The Apostasy Page 4

  He understood that much since his inception, they called it unholy birth but Leland Graves considered that term—as most of what they said or thought—well, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. Leland Graves would never give up, never relent to failure.

  The fools punished him for quota, eschewing his efforts at the spectacular through insistence on the mundane. He would show them for sending him back here, to humiliate him in front of others tied to a spot by their incompetence…where he proved his dominance time and again. Leland Graves smiled at the irony.

  He would serve the sentence, be a company man, or so appear as such. The others could attempt to unseat him—feeble rats—but unlike the other times, this particular punishment worked in his favor. The extraordinary orb…still on the ledger. Perhaps it existed yet. Perhaps he could cause another. This place…this village. Punishment cleared a busy, worldwide schedule, allowing focus to redress an open transaction—as well as address his hemorrhaging quota—One still must feed the bear. The others needed a reminder and a personal ledger needed clearing.

  The druggie provided Leland Graves a trial run for his vassal—the one he stored in Copper Gulch years before for contingencies...The night of the spectacular orb. Writing off Al as an investment for future returns—the cost of doing business—Leland Graves allowed the tar-spoiled orb to leak into Copper Gulch…and the place seemed thankful.

  He felt their eyes and something else—reluctant adoration? Leland Graves smiled.

  Now, to visit an old friend.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tuesday, July 13, 7:18 pm, Vienna, Alabama and Copper Gulch

  1

  Plang! Plang! Thunk. Hattie Jackson rocked herself into comfort…into sleep. And while a honeysuckle breeze wafted and sounds of family surrounded her, down in Copper Gulch, it began once more.

  Hattie lived with the knowledge for eighty years, each moment of all moments during those decades. Though she never figured it out, Hattie understood it possessed resilience and relentless direction fueled by evil—that’s how good people thought of it—she knew it would regroup; that it would return. It did.

  2

  Copper Gulch strained with anticipation for him and then returned to equilibrium as his musk blended with an atmosphere tainted by his type for a million years. Leland Graves inhaled to savor the aroma of his own coming.

  3

  Hattie began a low, even snore. The porch swing moved with the silent persistence of Spanish moss in a changing breeze beneath the tired branch of a live oak. All else stilled to silence.

  4

  Leland Graves wove consciousness and influence around the swamp’s briars and vines and extended up the incline, across the tar road. Her presence drew him…that family represented promise as vast as the trouble it caused.

  Hattie slept unaware, nudging the swing. Each arc cast traces of the familiar, magnetic aura from her soul…a good soul. Reaching the old woman would not tax him. Unlike the others, his powers extended beyond mind and body games.

  He found her a ripe peach sitting in the swing. He released his thoughts like hounds from the tether, allowing an unimpeded sprint to Hattie. She needed to know of his return...and that he remembered.

  Not like he remembered. Disappointing. Though a sizeable transaction seemed sure, Leland Graves wondered if this chase could yield appropriate drama. Even he could not control all aspects of complex business. Time meant nothing to him, imposing his will and collecting people, now that brought his version of sunshine to light his favorite diversion: experimentation.

  Those experiments promised powers as broad in scope as thus far indefinable. He understood the basics and even created an entertaining rhyme: cream dodged while scum lodged. But the balls of scum paid the rent…some even assisted in his experiments aimed at capturing a worthy. Attempts at the worthies always failed, but to lose hope would betray surety and belie self-confidence. He would figure it out.

  That first transaction attended by Hattie fared well only because he measured success not so much in terms of quota—Pedestrian quotas—as in promise. He scored a couple of kills before the board jumbled beyond recovery. Comfortable with his penchant for rebellious activities that led to chronic house-arrest, Leland Graves kept careful tabs on his erstwhile home and current gaol. Prolonged absences promoted anarchy—and not in the good sense of the word. His most successful transaction, Nikita Khrushchev learned the lesson decades ago. An unguarded realm trades king for fool.

