Jim Rubart Trilogy

by James L. Rubart

  Tonight Corin would usher in its death. His fast walk morphed into a slow jog as he clipped toward the launch point.

  When he reached the edge of the cliff, a light wind buffeted his face. Perfect. Maybe the winds were stronger two hundred or five hundred feet down. Maybe they’d take him for a ride he’d never remember. All possibilities were good ones.

  Corin stared at the darkness below. If his memory was still serving him accurately, he’d be able to float for five seconds, maybe seven, before pulling his chute. Without seeing the ground he couldn’t be sure. But wasn’t that the idea?

  Once he was in the air he’d decide when to send his chute out behind him in a stream of salvation. Or maybe he wouldn’t decide.

  A deep breath. Then another.

  Corin strode back five paces from the edge and turned. Both his legs bounced like mini jackhammers and his hands shook. He felt his palms. Dry. Cold. Same for this feet. Icy cold. The terror surging through him had probably pulled all the blood from his extremities.

  A voice so deep inside it was only the hint of a whisper tried to speak. Corin shut it down and stared into the void in front of him.

  He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

  There was no question. He had to do this.

  Do you? The voice inside grew louder.

  “Yes.”

  Corin pulled his chute from his pack and slipped into his harness.

  Pictures of Nicole and Shasta and Tesser and the chair swirled through his mind in a kaleidoscope of images.

  Just before he lunged forward into his sprint toward the cliff, his cell phone pierced the night air.

  How ironic. Was it God trying to save him?

  It didn’t matter. Because unless it was God on the phone, he wasn’t backing down.

  Might as well see who it was.

  Corin yanked his phone out of his pocket. A. C. A good man, a good friend. Corin muted the ring and shoved the phone deep into his pocket. “Sorry, pal.”

  He stared into the blackness. Into the nothingness. Just like the lake.

  He counted to three, then sprinted for the edge. Faster, something from behind pushing, digging deep into the dirt with the toes of his Nikes with each step. A moment later he was floating, not seeing anything, embracing the fear exploding in his stomach.

  Start counting.

  One.

  Two.

  The darkness surrounded him, pulling him down, wind pummeling his face.

  Three.

  Time to pull. The adrenaline in his stomach exploded.

  Four.

  Pull!

  His mind screamed it again. But he didn’t listen.

  Five.

  Pull the chute now!

  Corin squeezed tighter on the chute.

  An instant later the drowning flashed through his mind so vividly he was under the water again, struggling for air, tearing at his life jacket, his fingernails digging into his father’s arm, then opening his mouth and sucking in a monstrous lungful of water, filling his ear canals, pressing into his mind, drawing him toward death.

  In that moment clarity flashed like a lightning strike.

  He’d been wrong for twenty-four years.

  Drowning. He’d never been scared of it.

  It had never been his fear.

  It had always been the fear behind the fear.

  He was scared of death.

  Of dying.

  Of the darkness he’d escaped smothering him forever.

  Of the nothingness.

  Corin’s eyes fluttered open and stared into the black earth rushing up at him.

  Was he too late?

  “Ahhhhhh!” he shouted as he heaved his chute into the screaming air.

  Release. Please . . .

  His chute snapped open like the sound of a rifle’s report.

  Be my life jacket.

  Too late, he was too late.

  “I’m sorry, Shasta.”

  He glanced at the thicker darkness streaking toward him. The ground. Less than 150 feet. Too close. He was still moving far too fast. Milliseconds now.

  He braced for impact.

  As his legs slammed into the ground he tried to roll to lessen the impact, but the futility of the action filled his mind at the same time a freight train of pain ripped into his feet and legs and up his back.

  An instant later a vise grip grabbed his lungs and squeezed.

  He gasped and pulled in a teaspoon of air.

  Not enough air.

  Not even close!

  He tried again, but it was like sucking air through a straw the size of a needle.

  He had to breathe.

  His head rolled from side to side, as he gasped again and again for air. Air that wouldn’t come, that he couldn’t reach, couldn’t find. So close but ages away. And death was settling down on him like early winter snow.

  Exactly the same feeling he’d had underwater.

  He was about to die.

  Corin rolled onto his back and screamed. Fire shot through his upper chest and right arm. “Uhhhhhhhhh.”

  Stay alive. He had to. What time had he jumped? Three a.m.? It wouldn’t be light for another three and a half hours.

  As he lay on the ground, feeling the moisture slowly seeping through his clothes into his skin, Corin thought back to Nicole’s eyes just before she died and her last words:

  “Forgiveness. For both.”

  Instantly he knew who she meant.

  Killing or paralyzing himself would never bring restoration. Forgiveness was his only hope.

  His last thought before blacking out was of Shasta.

  I never asked you. Why did I never ask?

  “Mr. Roscoe? Can you hear me?”

