Unclean Spirit Read online

  "Dad, I've been having some pretty eerie visions since the night of your accident, including one of you in the plane with me while you were physically in surgery. Just this morning I saw a black cat sitting on the showerhead; I think we all know the stigma attached to black cats. I don't know what these manifestations mean, but they certainly seem to jibe with your first impression of what happened in the basement that night."

  "But, Starr," asked Marybeth, "couldn't they also be prophetic of a serious change in Paul's health status?"

  "Yes, I suppose they could." But Starr didn't sound convinced of that. She started to say more, but was interrupted by the entrance into the room of a petite, forty-something brunette.

  "Mr. Forsythe? Good morning. I'm Dr. Barker. We've met before, only you were unconscious at the time.

  "I believe Dr. Gomez told you I would be dropping by?"

  Once the introductions and ice-breaking chit-chat were out of the way, Dr. Barker initiated her cardiac assessment. Tamara stayed with her husband; Starr, Marybeth, and Patsy left the room in order to afford Paul some privacy. As Starr turned in the doorway to mouth "good luck" to her parents, she saw, ever so briefly, a halo of black hovering just above her father's head.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Charlie had gone into town for his next dose of intravenous antibiotic.

  Cooter had finally completed his ritual ball-licking and was contentedly snuggled into his newly acquired blanket.

  The elaborately decorated horses on Marybeth's carousel music box, the one that sat on her bedside table, moved counterclockwise on their base as the notes that comprised Midnight, from the musical CATS, played backwards.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  "Wanda... Wanda, are you there?" Saul had been attempting to contact his receptionist via the intercom for several seconds now and he was growing increasingly irritated. "Damnation, Wanda, stop filing your nails or whatever absurd thing it is you're doing and answer me!"

  "DON'T YOU CURSE AT ME!" came Wanda's typically thunderous voice. "WHAT'S SO ALL-FIRED IMPORTANT?"

  Charlie snickered to himself and couldn't help but admire Wanda's gutsy response to her employer.

  "Well, if it's not too much trouble, would you be kind enough to call the lab and see if Charlie's culture report is ready?"

  Charlie knew that Doc Feener's sarcastic tone would not sit well with Wanda--he was right.

  "WELL, IT WASN'T TOO MUCH TROUBLE WHEN I CALLED THEM JUST BEFORE YOU STARTED CATERWAULING AT ME. THE PRELIMINARY REPORT IS NEGATIVE." And with that, Wanda broke the electronic connection between herself and Saul.

  "Well, Charlie, that's the good news. Bad news is, Wanda will take a two-hour lunch today and leave work an hour early just to punish me."

  The smile on Saul's face indicated to Charlie that the intercom-tiff carried no real significance.

  "So," asked Charlie, " negative means my nose is okay?"

  "Negative means that so far at least the lab hasn't been able to identify any microorganisms--'bugs'--in the fluid we sent them. That's surprising, considering what that fluid looked and smelled like. I should have the final report back by late tomorrow. Maybe it will show something. At any rate, the antibiotics seem to be working; I can't believe how quickly your nose has healed. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'm going to give you one more dose of the intravenous antibiotic and then start you on the pill form."

  As Saul initiated the anti-infective drug, he asked Charlie if he had heard anything new about Paul. Although Charlie told him about his telephone conversation with Starr, Saul gleaned no new information about Paul so he made a mental note to call Dr. Gomez later in the day.

  "Ya know, Doc, Miz Lillie--ran into her over at Welsh's supermarket--says Preachur Duncan's been tryin' to call the hospital fer three days now and cain't never git through. The mizzus says he's plannin' to drive over to El Paso and pay Mr. F. a visit. Reckon that's a good idea?"

  Saul tried not to let his rancor toward Lukas color his answer, but he wasn't totally successful in that endeavor.

  "I really don't know, Charlie. I suppose that Pastor Duncan feels it's his 'Christian Duty' to at least make an appearance at Paul's bedside."

  Charlie caught a hint of contempt in the doctor's remark, but he chose to let it pass. He knew that there was bad blood between Doc Feener and Preachur Duncan; he also knew enough to let sleeping dogs lie.