  Leland Graves smiled as he remembered that one. Despite his occasional indiscretions, the corporation assigned him the big ones, didn’t they…not that anyone expected a miracle for Nikita. But they invested too much effort—copious seed capital on the dictator of the proletariat—and needed to insure against possibility of deathbed heroics. Leland Graves arrived to separate the old goat from his tar. That transaction for his masters…this one he would keep for himself.

  Hattie Jackson, younger that first time, stumbled into the middle of his business at the penultimate moment—Sally Jackson seemed close enough to touch and Leland Graves almost did. Rules remained rules…Until I catch the cream. He worked years orchestrating this payout—and fortuitous timing also allowed some payback to Hattie Jackson.

  He whirled around her feet—the rules seemed to allow that much— and then up her flesh for the first time in well more than a half century. Flabby. Weak. He flowed up gaunt thighs, lingered at her waist, then spiraled up to her chest, gaining velocity in the orbit.

  5

  Plang! Plang! Thunk. Plang! Plang! Thunk. A basketball deep in Hattie’s subconscious. Plang! Plang! Thunk! Plang! Plangy! Plang! Despite the fog, she perceived the quickening. Plang! Plang! Plangy! Plang—an impossible staccato rhythm.

  Plangy! Plangy!

  Too fast. She wanted to end the nap, but could not force her eyes open.

  Smoke accelerated around her chest.

  "Sleep, Hattie. You need the rest.

  "A familiar voice…speaking inside her mind.

  "Papa, is that you, Papa?"

  "Yes Doll, it's me. Now why have you let yourself get so tired, baby?"

  This spawned more confusion than comfort.

  "Papa, you’ve been gone!" Her mind fought to recover.

  Plangy! Plangy! Plangy! Plangy! The ball…Or a machine gun?

  Pain rumbled Hattie’s rib cage…knifing deeper with each bounce.

  My heart! Her lungs pounded; keeping time with the ball's beat as it compressed against concrete.

  The day's earlier heat returned with vengeance. Rivers of sweat gathered between her shoulders, just below the nape of her neck before dropping down her spine to pool at the small of her back.

  "Let go, Hattie...that's a good girl. Let go and rest."

  This voice could not belong to her father, Hattie knew that much…Did my mind create it? She understood she needed to wake immediately…or maybe never again. Aware of events around her, of time, of her porch swing, and of her nephew Demetrius shooting baskets less than fifty yards away across the street, Hattie exerted a desperate effort and managed to force open her eyes.

  The smoke dissipated.

  6

  Satisfied with the encounter, the Leland Graves withdrew to Copper Gulch where he found the others waiting at the portal—So many dogs expecting their master—and the closest thing to a home field advantage in Copper Gulch as could exist on his side of the portal. He knew the others both hated and feared him with equal measure and he thought it all served his purpose…or at least his ego.

  Just as well.

  The portal drew him through and he kicked one of the others to punctuate his arrival and set a proper mood. A howl arose that began as indignation from the offended party and then spread to the others in a chorus uniform, if not unanimous in its fury. Impotent rage. Leland Graves smiled.

  Just like old times.

  7

  A few miles away in Vienna town square where a century and a half before antebellum gentlemen and their families fled mosquito-in
fested cotton fields, another consciousness alerted...roused by the sinister movements in Copper Gulch.

  8

  Hattie woke exhausted. The encounter bathed her forehead in thick rows of perspiration, her chest felt as if her heart tried to jackhammer its way to daylight.

  My heart!

  Fear knotted her stomach and awareness spawned disorientation. Black outside…not dusk as when she fell asleep, the sun set hours before. Demetrius no longer shot baskets.

  How long?

  She glanced at her watch, but could not decipher the dial without reading glasses. Inside…kitchen table.

  Hattie fought to dislodge cobwebs spun across her mind. Her aching chest made concentration difficult…she could not muster energy to halt the swing, much less stand up. The voice—she remembered the voice. Papa? A dream? It sounded like him.

