Unclean Spirit (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

              Javier Gomez ran his hands through his thick black hair and wondered what his life would have been like had he chosen architecture or law or even plumbing over medicine. It had been the night from hell! First, he had performed emergency surgery on a teenaged boy who, drunk on his ass, had wrapped his father's car around a cement piling; the kid would live, if you called existing in a persistent vegetative state living. The boy's father had taken the news stoically; his mother's hysteria had triggered an impending myocardial infarction. Then, on his way home, Javier had received a call from his ex-wife, Amalia. As usual, Amalia wanted money. Javier knew that Amalia missed her social position as a physician's wife, and as a result, regretted her decision to divorce the prestigious Dr. Gomez. Since Javier had made it clear that there would never be a reconciliation, Amalia had done her best to replace status with its accouterments. Javier always indulged Amalia's financial demands, essentially because signing a check was easier than dealing with the guilt he felt over the dissolution of the marriage.

              Javier had finally crawled into bed when the phone rang--it was the hospital. Could he please come right away? His patient, Paul Forsythe, had injured a nurse.

              As he sat in the doctors' lounge, drinking yet another cup of coffee, Javier contemplated the unique elements of Paul Forsythe's case--the five second cardiac arrest, the prolonged unconsciousness, the now-they're-here-now-they're-not abscesses, the attack on Cassie. Cassie was emotionally shaken, so much so that she actually seemed to believe that something other than Mr. Forsythe had tried to choke her to death. Javier had done his best to convince the nurse of the often bizarre effects of hypoxia. Cassie, however, had said, "A lack of oxygen can't explain what I saw in his eyes before he grabbed me by the neck. Actually, it wasn't so much what I saw as it was what I felt; it was as though I were drowning in a pool of pure malevolence. I've always believed that 'evil' is only an adjective used to describe corrupt and heinous acts; I now know that it is a proper noun. I faced Evil head-on tonight, and it scared the hell out of me!" 

              Javier's grandmother, God rest her soul, would have implored him to drop the Forsythe case. She would have insisted that he pray the rosary and solicit the assistance of a curandero, or maybe even a brujo. In short, abuelita Tencha would have told him that El Diablo was at work. As far as Javier was concerned, that was just about as likely as O.J. being innocent of murder! So, he had attributed Cassie's impressions of malice to an overactive imagination.

              Javier had thoroughly examined Paul Forsythe after tending to Cassie and could not discern anything "evil" or even peculiar about the man. On the contrary, Mr. Forsythe appeared to be sincerely concerned about Cassie. As best Javier could ascertain, Mr. Forsythe had no clear recollection of his actions. Although he still couldn't speak very well, Mr. Forsythe had managed, "Remember waking up and seeing nurse...felt angry...felt not self...remember reaching for her...on floor." Although Dr. Gomez believed in being up-front with his patients, he saw no reason to traumatize Mr. Forsythe further by telling him the whole truth so he had only told the man that Cassie had fainted and that she would be fine. The rhythm strips in Mr. Forsythe's chart confirmed the tachycardia that Cassie had told the doctor about and although Mr. Forsythe's cardiac rate was normal now, Javier didn't want to risk taxing his patient's heart by telling him he had attempted to strangle someone. But Paul Forsythe was neither stupid nor insensitive and he had demanded that Javier tell him why Cassie had passed out. Dr. Gomez, against his better judgment, had complied with his patient's request and had been dismayed by the man's reaction. Tears had tumbled down Mr. Forsythe's cheeks and he had repeated over and over, "No, not me...not me...not me." It was then that Javier had called Tamara.

              Javier had left Tamara alone with her husband; Starr was sitting across the table, waiting for him to speak. Javier could not help but notice how truly lovely Starr was. Despite the tousled hair and lack of makeup, maybe because of it, Javier found Starr Forsythe quite captivating and he struggled to find the comforting words of reassurance that would erase the anxiety from her face. Problem was, he could come up with no such words.

