*****
The chauffeured Rolls containing Cheryl and Craven screeched into the emergency parking area directly behind the ambulance disregarding the NO PARKING sign. The two slid nearly frictionless across the leathered upholstery as Craven snapped to the driver, "Park it 'n' get inside. I may need you." The brutish hulk behind the wheel nodded and obeyed.
Violence and pain, unencumbered by a timetable, had filled the waiting room with their unfortunate victims — old, young, poor, defenseless and the violent themselves. Tears, screams, cries, blood and the teeth-wrenching silence of some swirled through the air like a whirlpool, sucking the pain and despair through the narrow, crowded tunnel to relief; that relief sometimes being the final relief.
Knife and gunshot victims lay curled, fetus-like, on stray gurneys and slid into forgotten corners while the ubiquitous ER nurse traded insurance ID numbers for, sometimes, life itself.
Cheryl and Craven settled on a bench farther down the corridor after being assured that they would be paged at the first word from the operating team.
"Got a cigarette?" she asked as she let the damp, shredded Kleenex drop from her hand and float to the floor.
"Uh no, I don't smoke. I didn't think you did either," Craven said.
She snapped off the tip of the red enameled thumbnail on her right hand and fingered it. "I don't," she said.
"I see. Bronto doesn't either.... Bronto, go get some cigarettes, any kind. Please."
The cretin let the wall stand of its own accord and lumbered down the corridor managing to walk almost erect.
"He's voice activated," Craven said, hoping to cheer her a little. "Nice to have around. You want a coffee or something else maybe?"
Cheryl shook her head. "Thanks."
"Just relax, it'll all be fine," he said, unconvincingly.
*****
The high-pitched bleep on the cardiac monitor continued its erratic crisis rhythm as the anesthesiologist alternately squeezed and released the ventilating bag, forcing air into Michael's lungs. The circulating nurse glided around the operating table with a steaming tray of sterile instruments. Perspiration beaded on Dr. Carlton's forehead, his bushy gray eyebrows protecting its target, and was wiped away by the wave of a nurse's hand.
"Clamp!" he shouted.
Suddenly the high-pitched bleep flatlined. "Dammit, adrenaline."
The single note grew louder — shrill, piercing, drawing the already grave faces of the team taut and pale.
Carlton fumbled the syringe; tearing off the plasti-pack he jammed the ampule on and plunged the needle in, hitting the target.
"Kid, I need your help, halo or not you can do it. Fight it, man, fight it!"
Deep breaths sounded above the flatline squeal; rapid pinging sounds, echoing, pinball-like, of bullet fragments bouncing into the stainless-steel pan. Carlton's face went ashen as a thin crimson thread spurted, then pulsed from Michael's chest, the runnel flagging, the fountain running dry. He clamped the source. His movements slowed, a dreamlike glide; all sounds ceased — suspended — a dispensation for his singular concentration.
Poised, catlike, he leaped onto the operating table, straddling Mike's body. He came down hard, pounding his chest as the others looked on helplessly.
The dream was broken by the tightening grip of an assistant's hand. Earth sounds flooded in again, banging his brain, jumbled and discordant, then, the single shrill beat of the flatline.
The head surgeon slowly eased himself off of the table and snapped off the bloodstained rubber gloves, tossing them into the metal pan on the instrument cart.
"I'm sorry, doctor," Nurse Hennessy said.
Carlton dropped his head in silence. Martin Fowler, the assistant surgeon, grabbed him again by the shoulder trying to steady him.
"He was as good as dead when he got here. You did all you could. No one will blame you," he said.
Carlton looked up.
"I'll be in my office," he said. "Bring me the dc." He walked toward the scrub sink as the other surgeons followed.
"Go 'head Jan, I'll clean up here. Go type the dc," Nurse Hennessy whispered.
"Thanks, Susan...I...I —"
"That's okay, this is one job that never gets easier."
Carlton swung the OR door open, dazed and saddened by the senseless violence that filled his hours. He faltered as he followed the red tape down the center of the floor.
