Unclean Spirit (8 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

              "Mag? Saul Feener here. You awake?"

              A groggy and pissed-off Magyar Gehrke barked his reply. "Sure I awake! You wake me up! What fuck time it is?"

              "It's a little after two a.m. your time, Mag. I apologize for calling at this hour, but I have to talk to you."

              "What? You won't have voice in six hours more? You call again after eight this morning...I sleep now," and with that, Magyar hung up on the good doctor.

              Saul was neither offended nor surprised; Magyar Gehrke was a feisty old Hungarian who rarely permitted anything to interfere with his personal needs. Magyar was one of those unique individuals who could assert himself without guilt--he wanted to sleep, so he would sleep. Saul should have known better than to call Mag in the middle of the night, but he had desperately needed his friend's take on the recent events at the Forsythe ranch.

              Saul had never seriously contemplated the so-called "supernatural realm" prior to meeting Magyar. Despite the fact that he had graduated from Harvard, Mag made his living as a spiritualist. He had promised his mother he would finish college, but he had never pledged himself to a mainstream occupation. Mag had the heart and soul of a gypsy and no amount of Ivy League pedagogy could change that. 

              Saul had first met Mag at a party. Mag was everything Saul was not--flamboyant, loud, profane, self-assured--and Saul found himself being pulled into Mag's charismatic embrace. Of course, he didn't for a minute buy into Mag's mystical philosophy but he did find the man's ideas somewhat entertaining. In addition, the women gravitated to the Omar Sharif look-a-like and Saul was not beneath hanging around in order to meet the ladies.

              Mag put on quite a show and Saul had been surprised to learn about his Harvard degree. Philippe, the party's host, told Saul that Mag was a linguist and that his broken English was merely an affectation designed to bolster Mag's image as a colorful Hungarian psychic. Over the years that Saul had known Mag, the speech had become less of a pretense and more of a reality.

              As the men cemented their friendship over the months following the party, Saul came to realize that Mag was not the charlatan he had assumed him to be. Although Saul wasn't ready to accept Mag's heartfelt beliefs relative to mediumistic phenomena, clairvoyance, and preternatural occurrences, he did acknowledge that his friend was extraordinarily intuitive. He seemed to possess an apriori awareness of events that absolutely boggled the mind. It was that special perception that had finally opened Saul's mind to extreme possibilities. Saul would always remember the evening when Mag, quite out of the blue, had said: Protect always the small ones, my friend, for they are most vulnerable. Not be fooled by their keepers, for keepers not always kind. Pay special heed to small one with eyes of blue topaz.

              It wasn't until a year later that Saul recalled Mag's warning; too late, however, to save Hillie Perkins of the topaz eyes. Saul never again doubted Magyar Gehrke's peculiar abilities.

              Saul finally fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of Hillie Perkins being chased by a black cat with burning yellow eyes.

              It was the ring of the phone that awakened Saul several hours later.

              "Okay, friend, what so damned important that you disturb Magyar's rest?"

              Saul shook himself awake and glanced at the clock--eight a.m., on the dot. "Mag, you old fart! I should hang up on you now."

              "Okay, goodbye."

              "Wait, I'm just kidding! Don't go!"

              Mag's gruff laughter filled the phone's earpiece and Saul's face broke out in a smile that began to fade away as he told Mag about the disembodied voice at the Forsythe ranch, the vision of Hillie, the black cat, and Charlie's paranormal notions.

              "You have there big trouble, my friend. Magyar will come."

              And, for the second time in the past six hours, Mag hung up on Saul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

              Charlie realized that his nose hadn't hurt at all during the night and as he removed the guaze bandage in preparation for his shower, he was astounded to find the area free of blemish.             

              Cooter roused himself from the blanket on the front porch, sauntered over to the kitchen door, and barked loudly for his breakfast.

              Paul awoke feeling like a new man. He was pain-free, hungry, and anxious to see his family. And although he had total recall relative to his surgery, he had no memory of the odd sensations that had plagued him since the operation.

              Starr relaxed as the warm water cascaded over her. She hadn't slept well and her muscles were tense from a night filled with twisting and turning; a shower was just what she needed right now. The soap smelled so fresh; the shower tiles glistened so brightly; the ambient light in the shower stall was so soothing. This is heaven, thought Starr. Odd, though, that there's a black cat sitting on the showerhead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

              While Tamara took her turn in the shower, Starr called Maxie. She'd had a little difficulty punching in the correct phone numbers because she couldn't control the trembling of her hands.

