Moratorium

by Chuck Sampson

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Moratorium

  Oil and Murder Do Mix

  A Cyrus Fleming Mystery Novel

  By Chuck Sampson

  www.bibliotastic.com

  Copyright © 2010 Chuck Sampson

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to www.bibliotastic.com and leave a comment for the author. Thank you for your support.

  Information about upcoming books by Chuck Sampson can be found here: www.chuckdsampson.com

  This book is dedicated to all the hard-working men and women who do the difficult and dangerous work of bringing power to the people. To all the roustabouts, roughnecks, driller men, tool men, mud-loggers, and petroleum engineers, thank you all for doing the thankless, dirty, and dangerous job that we all need you to do in order to live the good life.

  And a big thank you to my wife, Jackie, my son, Ryan, and my two darling daughters, Lauren and Samantha.

  Chapter 1

  The last thing Dana Mathers remembered before he lost consciousness was placing his left foot too far back on his surfboard and slipping off backwards- something only a gremmie would do. He’d killed that move a thousand times before and always looked steezy. But not this time, this time he barnied his special cut-back way bad. The tide was super low-too low. A sharp pain on the base of his neck came next. For sure he had hit the rocks. White water gushed all around him while he struggled to keep his head up for air. Like in a bad dream, he heard a voice yelling for help and then everything went black.

  Now all was light again and through a patchwork of red, blue, and purple flowers, he caught sight of his mother sitting on a couch reading a paperback. A beam of sunlight highlighted the deep lines creasing the corners of her dark-circled eyes.

  “Hi Mom,” he said.

  “Oh,” she replied. Her quivering hands lost their grip and the book she was holding landed on the table, scattering several half-full coffee cups. When she reached the side of his bed, she said, “Hello son, are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, I guess. Except my head hurts and my mouth is dry. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s out in the hall waiting for the doctor to return with the results of the X-rays.”

  He pointed toward the large nylon strap fastened across his forehead. “What’s this for? They’re not afraid I’ll try to escape are they?”

  “The medic told me he had a brace put on you so you wouldn’t get up or move when you came to-so don’t. I’ll go get your Dad and bring you back some water.” She smiled at him once again before she walked out the door and into the hall.

  The second she left he began to think about his condition. He realized he was hurt bad, but how bad was the question. He didn’t sense any pain except for the headache. But why all the gear? A precaution probably, everyone sues everybody these days -especially in California.

  The sound of his mother’s cry cracked the silence of his room. Dana pushed himself up, breaking the nylon restraint.

  “Mom! Mom! What’s wrong?”

  He reached over and slapped the red button on the wall beside him. A deafening, dissonant, buzz ensued. He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t budge. While he was trying to push himself out of the bed, a nurse's aide rushed in and shut off the alarm.

  “What’s happened to my mother?” he said to the big man.

  “Please stay still,” the aide said, “The doctor and your parents are on their way.” His large hand pressed down on him firmly as he spoke.

  “Why was she-” Dana stopped when a tall man wearing a white coat walked into the room. His parents followed behind. At the sight of his mother, he relaxed and lay back down. The aide released his hold on Dana and hurried out quietly.

  The three of them lined up beside his bed. His father wiped tears from his eyes and said, “Hello son, I am so glad you’re conscious and safe.”

  “I am safe, but not sound, right Dad?” He clenched both fists as he spoke.

  “I better let the doctor explain,” he replied as he traded places with the tall, bushy browed, man standing beside him.

  The physician leaned over Dana, pulled out a metal instrument and examined his eyes. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. You severely traumatized the bundle of nerves at the top of the spine which controls the legs,” the doctor said.

  Dana glowered at him.

  The physician smirked at the sight of the nylon neck restraint dangling from the side of the bed. “The rest of your motor functions appear to be healthy. I will instruct the orderlies to finish removing the traction, since there are no bone fractures.” The doctor straightened up, and almost as an aside he said, “I am afraid the legs are permanently paralyzed.”

  Dana gasped as though he were drowning and covered his face with his hands. When he brought them down again, he cast a frightened expression toward his mother. She collapsed into the arms of his father, sobbing.

  The doctor walked away, disappearing into the hall. A moment later he returned, followed by an orderly who led his parents from the room. The doctor returned to his bedside and said, “I insisted that your father and mother return home.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve not slept more than two hours the last two days waiting for you regain consciousness. I don’t want to have to admit them as patients.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “They’ll be back soon. In the meantime we’ll do everything we can to help you. Do you have any questions?”

  Dana lay motionless and turned his gaze toward the dark-grey, colorless, ceiling above him.

  After several moments of silence the doctor said, “Did you understand me?”

  “Yeah, I understood you.”

  “I couldn’t tell; you’re not looking at me. Why?”

  “I hate them.”

  “Them?”