  Corin moaned and squeezed his eyes tighter shut. It didn’t do much good against the blinding light that shot through his eyelids and seemed to burn his corneas. What did it remind him of? Hadn’t he just done this? Right—in the ambulance after A. C. had been shot.

  “Bright . . . so bright.” He tried to bring his arm up to shield his eyes but he couldn’t move his arm.

  “Nurse, do you mind . . . ?” The light in the room dimmed and Corin opened his eyes a slit.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Run over. Multiple times.” Corin tried to move his legs, but the pain that shot down them was so intense blackness moved across his vision. “Run over by an aircraft carrier.”

  “Aircraft carriers float.”

  “This one was on wheels.” He opened his eyes halfway.

  “Having a sense of humor at this point is a good sign.”

  “I’m in a hospital.”

  “Yes.”

  Corin opened his eyes all the way and gazed at his surroundings. Off-white walls, off-white curtain half surrounding his bed, off-white coat covering an African American doctor with bright eyes.

  “How bad am I?”

  “Given what you almost did to yourself and the condition you should have wound up in, I’m required to tell you you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “How lucky?”

  “Extremely.”

  “How bad?”

  “One leg sprained, the other badly broken, a sprained right arm, punctured lung—which is why you have a tube coming out of your side—and you almost ripped your right ear off.” The doctor leaned in. “That’s the bad news.”

  “What’s the good?”

  “You’ll probably walk with a slight limp the rest of your life, but the rest will heal up fine. You’ll be in some intense pain for the next few days, but—”

  “Will I be going home tonight?”

  “Like I said, I like the humor. Some people think it
can cure everything from warts to cancer.”

  Corin stared at the doctor for a moment. “Do you believe in miracles? That people can be instantaneously healed by the power of God?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Why? Have you seen one?”

  “I believe there’s a higher power. A being I would call God. I believe I’m not Him. Until I am, I’ll leave room that He invades our world with His goodness and mercy. And that includes healing. Of the body.” The doctor placed his fingers on Corin’s good arm. “And sometimes, more important, of the soul.” He touched Corin’s chest over his heart.

  “I need to see my brother.”

  “I think in a week or so you’ll be able to.”

  Countdown. Six days to go.

  CHAPTER 52

  Six days later Corin sat at the lake—crutches lying on his right, pain pills in his left pocket—and prayed. For peace. For the meeting he would have with Shasta in a little less than an hour. For himself. For understanding. For forgiveness.

  A few minutes later a cough floated toward him through the light fog that covered the lake and shoreline. He turned toward the sound.

  “Good to see you alive, Corin.” Mark Jefferies stood ten yards behind and to his left, hands jammed into his black leather jacket.

  Corin blinked and couldn’t stop a smile from forming. “It was you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You saved my life. In Tesser’s house.”

  “True.”

  “And again when I jumped off that cliff.”

  “Yep.” Mark gave a thin smile, slid onto the bench next to Corin, and leaned back, legs crossed, hands behind his head.

  “I see you aren’t limited to a few bodyguards for your protection.”

  “My friends know friends who know friends—nice to have them in cities and situations like the ones you found yourself in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mark nodded. “The thing with Nicole? That was wrong. She was a wonderful woman. Who walked with God.”

  “You met her?”

  “I did. Very recently.” Mark scraped his feet on the concrete path. “She pumped my head full of wisdom. Wisdom . . . truth I needed.”

  “She was my grandmother.”

  “I suspected that.”

  “How?”

  “From studying the legend. Sometimes the passing on of the chair skipped a generation. It’s always been from woman to woman, but that was tradition, not an absolute mandate.”

  And now he’d ended the tradition, there would be no chair to pass down to a daughter or a son. The thought filled him with an emptiness and a longing for forgiveness. But from whom he didn’t know. Nicole? God?

  Corin glanced at Mark. The man didn’t make sense. So full of swagger and pride. Yet the pastor had saved him and seemed to want nothing in return.

  “Why were you so obsessed with the chair?”

  “I still am.” Mark pressed the tips of his fingers and thumbs together. “It has always fascinated me. The possibility of its existence—the type of legend only seen in stories come to real life—the thought I might be the one to find it.”

  Jefferies said it with confidence, too much confidence.

  “I want to know the real reason.”

  “The real reason?” Mark dropped his head back and chuckled. “You’re perceptive.” He leaned forward, blew on his hands, and set his arms on his legs. “Why not?” Jefferies said, more to himself it seemed than to Corin. “Because I needed it. I needed to sit in it and receive its power.”

  “The healing it could bring.”

  Mark nodded.

  “In order to fight your demons.”

  “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I still do things. I have thoughts I’m not proud of.” Mark rubbed his face. “I need forgiveness. I need healing.”

  For the first time since he’d known the pastor, the macho tough-guy veneer melted off his face and Corin glimpsed the young kid underneath that wrestled with fame and power and who knew how many other demons.