              After synopsizing everything that had transpired since leaving Dallas four days ago, Starr ended with, "It was though I was in a trance, Max. I swear, I saw that black cat as clearly as I see Penelope sitting before me now. I know that he was an apparition but one that seemed to possess real substance. I know that's an oxymoron, but damned if I know how else to describe it!"

              "Listen, girl, why don't I close up shop and fly out there?"

              As much as Starr would have loved having Maxie around to ground her, she resisted the temptation. "I appreciate it, Max, but we both know how fickle our clientele can be. Cancel just one appointment and the word travels like wildfire that we're unreliable. I feel guilty enough as it is that I'm not there to pull my weight, I don't need to also feel responsible for running the business into the ground. No, you stay put--I'll make it up to you somehow."

              "I just might hold you to that promise. Guess who's scheduled for this afternoon?"

              "Who?"

              "None other than Mrs. Preston!"

              "Oh, shit!"

              "You got it, girlfriend. She's bringing Pearl S. and her litter in for a group-shot. I can't wait to see those precious pug puppies, but can you even imagine the poop and piss there's going to be all over this place?"

              "Do you mean from the puppies or from Mrs. Queen-Bitch of the Universe Preston?"

              Maxie laughed. "The entire entourage, I suppose.

              "But seriously, Starr, I'll be out there in a New York minute if you need me."

              "I know that, Max, and I love you for it. Hopefully, though, things will start to fall into place and Dad will be okay."

              "I sure hope so. Give my love to everyone and don't hesitate to call if there's even one little thing I can do. I'll keep praying for all of you."

              "Thanks, Max, and I'll pray that you get through today's session without having to call 911!"

              Just talking to Maxie had calmed Starr down. There was a unique rapport between the two women that lent balance to their respective lives. It had always been their differences, rather than their similarities, that had solidified their relationship. Starr knew that the mysticism that was invading her world just now could be curbed by Maxie's pragmatic presence; she also knew that Maxie had to keep
POOFFS
operational. Oh well...

              Tamara, Marybeth, Patsy, and Starr had all piled into the car and were about to head off for breakfast when Starr realized that she had forgotten her wallet. When she returned to the room to retrieve it, she found Penelope sitting by the tub intently staring at the showerhead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

              "Doctor, I feel so much better. When can I get out of here?"

              Javier Gomez was both surprised and delighted by Paul Forsythe's appearance and demeanor: His voice was back to normal; his neurological and cardiac assessments revealed no deficits or abnormalities; his behavior confirmed his claim that he was "much better.”

              "You're definitely improving, Mr. Forsythe. So much so that I'm going to transfer you out of ICU today. If you continue to progress and there are no complications, I should be able to discharge you in a few days."

              "A few days?" The disappointment he felt was evident in Paul's voice and facial expression.

              "Look, I can appreciate that you want to get back home; being hospitalized is, at best, a difficult experience. The fact remains, however, that you sustained a very serious injury. True, you look and feel better but I need to make sure that you don't have any unexpected setbacks. Van Horn is fairly far away and I would hate for you to get into trouble out there."

              "Yes, but Dr. Feener..."

              "Mr. Forsythe, I was impressed with Dr. Feener's initial assessment of your condition and his fast action in getting you here. I'm sure that he's a fine physician and once I do discharge you he will handle your care in Van Horn. For now though, please allow me to manage your recovery period as I see fit."

              Paul saw no point in arguing further with Dr. Gomez. The man obviously knew what he was talking about and was determined that Paul remain in the hospital for a few more days. So be it.

              "Okay, Dr. Gomez, you win.

              "I've been in such a fog lately that I'm not real clear on exactly what has been going on with me. I know you had to take a clot out of my head--and, by the way, thanks, I'm sure I didn't need it--but that's about all I know."

              Javier couldn't help but smile. "You're welcome and no, you definitely didn't need that blood clot. Okay, let me fill you in..."

              Javier explained the surgery and its follow-up course of treatment; he discussed Paul's cardiac event in the Operating Room and his present cardiac status; he told Paul about the eruptions on his hand and their spontaneous remission.

              "So my heart's all right now?" Paul inquired.

              "Seems to be. I'll have Dr. Barker examine you again before you're discharged though."

              "And my hand? Looks fine now. What was that all about."                           