  “The flowers, they’re annoying, like you.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Things could be worse.”

  “No they couldn’t.”

  “Your brain’s mental and cognitive capacity appears to be undamaged and you are alive, at least.”

  “Go away, please.”

  “You’ll need time to adjust to your condition.”

  “I’ll never get used to being like this.”

  “Once you are strong enough to start therapy, the depression you’re experiencing now will subside.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be the life of the party, but I don’t feel so jolly at the moment, so could you leave?”

  The cha-cha ringtone coming from the doctor’s cell phone distracted him. He put the device next to his ear. “I’m on my way now,” he said and darted out of the room.

  Moments later, two hospital aides dismantled the traction that had been supporting Dana’s spine and neck. After the orderlies finished and left, his nurse appeared carrying a tray filled with clattering bottles. The smell of her perfume, cutting through the ubiquitous stench of sweat
mixed with isopropyl alcohol, nauseated him. He shuddered when he felt her cold hand on his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” she said, as pushed the needle into his skin. “This is for the headache and I brought you some water as well.”

  Her words sounded like a far-off echo. He stared into the grey ceiling, trying to make the voice in his head quiet down. It kept telling him over and over what an idiot he was and how he shouldn’t have been showing off and what a fool he was to be surfing at the Point when the tide was low. On and on the voices went again and again. Like snakes, they slithered into and out of his consciousness, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make them go away.

  “I’ll check on you later this evening,” the nurse said as she placed a bottle of water on the table next to him. He gritted his teeth at the sound of the clinking bottles on the nurse’s metal tray, ringing like little sleigh bells as she left the room. He spent the rest of the afternoon motionless, his gaze fixed on the colorless top above him.

  His parents came by on their way out. His mother told him Wayne, an old friend from high school, worked at the hospital as a security guard.

  “You remember him? Poor Wayne,” she said, “At the age of two he had a stroke. He still has that terrible stutter. He never had a chance in life”.

  A long, awkward, silence, followed. He could see the pain in his mother’s red eyes. She was still shaking. The doctor is right, he said to himself, my parents are a mess. I’ve not only destroyed my life but theirs as well. It would have been better for everyone if I had died. Dana forced a smile onto his face and took his mother’s hand.

  Finally his father spoke, “What Mother means is Wayne told us he would stop by and keep you company while we are at home. We’ll be back the day after tomorrow, son.” They said goodbye and left.

  The nurse came by again and turned the lights off. The dimly lit room suited his mood. His eyes grew heavy and he fell into a light sleep. Less than an hour passed before he was awakened at the sound of the familiar, foot-dragging, gait of his old friend. He was glad Wayne was visiting him after hours.

  He remembered how he had chased a couple of bullies away from him when they were in high school. After Dana rescued him, Wayne was his number one fan. He came to all of Dana’s surfing contests and started going to the beach to learn how to body surf. Dana would go with him once in a while to help him and give him encouragement. But when Wayne landed a full time job at the hospital over a year ago, they lost contact. What a sorry way to meet again, he thought.

  “Hi Dana, it’s me, Wayne.”

  When Wayne flipped on the light to his room, Dana grinned, put his hands down on either side of the bed and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

  “Hey buddy,” he said. “You like your job here at the hospital?”

  “Oh yeah, I get good benefits.”

  “They let you wear a six shooter?” he pointed to Wayne’s holster as he spoke.

  “Can you b-believe it, a r-retard like me?”

  “You’re not a retard, Wayne.”

  “True, b-but I do sound l-like one. I have s-special rules of engagement. I only need to say s-stop once before I s-shoot.” Wayne said, and then chuckled.

  Ignoring his friend’s remark, Dana said, “What kind of gun do you carry?”

  Wayne walked over to his bed, and pulled the gun from his holster. “A thirty eight,” he said as he cocked back the hammer and then carefully eased it back.

  “This is so trippy. You ever shoot anyone?”

  “Wayne frowned and then he said, “No, and I d-don’t ever w-want to, either.”

  “Can I..?” He pointed at the black revolver.

  “S-sure, be careful.” Wayne said as he handed it to him.

  Dana talked small talk with Wayne for several more minutes, carefully maintaining eye contact as he spoke. He asked him about his kids and his wife. He asked if Wayne still body surfed. He asked him about his car. Once Dana had inched the guard’s gun out of sight, under his bed sheet, he asked him if he would get him a cheeseburger.

  “Okay, I’ll go d-down to the c-cafeteria,” Wayne said.

  “Oh come on, man, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in almost three days and you’re going to bring me a burger from the hospital cafeteria?”

  “H-how about In-n-Out?”

  “Now that’s way cool,” Dana said.

  The guard trotted out the door, forgetting his gun.

