influence remained like fleeting black dots of a photographer’s flash. In that no-man’s land, the transition from under Leland Graves’s spell to not, Cassie caught a glimpse through a window that slid open for a fraction of a heartbeat.
6
Leland Graves blinked just as she perceived earlier. Unlike last time, she found herself in synch with that fleeting illumination, able to probe into a blurry portion of what hid beneath.
First she witnessed Jeremiah flying through the air, a jumble of flailing arms and kicking legs, as if plunging from the cliff of an arroyo in a spaghetti western. But he flew horizontally instead of vertically…only a few feet above the ground and parallel to it. She could hear him, too. Not the splitting scream she would have loosed, but a loud, clear series of “Damn! Damn! Damn!” And then, a final “Geez!”
Next, Leland Graves altered. His bony limbs remained, as did the preacher’s smock and hat. Behind those props now ghostly pale and translucent as the inferior image of a double negative, Cassandra saw more.
Broad shoulders sagged from one corner to the other, wide and concave, as tired in appearance as an ancient clothesline strung outside an abandoned farmhouse. A black, oval radiance extended his head, allowing space for wide and sunken eye sockets. Scant bending stalks of hair knifed from a stained and scarred head. Straight legs bowed in specter outline, looking to Cassandra as if the Graves spent years straddling a wrecking ball. Crooked arms supported gnarled hands with fingers so long that a fist might require three levels of retraction.
This all disappeared with the slamming of the transitory window as vestiges of Leland Graves flushed control from her mind. All that remained was Leland Graves solidified once more into grinning focus…no Jeremiah, no screaming, not the slightest stir in the dark night behind. Tom’s friend was gone.
7
Free of the invisible shackles that bound him during Jeremiah’s ill-conceived heroics, Tom sprung to his feet and toward Leland Graves. Muscles flexed, good leg pumping, bad leg promising equal effort, Tom uncoiled anger and a frustration wound tighter than a groom’s wristwatch as he marshaled rage and took the initial lunge of an intended sprint.
Tom’s charge could have been measured by the length of a single size eleven Birkenstock. Something caught his foot and Tom’s momentum sent him sprawling to the floor, left cheekbone in lead. He slid briefly and came to rest at the intersection between kitchen and den and Tom attempted to regain his feet in a motion that would make the dance of a landed big mouth bass look like ballet. All the while, Leland Graves floated backwards, into the night.
With about twenty yards clearance from Hattie’s house, and while framed by the front door, Leland Graves raised his walking stick in mock salute. He pointed a lithe finger at the door. It slammed shut.
Tom collapsed back to the floor in frustration and an enveloping remorse. He swallowed enough of his rage to turn his head to see Cassie’s leg; still extended from beneath the table.
Time: Undefined, Copp
er Gulch, outside Vienna, Alabama
“Look at that ARTY, another one,” Corporal Tilbury whispered though he knew noise couldn’t give away his position. No Mr. Victor Charlie beavering away in the jungle tonight. He spoke to the high-powered scope bolted to his sniper rifle.
ARTY, or Advanced Ranging Telescope, brought far away people into close focus. Marlin spent hour upon countless hour hidden in the Vietnam jungles with only ARTY for companionship. ARTY spoke great truths; location and range, for instance. ARTY never complained about the exhausting hours necessary to hunt humans. Most importantly, ARTY never lied. When ARTY took a bead…The will best be notarized.
Marlin and ARTY monitored the night from a nest that provided sufficient defilade from red team eyes. It sat equidistant from Aunt Hattie’s house and the clearing in Copper Gulch. Marlin alternated between the two landmarks.
“Strange stuff, Amigo,” he said.
Earlier he saw the black man and Rufus standing where they had not been seconds earlier, where nobody had been.
“Look there,” he said to ARTY. “Someone else.”
The newcomer was tied to a tree trunk…Had those trees been there before? He scoured his mind and could not remember.