An appropriate color marking for the OR section, he thought.
At the far end of the corridor, Tom Pirnie, huddled over a gurney brushed some imaginary lint from the lap of his white hospital gown and dropped the prop clipboard on the gurney below the pay phone on the wall. He glanced up again as the remaining members of the team followed Dr. Carlton lemming-like down the corridor. Pirnie lifted his cell phone from the pocket of the gown and dialed.
"Steve, it's me," he whispered into the mouthpiece. "Looks good...yeah, the teams coming down the hall now, and they don't look like they're in a celebrating mood.... No problem there. He was taken from the corral.... Yeah, no history for the past twenty-six months and the gun was his own. He smuggled it back from Afghanistan.... Yeah, will do, talk to you later."
Pirnie stepped into the empty elevator, removed the gown tossing it into the corner and as the door slid closed, he mumbled aloud: "Looks like we won't have Mike Flagg to kick around anymore."
He seemed disappointed.
PART TWO
BEAR WITNESS TO THE LIGHT
Expressions last receding ray
A gilded halo hovering round decay
Lord Byron
The Giaour (1813)
Chapter 10
Smoke! Thick billowing clouds of smoke.
Jet-black smoke. No vision. Blackness.
Darkness.
Death.
No! Steam! Red Steam. Voices. Faces.
Diane. Pamela. Elissa. Donna.
Erin. Alyson. Cheryl.... Cheryl....
It's Cheryl.
Mist. Cool mist. Purple spray. It's me!
A throne. People bowing. Gold. Silver.
Jewels.
So beautiful. Oh God, so beautiful. Warm.
No, cool. Both. Airy. Blue.
It's blue now. My God, so blue. It's the air.
I'm breathing it! The air is blue!
Not smoke. Not steam. The air is blue!
I'm breathing it. You fools, breathe the air.
Don't waste it. Stop rushing!
Breathe the air.
Breathe blue!
"Four-hundred. All clear."
Michael felt the cold paddles slap his greased thorax and instantly his limp body lifted up off of the operating table.
"Doctor, I'm getting a pulse!"
"Ten cc of lidocaine nurse, hurry!"
*****
Carlton's heartbeat regulated along with Mike's. "Good work, Susan. How long was he gone for?" he asked.
"A little over nine minutes, I paged you as soon as the fibrillations started."
"Well, you were in time, he'll make it. I don't know how much of his brain will be intact, nine minutes is a long time. All we can do is hope for a miracle, but he can thank you for the fact that he's alive. Quick thinking, Susan."
"Thank you, doctor."
"I'd like to see him as soon as he's conscious."
"Yes, doctor, I'll let you know."
*****
The two pillows bunched under Mike caused undo pressure on the small of his back but any other position sent shearing pain through his adhesive-taped chest. He drew a painful but relieving drag on a contraband cigarette, smuggled in by a pliable candy striper, and crushed the butt out on a pie plate as Dr. Carlton swung the door open, pinching a single sheet of paper between his thumb and forefinger.
"Mike, good to see you're up. I thought you might like this as a souvenir; it's your death certificate. It's not signed but it's still suitable for framing." Carlton edged toward the bed and saw a wisp of smoke curl up from the plate on the lunch tray.
"You shouldn't be smoking you know. Besides being against hospital regulations, it's bad for your health."
"According to that piece of paper you got, I'm dead, so why worry?"
"Touché. But don’t let me find out who gave it to you. If they're on the staff, they'll be walking...so how are you feeling?" He folded the bed sheet back, exposing Mike's feet.
"Great, but I gotta feeling my toes are gonna start getting cold."
"Haven't lost your sense of humor. Curl the toes on your right foot please."
Mike did.
"Good, now close your eyes, extend your left arm straight out and bring it back touching your nose with your index finger."
Mike complied.
"What'd I get popped for drunk drivin'? You want me to walk a straight line?"
"In time, Mike, in time. What's four times six?"
"Jeez, I don't have my calculator!"