  As soon as the sound of Wayne’s footsteps faded out, Dana pulled the revolver out from under the bed sheet. He really didn’t know much about handguns. He’d been hunting with his father many times, but that was with rifles and shotguns. The principle appeared to him to be the same. Point the barrel where you want the bullet to go and pull the trigger. It couldn’t be harder than surfing, and surfing was the one thing he really did know about.

  He knew which beach a surf contest was taking place just from the shape of the waves. He knew all about floaters, aerials, three sixties, and roundhouse bottom turns. He knew more about tides and currents than most professional fishermen. Mostly, he knew that life without the use of his legs, a life without surfing, would be a life worth nothing.

  Before his accident he had spent most nights dreaming about how much better he was going surf the next morning. There had been trials. In the early days he had no money and no sponsor. His lithe frame and gangly demeanor belied his physical prowess. The first day he showed up on the beach at Silver Strand, no one noticed him. No one cared who he was or what he was doing.

  After a while that changed-for the worst. He remembered how his friends had mocked him for trying to put the surf wax on the wrong side of the board. The shame he felt when he failed to stand up or when he couldn’t figure out how to get far enough outside the surf to catch a wave, nearly caused him to give up. But his stubborn nature wouldn’t let him. He had to either surf or die.

  The first time he stood up on the yellow spotted, dinged up, surfboard his neighbor had lent him, his life changed forever. And for the first time the mocking laughter of his friends turned to shouts of encouragement as his slid down the smooth, watery, blue, slope of a head high wave.

  He never wanted that moment to end. He wanted people to notice him and admire him. So he set a goal to make that happen, at the age of eight. For ten years, every day and every night, he focused only on becoming the most skilled surfer who ever lived. Surf movies, surf posters, surf magazines and surf heroes, filled his life.

  People began to notice him after his first year. The next year he had a sponsor. By the time he was thirteen he had won his first contest. For the next five years he made enough money to take care of himself and his parents. Life was full of hope and he began to believe the endless chain of successes would never stop. Surfing was his dream come true.

  That dream was gone now-vanished, like a wisp of fog floating on the polished surface of a tranquil sea.

  He spun the thirty eight’s shiny black cylinder. A moment later, he put the gun down and closed his eyes. He picked up the revolver again and opened the chamber to make sure it was loaded, and then he closed it back. He wouldn’t really be killing himself. After all, he was at least half dead already. Just finishing what I started, he said to himself.

  As he put the gun barrel to his head, his nurse for the night shift, walked into his view. He waited for her to notice him; she was looking at the charts at the end of the bed across the room. When she lifted her head up again, she froze. Her face paled and her chin dropped. She let go of the clipboard she was holding and ignored the loud clack it made when it bounced off the floor.

  “What are you doing with a gun? Patients are not allowed to have guns,” she said.

  “I am going to kill the snakes.” He tapped his forehead with the barrel as he spoke.

  “What snakes?”

  “Long, black, and red ones with long, poisonous, fangs slithering in and out of my mind -I have to make them stop,” he said.

  “What about your friend, the sec
urity guard?” Her green eyes narrowed as she spoke. “He passed me in the hall a few moments ago.”

  “What about him?”

  “That’s his pistol, isn’t it? I noticed his holster was empty as I passed him on the way to your room. You must have talked him into giving it to you. If you shoot yourself they’ll blame it on him. He’ll lose his job.”

  “So what? He can get another job. It’s not like he’s a doctor or something.”

  “But he’ll blame himself for it. He’ll live the rest of his life with your death on his conscience. What about his snakes?”

  The automatic timer dimmed the lights in Dana’s room; only a single spotlight remained on. It cast a narrow shaft of light across Kelsey’s face. Her tiny-freckled, marble-white, visage appeared to him like the face of an angel.

  “Stay where you are,” he said, and then he put his thumb on the hammer of the gun and cocked it back. The nurse stopped. The inscription on her badge was now legible; it read “Kelsey Tanner”.

  “Kelsey, I’ve got to make the snakes go away.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “How do I know what?”

  “How do you know that when you kill yourself the snakes will go away and the pain will stop?”

  “Of course it will stop, I’ll be dead.”

  “Your body will be dead, that's true, but what about the snakes?” Kelsey replied with a calm voice. “Maybe the snakes won’t die. What will you do if that happens? You can't kill yourself again. Better to face the snakes now than to live with them forever, don't you think?”

  A stream of tears flowed down his face as he put the gun down. She walked over to him, cradled his head in her arms, and carefully took the gun away.

  Chapter 2

  Dana Mathers drove his 66 blue, convertible Mustang into an empty parking spot and got out. With his sport bag in hand and wearing only his baggies, he jogged past the other parked cars in the Ventura Beach Side Condominium lot. He kept going onto the concrete walkway running between the beach and a long stretch of condos, restaurants, and hotels.