“That’s Chief Anderson,” he told ARTY. Wounded, Marlin thought. And then, Let the tubby cop fend for himself.
The scene remained constant for the next several minutes; until the “write home about it” moment.
One instant—and for about the hundredth time—Marlin was sighting Aunt Hattie’s front door. The Man stood in the doorway dressed like grandpa in a Faulkner novel. As usual, The Man was yakking.
The next moment, The Man stepped to one side and then…Brunson’s buddy flying without a cape. Peripheral vision caught movement and he swung ARTY to the clearing. There was Brunson’s buddy, completing his human cannonball ride almost a quarter-mile from liftoff on Aunt Hattie’s porch.
“He’s going to wish he had a net,” Marlin told ARTY.
Tuesday, July 17, 9:04 pm, On the Street, Vienna, Alabama
The rider coaxed his mount to a trot. Instinct provided geographical directions…and a strong urge for action. A gentleman might have taken umbrage at orders so driving and direct, but the saddle felt good, if that is, feelings in a state such as his could be trusted.
He surveyed the environment. Though all appeared the same, he knew it was not. Familiar landmarks resonated with an imperfect quality, something untouchable yet at the same time palpable. He felt out of place with the mysterious familiarity.
“God, grant me the blessing of closure,” he prayed aloud. Although his mind sensed the words, he was certain his ears did not. He was also sure of something else. He felt eyes burning through his being like hot coals through fine lace…advantage to the enemy.
Time: Undefined, Copper Gulch, outside Vienna, Alabama
Somewhere to the northwest, on the highest terrain suitable for such a task and secreted among the fragrant pines, briars, and honeysuckle, Corporal Tilbury placed ARTY’s crosshairs on the gray-uniformed figure astride a translucent mount. An earthen mound steadied the rifle. He shallowed his pulse rate and breathing. Body movements would come only on direct, deliberate command. At last certain of his role, Marlin eased steady and increasing pressure on the trigger.
“Showtime.”
ARTY said nothing.
Tuesday, July 17, 9:02 pm, Hattie Jackson’s House, Vienna, Alabama
1
Cassandra saw a single tear well then disappear in the corner of Tom’s eye. She teetered on the verge of a crying fit. The night was already a train wreck and now that look in Tom’s eyes told her he did not understand. She loved Tom, she was sure of it; and would risk losing him a thousand times to prevent his needless death.
“Why?” That was all Tom managed.
Cassandra knew he wanted an answer…the reason she prevented him from aiding the man who rescued him in the desert. But was it also an accusation? Probably, and if so, where does it put us?
Before she got too far down that road—before she could form the words that would never suffice—Cassandra saw Tom’s face relax. As if the fighter pilot—calm and deadly under fire—analyzed and took control…literally swallowed emotions and pushed all aside but a spirit of attack.
“All right, Cassie,” he said, “it’s okay.”
He put his arms around her and she came close to ceding reason to her emotions…her fear.
“Children,” said Hattie, “we need to speak.”
They both looked to Hattie.
Hattie said, “The way I see it, Leland Graves has two of our friends.” A pause, and then in voice so cold it sounded like it came from the bottom of the ocean she added, “I want them back.” Hattie wiped her glasses on her apron and returned them to her nose. “Any ideas?”
Cassandra spoke first. “Your Nana Sally seemed to have won…at least to a degree,” she said. “How’d she do it?”
“I’m not sure,” Hattie said. “And we don’t have time to try to figure it out,” she added.
“I think I see what you mean,” said Cassandra. “We could waste time guessing, or…”
“Or use what she left us in the letter,” interrupted Hattie. “It’s the only thing we know for sure. The primal apostasy…”
“The blitz is out,” said Tom. “The way he tossed Jeremiah out the door…like pro wrestling.”
Something Hattie’s reiteration of the primal apostasy coupled with Leland Graves’s explanation orbited just outside the Eureka level in Cassandra’s brain. She remembered how he flashed and wondered if what she saw underneath was important. She pushed those thoughts back…Hattie was talking.