              "I'm not real sure. The preliminary culture reports came back negative, which I find very difficult to believe. If there were still something to culture, I would repeat the test. I did talk to a colleague about it and she said that extreme physiological stress has been known to trigger a variety of skin reactions that resolve themselves. But she also told me that she was surprised to hear of such a sudden and intense onset of abscesses that healed themselves almost immediately. Frankly, that little event has me quite stymied. I can have Dr. Heitzman, that's the name of my colleague,  see you if you like."

              "No, that isn't necessary. I'd just as soon chalk up the hand-thing to a weird and unexplained phenomenon."

              Paul's words, "weird and unexplained phenomenon," reminded Javier of Cassie. Since his patient hadn't mentioned the nurse, Javier chose to avoid the topic. After all, Cassie was just fine, physically at least, so he saw no need to broach the subject of Paul's assault on her.

              "Mr. Forsythe, now that you're feeling better, do you have any recollection of what caused your head injury? The assumption is that you fell down the basement steps, but we don't know that for a fact."

              Javier could tell that Paul was searching his memory bank so he waited patiently for a response.

              Finally, "Actually, I don't think I fell down the stairs. I can't be sure about that, but it doesn't feel as though that's what happened. I recall working on a pulpit that I was restoring. I was completing the sanding process I had started on days before when I realized that letters were beginning to show through on its base. I remember being excited about that because they might confirm that the Pastor who had brought the piece to me had happened upon a legitimate antique. I'm not positive, but I think I saw the characters X, P, I, and S showing through. At any rate, I was anxious to finish the sanding."

              Paul stopped speaking for a moment and Javier noted the beads of sweat on the man's brow.

              Paul resumed his story. "Actually, I was more than anxious to finish, I felt driven to do so. I can remember that quite clearly now. Strange. I'm not a religious man, Dr. Gomez, and I wasn't especially eager to work on that pulpit when Pastor Duncan first brought it over. The truth is, the damn thing allowed personal memories to surface that I'd just as soon keep buried."

              Once again, Paul stopped talking as he seemed to contemplate what he had just said. Then, "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. You want to know how I injured myself, not how I felt about the work I was doing."

              It was Javier's turn to speak.

              "Mr. Forsythe, the best way for you to recall what truly happened is to re-experience the totality of that night, feelings and all. Besides, I find what you're telling me very interesting.

              "What did you mean by 'driven'?"

              "It was as though something was compelling me to reveal the writing on the bottom of the pulpit and I felt as though my singular purpose in life was to achieve that goal." A shiver passed through Paul's body.

              "What? What is it, Mr. Forsythe?" queried a concerned Dr. Gomez.

              "I know how crazy this sounds but I felt almost separated from myself."

              "I don't understand what you mean."

              "Well, it wasn't like a near-death-experience; I wasn't floating above my body and I didn't enter a tunnel or see a bright light. The sense of separation was internal, not external. It was as though the physical space that was normally occupied by my soul, my essence, whatever you want to call it, had been commandeered by another presence. In short, I felt like I was being forced out of myself."

              Warning bells were going off in Javier's mind. Had Paul Forsythe experienced some type of psychotic break just prior to his injury? Had the head trauma been the result of a generalized seizure, a seizure that had been preceded by an aura of bizarre sensations? What, exactly, was going on with this man? Javier opened his mouth to speak but what he was going to say was preempted.

              "Dr. Gomez, I can imagine what you're thinking just about now and I can't say that I blame you. Let me assure you, however, that I am not a lunatic."

              Maybe, maybe not, thought Javier.

              "Mr. Forsythe, why don't you just tell me the rest of what you remember?"

              Paul was no fool, he could tell that the physician had doubts about his sanity, his recollections, or both. Well, what the hell? he thought. Too late to stop now.

              "I became conscious of a change in the basement's atmosphere; the air felt heavy and laden with an offensive odor that made me acutely aware of each breath I took. I became so nauseous that I felt like I was going to pass out, but I kept on sanding and sanding and sanding..."

              Javier watched as Paul's eyes lost focus and his left hand mimicked sanding motions. He was fearful that the man was going to have a seizure.

              "Mr. Forsythe!"

              Paul snapped out of it.

              "What?!"

              "Where were you just now?" Javier asked.

              "What do you mean?"

              "Your speech became repetitive, your eyes lost focus, your left hand was moving back and forth."

              Paul looked, and felt, frightened.

              "Dr. Gomez, I didn't fall down the stairs; I was pushed!"