  "Any more problems at the ranch, Charlie?"

  "Nope. No smells, no black cats, no nothing. Maybe things is back to normal."

  Saul wasn't so sure that was the case; he feared that things were far from normal. He hoped to hell he was mistaken.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It had been a hectic morning for both Javier Gomez and Elizabeth Barker, but they made time for a working lunch in order to discuss Paul Forsythe's case.

  "Javier, my examination of Mr. Forsythe didn't yield any data that leads me to believe he suffered a major cardiac event on the night of his accident. His heart sounds perfectly normal and his EKGs show no evidence of myocardial damage. But, just for the sake of argument, let's say he did have an MI. His heart could not have withstood that bout of tachycardia he experienced in ICU."

  "But, Liz, what about his symptoms? The shortness-of-breath, the nausea, the perceived blow to his chest? And, more importantly, what about his cardiac arrest in the O.R.? How can we know with any certainty at this point that Paul didn't suffer an infarct?"

  Dr. Barker could sense Javier's frustration with this case and she wanted to be able to give him a definitive diagnosis that would explain Mr. Forsythe's fall and its sequelae. The problem was, she simply could not put her finger on what had happened to the man.

  "You're right. We can't be certain right now that Mr. Forsythe didn't experience a myocardial infarction. My years of experience, however, lead me to believe that it's a very remote possibility. I'm more inclined to believe that he experienced an episode of paroxysmal atrial tachycardia. That would certainly explain the sudden onset of tachycardia in ICU and it could even have caused him to pass out and fall down his cellar steps.

  "At any rate, I know you spoke to Mr. Forsythe about a cardiac cath, but I would much rather run some less invasive diagnostics first. I'm way out of my league when it comes to neurosurgery, but I can't imagine that doing a cath this close to an evacuation of a subdural hematoma is desirable, especially since we do use low-dose heparin during the procedure."

  A more insecure physician might have taken offense at having his proposed plan of care questioned, but Javier welcomed Dr. Barker's opinion.

  "Damn! I forgot all about the heparin! You're right, Liz, no way do I want Mr. Forsythe to get any anticoagulants just now. What other procedures do you have in mind?"

  "For a start, an echocardiogram and thallium imaging. The cardiac isoenyzmes we ran post-op were okay, but I'll probably repeat the myocardial LDH since it generally peaks two to five days post-infarct. If everything comes out negative, I see no reason to even do a cath."

  "Okay by me. Have you spoken to Mr. Forsythe about these exams?"

  "No. I wanted to get your approval first. I'll stop by and see him again this evening.

  "I'm hesitant to bring this up, Javier, but after what you and Mr. Forsythe have told me about his remembrances relative to the fall, I can't help but wonder if there is something other than an organic explanation for what happened that night."

  "I've had the same thought myself, Liz. But we have to do what we were taught--first rule out the organic, then look to the functional.

  "From what I gather, Paul Forsythe was the picture of health before this happened; no diabetes, hypertension, hypo- or hyperthyroidism--nada. The best we can do is work him up. You take the heart, I'll take the brain, and I'll be at the neck afore ye."

  "Cute, Javier, real cute."

  "So the ladies tell me!"

  While his physicians were discussing his fate, Paul was taking a post-prandial nap. Tamara remained at his bedside
, nodding off a bit herself; Starr had left to take Marybeth and Patsy back to the motel. Paul's hospital room suddenly turned ice-cold and, though no one was awake to see it, the dark nimbus that had wavered over Paul's head earlier began to take on a shape.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY -THREE

  Lukas detested the stretch of road between Van Horn and El Paso; there was absolutely nothing to see but desert scrub and open sky. Lillie had tried and tried to get Lukas to appreciate what she referred to as the "stark beauty of the wide-open spaces." Try as she might, though, Lillie simply could not get her husband excited about the purple sage in full bloom, the tall yucca covered in bouquets of ivory bells, or the shifting hues of the desert floor. But Lillie wasn't with Lukas today, she had stayed home with the boys. She had tried to talk Lukas out of making the journey because rain was expected and she didn't want him caught alone in a gully-washer. West Texas weather could be really strange, especially in July and August. As a rule, rainstorms didn't last very long in the desert but when they hit, they did so with a vengeance.

