With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  Over the next two hours the two conspirators worked out the logistics of how they would communicate, via the Internet, with a simple coded system. Phone calls would be almost never and generally only payphone-to-payphone. The connection between the two would need to remain totally obscure. Jeremy suspected, barring a quick acceptance of a limited offer, that another conspirator would need to be brought in at a later date to facilitate the nastier handiwork, but he did not address that or a number of other important details with the land and title director. Of course, the entire discussion and plans of the morning would be forgotten if his father survived. Jeremy tried to convince himself that his father's successful recovery was what he truly wanted.

  The two, now on the same page, shook hands with a promise to stay in touch. Iggy left the home first, giving himself enough time to stop at a Waffle House for breakfast. Jeremy waited about 30 minutes before starting the four-hour drive to Atlanta. He confirmed the recording taken over the previous few hours, every word, every discussion; every communication would be documented and saved. One thing he'd learned dealing with slippery politicians was the need for ammunition, the more the better, especially if someone begins to develop selective amnesia.

  Back on the road, Jeremy tried not to think about the discussion he’d just had with Ignatius, but rather poured his energy into what he would say to his father, if he was given the chance. A voice inside his head scolded him for thinking of his father as already gone, suspecting it was a foregone conclusion that he would not survive the heart attack. He vowed to himself that he could be the bigger man and say he was sorry for the misunderstandings, but as for Beverly, he was still unsure. The closer he got to Atlanta the more his heart ached for the fatherly companionship he’d once had. The prospect of never seeing his father’s smiling face again finally brought true grief, and for the first time in the past 36 hours, he cried.

  The hospital was a massive structure with wings extended in every possible direction. At the front desk he asked for assistance in getting to the Cardiac ICU. A rotund, short black woman pulled a map from a thick pad and explained how he would navigate the hospital to get to the unit, highlighting the path with a pink highlighter. With map in hand, Jeremy moved through corridors filled with patients, visitors and medical staff, some obviously in a hurry, and others with ashen faces being consoled by loved ones. He reached the 4th floor of the cardiac unit, still unsure of what he would say but confident the words would come. Outside of the unit a set of doors blocked entrance without the approval of the nurses manning the unit station. A buzzer on the wall had a small note indicating that access would be granted once you explained your reason for being there. Jeremy depressed the buzzer and waited.

  “Cardiac Unit, can we help you?” a female's voice echoed from behind the doors.

  “I’m here to see my dad, Mr. Marshall. I’m Jeremy Marshall, just got here from DC,” he declared.

  “Hold on a minute. Is there anybody here with the Marshall man?” he could hear her saying to someone close by. There was a shuffle of papers and then the phone went silent. A few seconds later he heard the latch on the door electronically open and the voice re-emerged over the intercom, “Come on in. Meet Beverly Marshall at the front desk please.”

  He expected that it would be customary to hug the bereaved woman, even if he had little if any affection for her. Beverly was pacing near the desk where two nurses sat, one talking into a phone, the other flipping through a patient’s chart, but both ignoring everything else. The sound of respirators and other pieces of medical wonder beeped, pulsed and hissed all around them. The desk sat in the center of what looked to be ten rooms, separated only by curtains. Equipment filled each room, allowing just enough space for a hospital bed and a table on wheels, extending over the foot of each bed. Other nurses were moving in and out of the rooms, stethoscopes draped around their necks, each with a clipboard in their hand.

  Beverly could be seen chewing her nails as she wore a groove in the carpet, “Jeremy, Jeremy, I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been trying to call your cell but I just kept getting your voice mail. I was afraid something had happened to you as well!”

  He had turned off his phone prior to talking with Iggy, so no calls could be traced, and he must have forgotten to turn it back on. They met in a somewhat awkward embrace before the two nurses at the desk neither acknowledged the union. “I got here as quickly as I could. Drove all night. What’s happened? Is he okay?” the distraught son asked.