"Four times six."
"Twenty-fuckin'-four, I'm fine, if you'd get this goddam tape off me, I'll dance the fuckin' jig."
"That tape is holding in your guts. Now get some rest. I'll be back in later." Carlton bit his lip as he slipped the clipboard on the foot of the bed and continued his rounds.
*****
The candy striper seated on the edge of Mike's bed had slipped under quicker and deeper than the one on the visitor's chair but both were well into the relaxation stage. Their bodies hung limp, shoulders slumped, with faces sagged into passive masks. Mike held his voice in a monotone. Low, slow, almost a whisper.
"Now with your eyes closed, direct them inward and downward and bring your attention to your breath. Visualize it as vapor. You're in a cold room; your breath is frosting up. You can see the inward and outward movement, but your body is warm. There are no body sensations other than warmth and comfort. Your breath is frosty blue now. You inhale...and exhale, slowly now. And inhale...exhale. It's almost like smoke now, vivid blue. It feels good in your lungs —cold, tingling. In fact, your whole body feels good. Renewed...refreshed...renewed...refreshed. Now slowly open your eyes...very slowly. You do feel better now, don't you?" he said.
"Yes, yes I do," they answered in unison.
"Now do that twice a day. Once in the morning and again before you go to bed. Don't forget the relaxation exercise. Blue is for general good health, now if you're having problems with your boyfriend,” Mike smiled sardonically, "breathe red, it never fails."
"Pam's spoken for, but I'm unattached." The strawberry blond on the edge of the bed inched her hand closer to Mike's lap. "If you —"
Cheryl bounded into the room.
"Michael!" Her broad smile curled down slowly as she reviewed the scene. "Sorry, I thought you were alone."
The two young girls remained seated, ignoring her entrance.
"Excuse me girls, don't you have rounds to make?" She divided her stare between the two. They looked at Mike and his simple nod told them to comply. They were barely out of the room when Mike slid himself back up against the pillow.
"That was rather rude," he said.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you had plans of making a harem of adolescent nurses. And speaking of rude, I spoke to Dr. Carlton earlier this morning. He's pretty upset with you. He's a damn good physician and for that reason alone — forget the fact that he saved your life — you should respect him."
"Respect him, huh, he's an idiot. They're all idiots in this hospital," he said.
"Yeah, everyone except those cute tushes that just left, I suppose. Get off your high horse, Michael. Wake up; you almost died for god's sake. I’ve been waiting down the hallway all night and this morning I was told that you didn't want any visitors. Now I come in here and see a girl that's barely a teenager sitting in your lap. I was scared to death for you and then I hear how you treated Dr. Carlton. Doctor Carlton, the man that saved your life for god's sake."
"He didn't save my life," Mike said.
"What?"
"I said, he didn't save my life. I've been chosen. I couldn't die, I've been chosen."
"Chosen!" Cheryl trembled. "Mike, you're scaring me now."
"It's true. I know why I didn't die.... I have a mission now.... I've been chosen."
"Ma-Mike, please," she stuttered, "tell me you're joking, you're scaring me...please."
"I was afraid you wouldn't understand. But you will...someday."
Cheryl stared at Michael momentarily, praying that at any moment he would break out in laughter — that this was all a joke. But his face was empty, a void, his eyes vacuous — the face of a stranger. Tears welled in her eyes; she turned and ran through the door before he could see them trickle down, staining her cheeks.
*****
"Nothing like a good tragedy to get people to start diggin' deep, kiddo. We passed the thirty million mark, noontime today. The accountants are projecting double that tomorrow, same time. I just placed an order for a computerized letter sorter, should help separate the wheat from the chaff, if you know what I mean. You're dynamite kid, golden!" Craven said, even more animated than usual.
"If I'm so golden then why am I sharing a room with that guy?" Mike motioned with his chin in the direction of his roommate.