  Lukas was about forty miles east of the El Paso city limits when the sky's pigmentation mutated from a silvery gray to a threatening ebony. A thunderclap detonated suddenly and ferociously and was followed shortly thereafter by a multi-phalanged limb of lightening that tore through the moisture-laden clouds. The radio began to race wildly from station to station before settling into a cacophony of harsh static that prompted Lukas to turn the receiver off. Past experience had taught Lukas that thunder and lightening didn't always mean rain, but he had a sneaky suspicion that this wasn't one of those times. Lukas found himself regretting the fact that he hadn't listened to Lillie and replaced the dried-out windshield wipers. Well, he thought, I'll just pull over if I have to.

  When the rain finally hit, it sluiced over the truck in sheets. Even with the lights on and the wipers going full-speed, Lukas was having trouble seeing the road. He was able to discern the headlights of a vehicle as it drove past him and toward Van Horn. Lukas prayed that the car's driver would have the good sense to sit out the storm, just as he was fixing to do. Lukas cut his eyes to the rearview mirror in order to ascertain if it was safe to pull over. He saw the taillights of the car that had just passed him. He also saw bright yellow cat-eyes staring back at him from the mirror.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  "Narancsíz!" Magyar could out curse just about anybody, but not in his native tongue. His parents, loving but stern, had never allowed Magyar to use profanity in their home. Of course, kids will be kids, even in Hungary. Mag's mother, Réka, liked to recount the story of her son's first, and only, attempt to vocalize Hungarian obscenities. The six year-old Mag hated marmalade and everyone knew it; that, however, didn't stop his Auntie Janka from trying to change his mind about the preserve. Janka was proud of her homemade marmalade and was convinced that Mag would love it if he only gave it a chance. One day, she snuck it into Mag's sandwich. The boy bit into the sandwich, made a face that would do Jim Carrey proud, threw the sandwich to the floor, and shouted the Hungarian equivalent of "Goddamn fucking marmalade!" Réka slapped her son's face, made him apologize to his Auntie, and informed him that since he detested marmalade so much he could use that word and only that word as an expletive. Mag learned his lesson well and from that day forward "narancsíz" became his Hungarian replacement for every foul word known to man. What had Mag so upset now was the storm that surrounded him. The rental car was sturdy and handled the road well, but Mag loathed driving in the rain. When he glanced at the rearview mirror, he saw a truck pulling over to the road's shoulder. Maybe that's what I should do, he thought. But Mag's stubborn nature prevailed and he continued driving toward Van Horn.

  "Fucking Van Horn! Why you live in godforsaken one-horse town, Saul?" Mag often spoke out loud when he was alone, it helped him to think and to ventilate his feelings. He understood, but didn't agree with, Saul's decision to live and work in the small Texas community. You couldn't have paid Mag enough to isolate himself in the desert. Just visiting Hicksville pissed Mag off. He thrived on the excitement and challenge of big-city life, not to mention the unending availability of new and interesting benefactors. Mag was extremely well paid for his consultation services. Individual clients, as well as police departments and other governmental agencies, sought Mag out when they required cabalistic expertise. Although he reveled in the showmanship of his work and usually exaggerated the trappings unique to mysticism, Mag was not a fake. True, he allowed others to believe that he spoke with the dead while in a deep and enigmatic trance, but Mag's so-called trances were nothing more than bogus stupors. Mag didn't hear voices from beyond; he received, from where he did not know, telepathic impressions of people, places, and events. He was especially sensitive to diabolical occurrences. It was this awareness of evil that had prompted Mag's trip to Van Horn.

  Mag didn't know what was going on in Van Horn, but he knew that it wasn't good. Mag was no demonologist, but he had conferred with a few of them over the years and had learned that foul odors, apparitions, and menacing voices were nothing to scoff at. Moreover, on the morning that he had returned Saul's call, Mag had been physically sickened by the stench of malevolence. It was then that he knew his friend was in serious trouble.