              "Starr, I don't know what more to tell you. You and your mother have stressed to me that your father's actions tonight were very atypical and I accept that. As I mentioned earlier, cerebral insult can certainly cause aberrant behavior so maybe that, combined with the psychological stress of the accident and its sequelae, is what prompted your father's attack on Cassie. At any rate, I want to keep him in the ICU a bit longer. Staffing on the regular nursing units is less than adequate and I'd be much more comfortable keeping him in an environment in which he can be closely monitored."

              Javier was touched by the tears that welled up in Starr's eyes as she spoke. "My father is a good man, he doesn't deserve all this. I don't understand what's happening to him, Dr. Gomez, but I just can't shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong, something that has little to do with his physical injuries."

              "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean."

              "No, I don't expect that you do. If I may ask you a personal question, Dr. Gomez, are you strictly a man of the mainstream sciences?"

              "Excuse me?"

              "I guess I want to know if you believe in something other than physicality."

              Javier wasn't sure he liked the direction this conversation was taking. Attractive or not, if Starr was some kind of religious fanatic he wanted as little to do with her as possible.

              "I'm still not sure what you're asking. If you want an explanation of my spiritual beliefs, I have to say that I fail to see what my personal convictions have to do with your father." 

              Starr could tell that Dr. Gomez was starting to distance himself from her.

              "Dr. Gomez, I apologize if I've offended you--it certainly wasn't my intention. I can appreciate what you must be thinking, but let me assure you, I'm not a nut case or some off-the-wall zealot. Allow me to share some things with you..."

              Starr rarely discussed her psychic aptitude with anyone, much less with a virtual stranger. But her father's life might depend on Dr. Gomez' approach to his care and she wanted to make damn sure the physician had all the relevant data. So, Starr talked about her clairvoyant impressions, past and present.               

              "...and so, Dr. Gomez, that's about it. The last thing I want to do is alienate you, but I love my father too much not to risk it. Frankly, I don't know what I expect you to do with the information I've given you but at least it's on the table for your consideration."

              Javier's initial impression when Starr had first started telling him about her "visions" had been, "Oh, shit!" but then, the longer he listened, the more he realized that the woman was quite sincere. Javier was not unfamiliar with the so-called supernatural aspects of life, his grandmother had done her best to indoctrinate him into both her faith and her beliefs relative to the preternatural. Although Javier had loved abuelita Tencha, he had always regarded her as a brainwashed Catholic whose arcane superstitions ruled her life. If his grandmother had never been able to sway his beliefs, it was highly unlikely that Starr Forsythe would be able to. It was curious though that both Cassie and Starr seemed to have similar interpretations of what was going on with Mr. Forsythe. Curious, yes. Correct, no way.             

              "It sounds like you've lead a very interesting life and I appreciate your opening up to me, but I just can't buy into this paranormal ideology. True, your father's case is somewhat baffling but I'm confident that there are logical reasons for everything that has occurred. I believe that the appropriate tests and observations will bear that out."

              Starr was not surprised by the doctor's response. "I hope you're right, Dr. Gomez. God, I hope you're right!"

              Paul had finally fallen asleep, thanks to Tamara's calming presence. Tamara herself felt anything but calm. She was indeed frightened for her husband, but there was another sensation as well, one that affected the core of her being. Tamara shivered as she felt a shock of cold cut through her very soul.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

              Charlie was relieved when daylight finally broke; he had spent a miserably sleepless night. It had taken over an hour for him to get Cooter to eat something and nothing he had done to coax the old dog out of the barn had worked. Charlie loved that dog and hoped nothing was wrong with him; if he didn't shape up, he'd take Cooter in to see Doc Elmo. As it was, he was going to have to pay a visit to his own doctor. The boil on his nose had pained him all night long and this morning it looked like a miniature cow utter on the verge of bursting. The pain had been only part of the reason Charlie hadn't slept. The odor he had thought originated from his own body had infiltrated the entire house. It was a rotten, nauseating smell that put Charlie in mind of decomposing animal carcasses. Charlie wondered if a skunk or prairie dog had crawled into the house's electrical wiring and died. Charlie knew he would have to check it out later in the day. For now though, he was going to have some breakfast and then call Doc Feener's office.

              Charlie put bacon in the skillet and leftover biscuits and gravy in the oven. He opened the kitchen door and called for Cooter. The dog stuck his head out of the barn but would come no further. Charlie poured himself a cup of coffee then went to turn the bacon.