  “A couple of hours ago it looked like he was starting to regain consciousness but then lapsed back into a drug induced coma and we’ve not been able to communicate with him since. The doctors keep telling me that’s normal, but I’m terrified,” the deeply sad woman said, through tears streaming down her face.

  “Has he said anything since he was taken to the ER in Valdosta?” Jeremy asked.

  “You know your dad. All the way to the hospital he was telling them he was fine, probably just heartburn or something, but when they got him hooked up to the machines there, he had a second attack that was much worse than the first. That’s when they pumped him full of drugs and shipped him here. The staff at both hospitals have been phenomenal, really helpful, I think they are doing their best.”

  “They damn well better be,” Jeremy warned, looking at the nurses seated across the desk, making sure they had heard what he said.

  “Believe me they are. This is the best cardiac unit in the city and the specialist has been checking him regularly.”

  “Is it okay if I see him?” Jeremy said, his voice hesitant and tensing.

  “Absolutely! He’s sleeping, or at least it looks to me like he’s sleeping, but with the coma I don’t know for sure. I’ve been reading to him, seems to bring his heart rate down some if he can hear my voice,” Bev explained. She turned and walked around behind the station to room #9 where his father lay, tubes running into his nose and throat, with others hooked to bottles, hanging on either side of the bed, feeding unknown clear liquids into his veins.

  The scene before him was not at all what he had expected. He had somehow thought he would show up, his dad would be sitting up in the bed complaining about hospital food and trying to convince the staff to bring him a milk shake. This was all too real, too overwhelming, too fast. He could feel sweat forming on his inner arms and the back of his knees; suddenly his peripheral vision wavered and turned dark.

  Somewhere in a far off place he could hear people moving about and then a soothing voice saying, “Get his head between his knees, don’t let him fall on the floor again. Okay, that’s fine, looks like he’s starting to come back to us. Mr. Marshall. Mr. Marshall, can you hear me? You starting to feel a little better?” He felt some strength return to his limbs and he was able to hold his own head, with his elbows bracing the weight.

  “Did I pass out?” he asked.

  “Dead away,” a cute little nurse answered. “You’ll be okay, this happens more than you’d think. Just keep your head between your knees for a few minutes; somebody will bring you some juice. If you need us just holler, k?”

  “Good hell Jeremy, scared me to death!” Beverly added her two cents.

  “Sorry, didn’t know I would react this way. Probably lack of sleep and I’ve not eaten anything for hours.” A glass of orange juice was pressed into his hands, which he quickly downed. “I think I’ll be okay, feeling a lot better now.” He lifted his head to see his father’s figure laid out before him, monitors flashing numbers, and a heart beat pattern next to his bed. Jeremy slid his chair over next to the bed and laid his hand on his father’s extended right arm. It was warm, but there was no reaction from his touch. He lightly caressed the arm, trying to think of what he might say, but emotion tied his tongue and he could not speak. He sat like that for an hour, thinking, contemplating, and praying for a miracle.

  “Jeremy,” he heard a whisper. “Jeremy, the specialist is here and wants to check him, you’ll need to leave the room for a minute,” Bever
ly said.

  A tall, dark haired doctor, complete with lab coat, moved in and out of the rooms spending a few minutes with each patient, reviewing the chart and speaking to those that were coherent. The graying temples and slight paunch led Jeremy to believe that he must be about 50. Once he had spent a few minutes with his father, the surgeon greeted Beverly and Jeremy just outside the curtained room. “He’s stable. Vitals are good. Not much more we can do now but give it some time.”

  “What are his chances?” the younger Marshall asked and followed up with, “If he does survive will he still be himself?”

  “He’s suffered not one, but two, very serious MI’s in the past two days. He’s incredibly strong, a lesser man would be dead already. I can’t predict the outcome but in my experience he’s got a 50/50 chance of coming out of this okay,” the doctor carefully phrased his reply, looking at his watch before excusing himself and moving to the next patient.