  Between the dark sky and the slashing rain Mag was experiencing difficulty seeing the road just ahead of him. Nonetheless, when he scanned the rearview mirror and spied the vehicle he had recently passed, he thought he saw a creature with profane yellow eyes glaring at him from the truck's bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  While Lukas and Mag were contending with nature’s fury, Paul was dealing with a storm of his own. Neither quite awake nor quite asleep, Paul found himself in a sea of thick black suet whose turbulent swells threatened to engulf and suffocate him. As he struggled to keep his head above the unrelenting waves of grease that assaulted him, Paul was panicked by the realization that something had hold of his legs and was attempting to pull him under the sea’s surface and into its unfathomable depths. With as much strength as he could muster, Paul kicked wildly at that which sought to submerge him. An acute jolt of pain shot up Paul’s left leg as he wrenched himself away from the grasp of whatever was beneath him. Paul was far from insensitive to the pain in his leg, but his priority just then was to escape his unseen assailant.

  Although a strong swimmer, Paul made little progress in his endeavor to navigate the slippery waters. The sea of suet did not lend Paul the buoyancy he required to maneuver himself through the unctuous waves that sought to drown him. Exhausted, in pain, and tired of fighting a losing battle, Paul found himself giving into the powerlessness he felt. Let the waters take me, he thought. Why am I grappling with the inevitable? It was at that moment that Paul spied a form rising up from the sea. Featureless and black as pitch, the figure that captured Paul’s attention grew larger and larger until it obliterated everything, save Paul and his small portion of suet.

  Paul could see the shape moving toward him. He could smell its foulness. He could sense its intention to overtake him, body and soul. Beyond fear and without hope, Paul began to surrender himself to the entity’s will.

  “PAUL, NO!”

  Had he really heard a voice or was he hallucinating?

  “I warned you about serpents, Paul. Remember?”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes, Paul, it’s Matthew.”

  “But you’re dead! How…”

  “Listen to me, Paul! If you give into it now, you will be lost forever. You can fight it, you must fight it!”

  As Matthew spoke, the dark form slowed its advance toward Paul. Although it was no less ominous nor overwhelming than previously, its progression seemed to have been impeded by Matthew’s “presence.”

  “Matthew, I don’t know what to do, tell me what to do!”

  “Have faith, Paul. That’s all that’s needed.”

  “Jesus, Matthew, don’t start with that! I lost my faith when you lost your life.”

  �
��Faith in yourself, Paul. Faith in your ability to withstand the onslaught of evil. That is the faith that will save you! I never believed in myself, I realize that now. I always thought that my belief in God would keep my life on track, but God expects us to be responsible for ourselves by using our minds and hearts and souls to survive the travails that confront us. I failed in that endeavor my dear brother, but you don’t have to. Don’t succumb to the darkness. You won’t like where it takes you.”

  Paul knew that he should be questioning his own sanity at this point but, for some reason, he simply accepted the present events as quite genuine. He also understood that he was in great danger and that Matthew had come to help him.

  Almost imperceptible, the menacing shape of solid black recommenced its advance toward Paul. Matthew’s words, “faith in yourself,” resounded in Paul’s head as his thoughts veered toward his wife and daughter. How could he leave Tamara and Starr? How could he fail them by going down without a fight? It was simple: He couldn’t. Moreover, he could not relinquish his essence to anyone or anything, much less something that Matthew had labeled as “evil.”

  “No, you son-of-a-bitch! You can’t have me!” Paul shouted out to the dark form.

  “Paul! Paul, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Paul opened his eyes. He was in his hospital bed and Tamara was clutching his hand and the sheet that covered his legs was saturated in blood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The nurse who had responded to Tamara’s call for help was astounded by the appearance of Paul’s left leg. Now that the bleeding had stopped and she had cleansed the extremity thoroughly with sterile saline, the nurse was able to assess the damage. It looked to her as though someone had taken a mini-garden rake to her patient’s leg. The gouges were deep and ragged and the nurse was hard-put to believe Paul Forsythe’s assertion that he had simply awakened with a traumatic injury. Of course, she had heard the stories circulating about this particular patient—the infamous disappearing blisters; the assault on an ICU nurse; the self-correcting myocardial infarction—so maybe Mr. Forsythe was being truthful about his leg. Either that or it was a case of self-mutilation or spousal abuse.