              "What the hell?"

              The burner was red hot, but the bacon wasn't frying. Charlie switched burners and opened the stove to check on the biscuits. The warmth in the oven greeted him but he couldn't smell the bread and the gravy was still gelatinous. Charlie increased the oven's temperature and turned his attention to the bacon, which was still raw. Charlie didn't have to touch the range to know that it was operational. Had to be the bacon or maybe even the skillet. Fine, thought Charlie, screw the bacon, I'll make due with biscuits and cream gravy. But ten minutes later, Charlie's breakfast wasn't even lukewarm and the old guy was royally pissed! Charlie slammed the oven door closed just as the phone began to ring.

              "Yeah, what?" Charlie's tone left little to the imagination.

              "Charlie? It's Starr Forsythe."             

              "Miz Starr? Shit, sorry for bitin' yer head off...it's just that it's been a shitfuck mornin'!

              "You in El Paso? How's Mr. F.? He gonna be okay?"

              Starr condensed the situation for Charlie, telling him only about the surgery and Paul's return to a conscious state, "...and I really don't know how much longer we'll be here. Dad's still in the Intensive Care Unit, so it might be a while yet before we can bring him home."

              "And Miz Tamara, how's she?" 

              "Tired, concerned. But you know Mom, she can weather just about anything.

              "What's going on there that's got you so riled-up, Charlie?"

              Charlie didn't see any point in telling Starr about the weird going-ons at the ranch. "Nothin' for you to worry 'bout, Miz Starr, nothin' at all.

              "Marybeth and Patsy called to say they'll be arrivin' in El Paso tonight. If you can hold on a sec I'll git that flight information fer ya."                 

              While Charlie rummaged through the papers by the phone, Starr listened to the static that had suddenly become audible on the line. It seemed as though Charlie was taking forever to find what he was looking for and the longer Starr listened to the crackling noises on the wire, the more aware she became of a certain cadence to the sounds.              Crackle,crackle...silence...crackl
e
crackl
e
crackl
e
silenc
e
crackle, crackle...silence...crackle, crackle, crackle...silence.

              Starr could feel herself being caught up in the rhythm of the static; it was oddly comforting and captivating. Starr began to feel pleasantly lightheaded and warm and totally at peace. And then, without warning, the static and sensation of serenity were abruptly replaced with an offensively odious voice:
Gotcha, Bitch!

              Starr squeezed the receiver so tightly that her fingers became numb.

              "Who's there?"...dead silence..."Answer me, damn it!"...heavy silence..."I know you're there, you bastard and you better..."

              "Miz Starr?"

              Starr nearly peed on herself when Charlie's voice came across the line.

              "Jesus, Charlie, you scared the shit out of me!"

              "Didn't mean to. Who was ya talkin' to?"

              Starr knew that she had not imagined the strange static and contemptible voice, but she didn't want to go into it with Charlie.

              "I guess I'm just on edge, Charlie. I expect that the wires got crossed and I heard someone else's conversation. 

              "So, what's that flight info?"             

              After leaving the phone numbers for the motel and hospital, Starr ended the conversation with a promise that she would forward Charlie's regards to her folks. Starr was relieved to put the receiver back on its hook. Who, or what, had lulled her into a state of tranquility and then snatched her out of it so crudely? Maybe the wires had gotten crossed after all; maybe she was just so exhausted that she was imagining feelings and voices; maybe rationalization was her forte.             

              Charlie put the phone down and walked into the kitchen.             

              "Where'd you come from?"

              Sitting in front of the basement door was a jet-black cat whose eyes, seemingly devoid of pupils, were a blazing lemon yellow. Plenty of stray animals had taken up residence on the ranch, but Charlie couldn't recall ever seeing a cat with such striking eyes. 

              "Hungry, ol' son? How 'bout some milk?"

              After first closing the kitchen door so the cat wouldn't wander into the main house, Charlie poured milk into a small bowl and turned to put it on the floor. The cat, who had been present in the enclosed kitchen only moments before, was nowhere to be found.

              "Well, ain't this just fuckin' fine? Now we got ourselves gawddamn disappearin' black cats!"