  “50/50? Could be worse,” Bev said.

  “Yeah, I guess, wish there was something we could do other than wait. I feel so helpless.”

  “You should get some sleep. I’ve got a room across the street at the hotel. Take my key and sleep for a couple hours, I’ll monitor things from here until you feel up to it.” She pulled a passkey from her wallet and handed it to him. “Take your time; I’ll phone if anything happens. Your phone on now?”

  “Yup, I’ll take you up on that but I won’t be long,” a very tired Jeremy said, every ounce of energy he possessed zapped from his body.

  He walked the short distance to the hotel, made it to the room but had a hard time remembering how he actually got there. He toppled over on the freshly made bed and was out before his head hit the pillow.

  Five hours later the vibration, and then the sound of his cell phone ringing could be heard as it shifted about on the countertop, waking him up. “Hello, what’s up? Anything happened?” he managed to get out, his mind still very fuzzy.

  “Jeremy, get back over here, we’ve run into a problem!”

  He was suddenly very awake. “What kind of a problem? What’s going on Bev?”

  “Just get over here as quickly as you can.” He could hear the sounds of nurses talking in the background and a doctor issuing orders.

  “Okay, I’m on my way! I’m coming!” he said into the phone, already moving down the hall and running toward the hospital and his father.

  The look on Beverly Marshall’s face was grim. A collection of nurses and doctors were huddled around the monitors, each taking notes, commenting to one another and the doctors whispering in distinctly subdued tones.

  “What’s happened?” Jeremy said, not specifically to anyone but to all those present. Beverly took him by the elbow and pulled him aside.

  “They’re not sure, but your father has started to run a fever and is having mini-seizures,” she said, trying to keep her composure.

  “But what does that mean? What do they think is causing it?” Jeremy spoke loud enough for all to hear, which was his intent.

  “I wish I knew,” Bev said and then again more quietly, “I truly wish I knew.”

  The doctor that they had spoken with earlier, with the graying temples approached the two with a look of grave concern on his face. “Mrs. Marshall, Mr. Marshall, I’m afraid we have some rather distressing news for you. It appears that Mr. Marshall has, and is experiencing, a number of small but devastating strokes. We’ve intervened with some medication to expand the vessels that feed his brain but we don’t know, and won’t know for a time, how much damage has already been done. His heart is still pumping arteriole blood throughout his system but it’s just getting by.”

  Jeremy spoke first, “What are you saying? That he won’t be able to recover from this or if he does he’ll be a vegetable?” He hated to use that phrase but couldn’t think of any other way of putting it, and he had to know.

  Bev jumped in before the doctor could respond, “How long could he stay like this?”

  “Could be minutes, hours or days, we just can’t predict it, but if we take him off the life support that is sustaining him at the present time, he’ll pass fairly quickly. His heart just can’t cope and his brain is showing less function even as we’re speaking.”

  “Do you think you could give us a minute doctor?” Bev asked, nodding at Jeremy.

  “Sure, take a minute, but we need to know how you’d like to proceed,” he said.

  “Well Jeremy, I don’t know about you but I know your dad, and I don’t think life to him would be worth living if he had to be in a home surrounded with machines keeping him alive. We’ve got the money to do that if you think that’s best, but I just don’t see that as what he’d want. What do you think?”

  The son looked at his shoes, both hands in his pockets, trying desperately to make the right decision based on what was best for his dad and not what was best for him. “I think you’re right. He loved life too much to want this as his ending. I know he believed in an afterlife, I’ve heard him say what a wonderful reunion it would be with grandma and grandpa when he joined them. If it’s his time, I think he’d want to go, as hard as that will be on us, I think that is what he would want.”

  United in their decision, they shared a more compassionate hug than they had earlier in the day. “Doctor, we need some time to say our goodbyes, would you please turn off the equipment and let him pass naturally,” Beverly requested, tears staining her blouse as she heard her own words issue the death of her husband.