“Don’t know exactly what Leland Graves is,” she was saying. “But what I do think is that he’s a…”
“Liar,” interrupted Cassandra. “Whoever or whatever Leland Graves is, he is a liar.”
“I’m sure he is Cassie,” said Tom, “and I could probably come up with a few robust sobriquets to toss his way. But I think we’ll need to do more than hurt his feelings,” Tom said. And then, “I intend to rip out his heart.”
2
Hattie rubbed that obstinate chin-hair that seemed able to grow three inches overnight. “Cassandra’s right, baby,” she said. The fog remained, but a semblance of sense peeked through. There was symmetry between Nana Sally’s words apostasy that creates and makes vulnerable, Leland Graves’s anemic explanation—“a culinary dalliance”—and Cassandra’s simple but brilliant summation.
“I expect you,” said Cassandra, “know Leland Graves is not who he says he is. Somehow, only God knows how, he managed to interrupt the data stream between our eyes and brain.”
Cassandra continued as they returned to the kitchen table.
“Don’t know what he uses for that, maybe some sort of hypnotism.” Neither of them interrupted. Cassandra continued.
“His control is not perfect, though. I got a peek under the hood.”
“The flash,” said Hattie. Cassandra smiled. Tom remained quiet, though Hattie thought she saw a flicker of hope cross his eyes.
“He got sloppy,” Cassandra said, “and I saw a bit of the real Leland Graves.”
The outline, thought Hattie. At the time she wondered if anyone else saw it…
“And his explanation, the part about creation.”
“An apostasy that makes vulnerable,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Cassandra said. “He didn’t want to go into any detail there. The best lies are salted with truth.”
“Where did you learn so much about telling lies?” asked Tom.
“Flea markets,” she said. “Anyway, he tried to lead us away from the topic.” A pause. “You know, I think Jeremiah saved that guy’s bacon. His attack helped Graves transition from a tap dance to out the door.” She nodded to herself. “The more I think about it, I’m sure he’s a…”
“Pretender,” said Hattie, and she felt certain the answer loomed within their grasp. “A pretender,” Ha
ttie repeated.
“Yeah,” said Tom as he twirled his coffee cup to keep nervous hands busy. “Has this guy ever succeeded?
“I don’t follow,” said Cassandra.
What about Sally?” said Tom. He did not wait for the answer. “If she was so important to Graves, why did she survive to a frail age?”
“She was never frail,” said Hattie, “but I see what you mean.”
“What about Jerome?” said Cassandra. She took Hattie’s hand. “You were the one Rufus stopped on the road. “
Hattie said, “That’s right. Though,” she added, “Rufus did threaten Jerome that day.” She paused and re-wiped her spectacles.
Cassandra leaned toward the table’s center. “So what are we getting at?”
Her question sounded rhetorical, so nobody interrupted.
“It all adds up to one of two possibilities. And the two,” she said, “are not mutually exclusive.”
Tom said, “and they are?”
“Well,” Cassandra said, “either he’s some sort of supernatural sexist who thinks only of men as suitable trophies…”
“Or what, child?” Hattie said.
“Or maybe he’s just less than fully competent.”
Tom grinned but neither of the women could tell what was behind it.
“Despite a nightmare that would make Salvador Dali load his BVDs,” he said, “we have Doctor Walters here questioning the opposition’s competence.”
“That makes sense, Tommy…it really does,” said Hattie. Then another, “That makes sense.” Then she spoke with a bit less surety. “Children, it’s only a few hours before midnight.”
Tom put his coffee cup on the table. “What?” He said.
“We all saw Jeremiah disappear,” Hattie said, “and we all believe Leland Graves probably has Chief Anderson. And let’s not waste any time acting like we don’t know those things, okay?”
Nobody responded.
Cassandra picked up Aunt Hattie’s line of thought. “You think if the day turns and they’re still with him…”