  “The healing isn’t ultimately in the chair; it’s in the One who—”

  “What do you think you’re doing? The student instructing the teacher?” Jefferies laughed. “But you’re right. I was looking for an instant cure, the magic silver bullet that would wipe clean in an instant the parts of my soul that still remain hidden in the shadows.” He made a gesture with his hand as if sweeping a table clean.

  “Isn’t this the kind of thing you can talk about to your board or other people in your church?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m an icon, the figurehead, the god they all scramble after. I can’t show that weakness.”

  “Why can you tell me?”

  “I trust you. We’re eight hundred miles away from that life. And you’re not a believer.”

  “I think that’s changing.”

  “I hope it continues. Jesus is life.” Mark smiled—a genuine smile without guile.

  “Where will you look for the healing now?”

  “In Him. Where it’s always been.”

  “I destroyed the chair.”

  A wave of anger flashed over Mark’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “That was foolish.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I lost control.”

  They sat in silence, the only sound their breathing in and out in the cool November air.

  “Did you know about Tesser?”

  Mark smiled. “Forever. I’ve kept one of my men watching him for years. I thought it was a waste. Obviously it wasn’t.” Mark smacked Corin’s shoulder. Probably a deep expression of compassion for him. “I’m sorry he betrayed you. I’m sorry about Nicole.”

  “Me too.”

  “My prayer is what Tesser did doesn’t stop you from trusting again.”

  Corin nodded.

  Mark leaned forward, popped his legs with his fists, and stood. “Gotta roll. Let’s stay in touch, Corin. You’re a good man.” Mark pointed at him, turned, and strode away.

  A thought formed as he watched Mark walk into the fog and start to fade from sight. A way to thank Mark for saving his life.

  “Hey, Mark.”

  The pastor turned.

  “In about two weeks I might have something to show you. Might be worth a flight back up here.”

  “Sounds good. Call me.” Mark spun away from him and disappeared into the gray.

  Corin smiled at his audacious idea. God willing he would be able to do it.

  But first he had to see Shasta.

  AS CORIN DROVE to Shasta’s house the next day, he wiped his hands on his pants every few miles and tried to keep his nerves in check and his foot on the gas. Fortunately the sprain in his leg was healing quickly and the pain from pressing the gas and the brake wasn’t bad. He was much more worried about how his emotions would hold up when he stood in front of his brother. It felt like he was about to plunge into the lake with lead weights around his ankles.

  He tried not to imagine how Shasta would react to his words.

  But that wasn’t his part in this play. His was only to speak and let his brother take ownership of however he chose to react.

  CHAPTER 53

  A deep sadness filled Robin’s face as she opened the door and beckoned Corin to come in.

  Corin leaned on his crutches, his left leg bouncing as his nerves continued to betray him. “Where is he?”

  “In the movie room.” She covered her mouth and dropped her head. “I’m not sure if he’ll even acknowledge you’re here. He’s angry about you coming. He meant it when he said he never wanted to talk to you again.”

  “Shasta doe
sn’t have to say anything. I’ll say what I need to and then leave.”

  “You’re right.” Robin nodded and blinked. “Whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

  Corin offered a weak smile. “Do you believe that?”

  “Not really, but I’m trying to.”

  “Me too.”

  Robin took his hands and squeezed them.

  Corin felt like he was floating, detached from his body as he hobbled toward his brother’s media room. A numbness covered his mind—causing the emotions he carried into the house with him a few minutes earlier to vanish. He wasn’t nervous any longer. He wasn’t anything and couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

  When he reached the movie room, Corin stood just inside the door and stared at the back of Shasta’s head, silhouetted against the image of three men—two Native Americans, one white man—racing together through the forest.

  As the scene ended the movie froze, the image of Daniel Day-Lewis staring out at him from the six-by-four-foot screen.

  “Have you ever seen The Last of the Mohicans?” his brother called out.

  The question was a barbed hook.

  Nineteen years ago Shasta and he had seen it in the theater together. Had embraced it; made it the representation of their brotherhood and how they would always fight for each other the way Chingachgook, Uncas, and Hawkeye fought for one another. To ask if he’d seen it was another serrated blade across Corin’s heart.

  It didn’t matter. Shasta could cut as much as he wanted. Corin’s heart might bleed like a river, but never to death—and it would never stop his love for Shasta.

  “I haven’t seen it since the last time we watched it together.”

  The slow whir of Shasta’s electric wheelchair was the only sound in the room. When it stopped, Shasta stared at him without anger, without regret, without emotion.

  “Thanks for letting me come.”

  “Robin said it was imperative you saw me.”

  “It is.”

  “That you have something that has to be said in person.”

  Corin nodded and took half a step forward, then stopped. “Yes.”

  “I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.”