  Hattie bolted upright. She thought she knew…and the knowledge pushed her back down. Could she even offer a fight this time? Though the tears now wetting her cheeks surprised her, she made no attempt at stopping them.

  Hattie understood that the coming conflict would likely end her life.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tuesday, July 13, 9:27 pm, Vienna, Alabama, Grimes Hospital

  "Fact is, Doc, Vienna hasn't seen a murder since before I was born.” Warren Anderson, chief of police for Vienna, Alabama faced a quandary. He had a body and a crime, but little clue as to what to do.

  “You got the only morgue around. The body's gonna have stay a night or two with y’all anyway. I was hoping you could have a quick look…maybe give me some ideas.” A quick glance away and then, “Anything, beyond the obvious."

  Cassandra Walters was the youngest of the three doctors who practiced at Grimes Hospital, a ten bed facility located three miles east of Vienna. And of the group, she alone lived in Vienna. The other two commuted from Huntsville or Lake Guntersville.

  "I'm not qualified to perform an autopsy." Her eyes held those of the police chief as she spoke. "Besides, my findings would hold no legal status.” She hesitated. “And we haven't even begun to mention the moral aspects." She crossed her arms under her chest.

  "Doc, we don't even know who he was." The chief tried to sound helpless and did not surprise himself when he succeeded. "I do know he's an outsider. Looks like a transient, and…well…look what someone did.” Warren paused long enough to allow his words to thaw the pretty iceberg standing in front of him.

  Dr. Walters’s face gave no indication of melting and remained expressionless as Chief Anderson spoke. That trick she learned from a grumpy genius of a medical school instructor.

  “It's a murder we got here, Doc."

  Still no expression from Dr. Walters.

  "Now I could wait a couple of days for the coroner from Huntsville to get his king-sized butt down here. He’d fumble his way to something useful. I figure it would delay the investigation just long enough for the perpetrator to die of old age...or maybe to do this again. Your guess would be good as mine as to who we might wheel in next."

  Indecision crept into her eyes and his spirits lifted at the hairline crack in her facade. Anderson moved in for the kill.

  "I don't want you to split him open to count the boiled peanuts. Don't think it would matter much anyway. Besides, it isn't what he ate, drank, or shot up. I'm grasping for straws…gotta start somewhere."

  Dr. Walters unfolded her arms and rubbed her temples.

  "Wheel him in, I'll take a look," she said. “Just remember, everything stays between you and me."

  "Fine with me, Doc." He’d remember the pleading eyes trick.

  She tried a smile that fooled neither of them. “I prefer working with the living."

  "Don't worry, Doc, can't say I blame you. Besides, what I want will add up to little more than a routine examination.”

  She raised an eyebrow and Warren mentally spanked himself. He had what he wanted; further gab could only hurt. He continued anyway.

  “Mostly I just need you to confirm what I already know. And, if there is anything I might have missed, well, another set of eyes…. Heaven knows, if you haven’t figured it out, Doc, I’m no expert when it comes to murder.”

  Her face softened, and he added, “And I pray that I’ll never become one."

  The ambulance attendant wheeled the stainless steel gurney through automatic doors, across the linoleum floor, and into the ER. A white sheet—no need for body-bags in Vienna, Alabama—covered the victim from his head to just above his ankles. Each foot sported a muddy, blown-out tennis shoe. The attendant did not linger.

  "I'll be in the waiting room, Dr. Walters. Call me when you need help getting him to the morgue."

  "Thanks Arnold," she said to his back as he disappeared through the door.

  "Don't know exactly how long he lay in the swamp." Anderson broke the silence.

  Cassandra stopped breathing as she peeled back the sheet. Despite protective gloves, she used only the thumb and pointer finger on the right.

  "Might not have found him for a good long time," he said.

  The sheet fell to the floor. The doctor looked like she might lose her supper…Chief Anderson thought he saw her swallow hard. The victim appeared fifty-ish, a malnourished substance abuser with skin speckled and stained.

  "Would you look at his face,” Anderson said, “horrible."