"Oh, so sorry. The hospital had a busy night last night. Filled to capacity now. He's harmless though, cube-itis — you know — Rubik's Cube Syndrome. He snapped, just don't shove anything square and colorful in his face, he might bite. Talk is, he's a congressman's son. Probably genetic brain damage." Craven laughed at his own joke. "You should be getting released soon anyway. I don't know why, but the doc seems eager to get rid of you."
"He's a prick," Mike groaned.
"That'll do it, they're a tough breed, them pricks. No reasoning with 'em, right, kid? Well I better get back to the office, just wanted to let you know that all is well. Keep those cards and letters coming." He headed for the door but Mike called out.
"Craven, I want you to look into buying some land. A couple places here in DC, and have your people look into the major markets...New York, Boston, LA."
"Good idea, I think it's about time we kicked some into real estate."
"It's not for investment," Mike said. "We'll be setting up ashrams."
"Setting up what?"
"Ashrams."
"No need to get profane, kid."
"Ashrams you idiot, churches, temples."
"Oh yeah right, I gotcha." Craven turned again and walked toward the door.
"Breathe blue, Timothy," Mike called out.
"Huh?"
"I said, breathe blue!"
"Sure, kid, whenever you say."
Mike wrestled himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, slid his slippers on and eased himself onto the floor. The pain was subsiding now. He started toward the window but stopped at the side of his roommate's bed when he realized the young man was speaking, unintelligibly at first, but the mumbles became clearer as he approached him.
"...goddam squares...red, blue, green, green, green —"
Mike cocked his head up indignantly and shouted, "breathe the goddam squares. Breathe blue!"
The filmy glaze in the young man's eyes seemed to wash over. A revelation. Of course, breathe the colors! He tore the bed sheet from his body and sprung to the cold tile floor. Crouching down, he lay prostrate before Michael.
"You are a godsend," he said weeping. "Make me a fisher of men. I am your servant."
As he lay at Michael's feet, the haloed man touched him lightly on the shoulder." Arise, my son, and I will teach you the magic of colors."
Chapter 11
There was little difficulty in securing the parcels of land considering the net worth of the buyer; mortgages were deemed unnecessary, the transactions of funds carried out by paper pushers and computers. Four tracts were purchased in the Washington area: Brentwood, Bennings, Congress Heights and Georgetown, the latter serving as Michael's headquarters.
The basic plumbing and minor structural changes that Michael had insist upon were completed in record time a
nd the balance, not needing the skilled professional, was accomplished by an all-volunteer staff. The colors of the lobby, the offices, the relaxation room, as well as each of the "breathing rooms,” were selected by Michael for the Georgetown ashrams and were to be duplicated in each of the other facilities.
The proper forms were drafted by the Perpetual Bank of Maryland giving Timothy Craven complete check signing privileges, which enabled him to more easily skim not only his thirty percent commission but also an almost obscene amount of “reasonable” expenses. Michael was becoming less involved with money matters, his main concern being his godsent mission.
Having completed an intensive three-week training program in the relaxation response and color breathing techniques, instructors were dispatched to the various ashrams to bring the word to the people. The media was careful to note that with the exception of a congressman’s son, selected as Mr. Flagg’s assistant, all of the instructors were "young, attractive, buxom women, totally dedicated and sworn to secrecy in both technique training and initiation rites." This did nothing to dissuade throngs of would-be initiates from standing in the long, slow moving lines that coiled around the ashrams. Students and the elderly received a discounted initiation fee and from the data culled from the registration forms it was determined that a full 36 percent of the 1.8 million anointed in the first three months were from out-of-state. The major markets were warranted, established and now thriving.
*****
The twelve inch high, carpeted platform that supported Michael's desk in his Georgetown office was reinforced to support his newly arrived and much heavier pivot-throne and business was back to normal. Raymond Packwell, apparently cured or "miraculously cured" in his own words, of cube-itis, stepped into Michael's office, bowed and spoke:
"Breathe blue, Saint Michael. I am humble in your presence."
"Breathe blue, Brother Raymond. You may speak."
A Reluctant Messiah Page 7