  Beverly leaned over the heavily sedated Marshall in the hospital bed, she held him, his head in her bosom as she rocked back and forth, her tears spilling and running down his face. Jeremy stood away in the shadows of the curtains giving her some time alone with his father. He could hear her gently speaking to him, offering words of comfort and enduring love. The nurses had done as requested and disconnected all the tubes and machines, except for a lone heart monitor, that beeped out the rhythm of his weakening heart. Ten minutes after his stepmother entered, she exited, running past him and into the nearest bathroom.

  Jeremy took a deep breath and entered the confined space of the intensive care room, closing the curtain behind him. He knelt by his father’s side took his hand in his and held it firmly. There was no response. “Dad, I’m here, it’s Jeremy. I don’t know if you can hear me but I had to tell you I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve done. I wish I could turn back the hands of time and spend the past two years with you, but I can’t, and now here we are. You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you. I guess you raised a son just as bull-headed and stubborn as yourself. I’ll never forget you dad, the times we spent together I’ll one day tell my own son, and your memory will live on.”

  A beep on the monitor alerted Jeremy that something had changed; he looked up to see the bps signal dropping, now only registering 36. This is happening too fast, he’s slipping away faster than.... “Dad, I need you to know that I love you. I always have and I always will.” At that moment a miraculous thing happened, Jeremy didn’t know if it was his father speaking back to him in the only way he could, or just the muscles reacting to death as one finally gives in, but there was a very distinct, knowing squeeze of Jeremy’s hand, the assurance that a son needs to carry on, and then he was gone. The blue signal on the monitor flat-lined, and a steady beep sounded the end of a remarkable life.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lester bolted upright, sweat dripping from his nose and chin, his hands clenched together in a balled up fist, a cluster of bedding squeezed tightly between them. Drawn from his murderous dream too quickly, he’d literally held the fate of Virginia May in his hands, and now it was lost. His nights, over the many years since she’d left him, were filled with such dreams, but they teased him, never completing the act whether malicious or sexual. He kicked the covers off and lay back on the cool sheets, letting his heart rate return to normal as he thought of the things that he needed to accomplish before he returned to his bed. The phone call he’d had with Felix the
day before still troubled him.

  “What an arrogant jerk,” he thought. “I’m done with the whole damn thing if that five grand isn’t in the mailbox this morning!”

  The thought of which gave him the energy to rise from the comfortable bed and throw on some shorts so he could check for the money. The walk down the path to the mailbox was a beautiful one this time of the morning. The sun glistened off the dew that covered everything, a pair of hummingbirds hovered over some honeysuckle that lined the drive and lead to the modest farm home. A mailbox sat at the end of the drive, weeds lined the ditch and were on the verge of consuming the box. Lester flipped down the front door and peered inside. A manila envelope was stuffed into the enclosure, folded over on itself with nothing written on the outside, but he knew it was for him. He pulled the parcel out and bounced it lightly in his hand.

  “Looks like I’m still employed,” he said, as he strolled back up the dirt path, thinking of what mischief he might cause today.

  The parcel contained the $5000 he had requested, 250 well-worn $20’s stacked and bundled, with a green rubber band holding them together. However, there were no directions, instructions or pictures to compliment the money and no indication of what they wanted done next. Lester assumed the plan would move forward as discussed with Felix, one more off the cuff 'outing', and then they would decide the next move based on the publics and authorities response. Today would be tricky; the police presence in the area near the Air Force Base would certainly be extensive. The people of the county had all but demanded the Sheriff Department increase their patrols, and some neighborhoods had instituted a watch program, civilians taking turns walking the streets to stop or report suspicious activities. Sheriff Lupo had warned these individuals to stay within the laws and only carry firearms if a permit was issued, but Lester knew better, every one of them would be packing, increasing the risk to him and them.