  Cassandra's eyes followed Chief Anderson’s direction and locked on John Doe's face. Uneven, salty-gray stubble provided the backdrop. As if in the throes of swallowing a cantaloupe, John's mouth gaped. Milked over by death, his eyes resembled those of a statue titled “The Horror of One’s Own Murder.”

  Chief Anderson thought the doctor looked like she regretted their deal.

  Midway between the jaw bone and ear, a green pine stick protruded from either side of the victim's neck. It formed a perfect hole—no ripping, no shredding of the skin. Tiny bits of bark mixed with copious amounts of dried blood at the exit point.

  "More than likely, the victim was still alive when his throat was punctured," she said, trying to sound professional, detached.

  Chief Anderson shook his head. “Heck, Doc,” Anderson said as he shook his head, “can you imagine how powerful, and quick for that matter, the guy must have been to drive a stick through him like that?”

  “I’d rather not,” she said.

  "Kind of just dumb luck we found him." The Chief's words bounced around the back of his own mind and her focus on the body said she wasn’t paying attention. He kept jabbering…his nerves needed calming.

  "Two out-of-town bass fishermen heard the fishing was good about now. Now there’s a line of bull-onie. Anyway, they parked above the Gulch…put on waders. There are some creeks out there, and I suppose a big bass might nest around a submerged stump. Funny thing, locals never seem to care.”

  The Chief spoke in streams of consciousness while Cassandra removed the T-Shirt—shredded and blood stained. Several puncture wounds outlined the victim’s chest, itself little more than a bag of broken bones.

  "Anyway, these fishermen weren't too familiar with the Gulch—nobody really is—and it was getting toward dusk, so they circled the area a bit to find a likely stream."

  “Help me roll him to his right hip, Chief.”

  Hesitation, then Warren reached over the examining table. They found exit wounds on his back. Whatever entered John's chest passed through his body, ribs, organs, everything.

  “Not bullets,” Dr. Walters said and the Chief didn’t think she was talking to him. “Bone deflects small caliber bullets…they generally lodge in soft tissue,” she said, “Rarely do they travel through in a line.”

  Dr. Walters bent over the puncture wounds.

  “Brown flecks of metallic-looking material. Same as I saw on his chest.”

  "Looks like rust," she said without looking up.

  Rust meant metal, a knife or some other sharp object. Chief Anderson shut his mouth long enough for Cassandra’s pronouncement and then, unable to contain nervous chatt
er, continued with the story of John's discovery.

  "So one of these fishermen sees a foot sticking out the briars…Couldn't see any more. Found him like this. Put a scare into them and they ran to their car, dropping a trail of rods, reels, tackle that led right back to the victim…used a cellular phone. Good thing we added enhanced 911 last winter. Don't really blame them. Not a pretty sight."

  Dr. Walters took command of the conversation.

  "It appears he was stabbed to death.”

  Chief Anderson grimaced.

  “The blade through the neck caused the greatest loss of blood. I'd say the other puncture wounds are from the same metallic object, one long enough to penetrate through the body. I believe those,” she pointed the metal flake/blood mixture, “are rust remnants."

  "How long’s he been dead, Doc?"

  "Somewhere around six hours,” Dr. Walters replied. “I'm not trained in forensic medicine, so this is a best guess based on temperature."

  "Any other injuries?"

  "Some ribs are fractured. His left collar bone and right arm just below the shoulder will need closer examination.” Dr. Walters looked up from the corpse. “I'm not doing X-rays, taking lab specimens, or cutting." She fixed Chief Anderson’s eyes and added, "Horrible."

  Silence followed and neither could manage the words to ease it.

  Dr. Walters spoke first. “Tell me you can find the person.”

  "We’ll do our best. Only hope we catch him before he gets an appetite for more. Heck, by this time he could be out of the state, and to be honest,” he said, “I’m not so sure that wouldn’t be the best situation.”

  The Chief glanced at Dr. Walters, waiting for a response, maybe encouragement.