The Pendant (The Angela Feetwood Paranormal Mystery Series Book 1)

by Lawton Paul

  Contents

  title

  Marlina

  Angela

  Escape

  Goodbye

  Johnny Boy

  Jesus, Part 1

  Delecroix

  Jesus, Part 2

  Caribbean Spice

  Do Not Cross

  Wheels Turning

  Gentleman Caller

  '71 Ford

  The Assistant

  The Council of Elrond

  Spy Jesus

  No Dave

  Devil Dog

  Bastard Sheriff

  White Lady

  Saved

  End

  The Pendant

  Copyright © 2016 by Lawton Paul

  All rights reserved.

  lawtonpaul.com

  If you enjoy The Pendant, please consider leaving a review! (There’s a link at the end of the book.) Even if it’s only a line or two, I’d really appreciate it.

  Thanks,

  —Lawton Paul

  Marlina

  Germany, 1944

  The Wehrmacht’s field artillery guns shook the ground and lit up the night sky in a steady BOOM flash, BOOM flash. Through the windows of the makeshift hospital the nurse could see red tracers reaching out into the darkness. And she thought the burning streaks almost pretty, but knew there must be someone on the other end of the insanity, like her, who would have to piece together the torn bodies when the bits of lead found their mark.

  Occasionally the deafening artillery fire ceased and then the random crack, crack of rifle shots filled the silence. A plane flew low over the hospital and the surgeon stopped, his hands still inside his patient, and looked around in a panic. “They are coming!” he said.

  “That was one of our JU’s, my son,” said the priest.

  “I am not the son of a peasant priest,” the SS surgeon said to the old man in black. “God has left this place, so I wonder why you remain? Can you not carry a rifle?”

  Meanwhile there was more banging at the door.

  “We’re out of morphine and plasma,” screamed the surgeon. “No more sulfa. They will die in here just as fast as they will outside. Lock the doors!”

  But the nurse rolled in a boy and a pilot anyway. The priest gave her a look but how could she turn them back? The pilot’s flight suit was dark with blood, and part of his neck had been hastily bandaged in the field. He’s about to go, thinks the nurse, his eyes half open and pink bubbles forming at the edge of his mouth.

  The boy’s eyes were closed but he moaned low and soft, his whole body hot and feverish, breaths coming in short gasps. His upper thigh wrapped tight in an old strip of curtain to slow the bleeding.

  The young surgeon, his white smock smeared with brushstrokes of bright red and brown, took one glance at the sorry condition of his two uninvited patients and jerked his head to the corner where the dead waited still and quiet to go home.

  The nurse looked at the priest, urging him to speak.

  “Sir,” the priest said, “should we not try to save them?”

  The surgeon looked up from his patient, took a deep breath, then walked over. He stared down at them with cold, bored eyes, then lifted the wet strip of curtain from the boy’s leg and pushed the skin near the deep, nasty gash. Yellow puss oozed out.

  “Smell it,” he ordered the priest. So the old man bent over the child, took a sniff of the leg and recoiled. The surgeon cracked a smile.

  “The pilot is already gone and the boy will die of sepsis soon enough,” said the surgeon, turning back to his patient and calling for the nurse to help.

  Thirty minutes later he was finished. Dark streaks had formed under his bloodshot eyes and he looked like he’d been in a fight. They’d all been going fourteen hours straight. The enemy had surged ahead, the line shifting overnight, swallowing up the forward hospital. So suddenly the relatively quiet facility with limited supplies and a short staff where high ranking officers came for elective surgery was thrust to the front.

  The young surgeon headed for the door and the priest called him again.

  “The pilot yet breathes,” he said.

  “Bullshit!” said the surgeon, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. He took a few long strides to the corner where the pilot and the boy were, right next to the dead soldiers. Some were covered in white head to toe, but the recent ones were given no such dignity—they’d run out of time, and sheets, hours before. Each face a frozen snapshot of their departure: some grimacing in pain, some with eyes open in disbelief, others soft and calm like release.

  They stared down at the pilot, the wound at his neck covered in a thick, brown cake of coagulated blood. The nurse had three fingers on his wrist and her ear by his mouth. She looked at the surgeon and shook her head, no. “See, see, he’s dead!” the surgeon said.

  But then suddenly the pilot’s eyes popped open, bright blue and clear. The surgeon jumped back, then quickly recovered himself. “Post mortem tremors,” he said. But the pilot’s eyes darted from the nurse, to the surgeon and back to the priest.

  The surgeon was angry and confused. “This can’t be!” he kept screaming. And the nurse wondered if this is when the SS surgeon would crack. He grabbed a scalpel from a tray near the boy and cut through the pilot’s clothes. His white chest had four holes in a line from the top of his right shoulder down to his hip.

  “The bastard won’t die!” said the surgeon, pressing with both hands on the pilot’s chest. Gas hissed out, but no blood. He reached for the forceps but they were gone so he stuck a finger into the top wound and found a flattened, lead bullet. The next hole had gone clean through. He probed with a bloody finger into the third and found nothing. The pilot’s mouth moved like he wanted to speak but no words came.

  “What magic is this?” yelled the surgeon to the priest. “Your prayers suddenly work?”

  And then the pilot made a sound. The priest leaned in close and the man whispered into his ear. The priest looked up, but said nothing. Meanwhile the surgeon found a lump in the pilot’s leg, and called for the forceps. There was a shiny piece of metal sticking out that didn’t look like the usual twisted, burned pieces of shrapnel. The pilot groaned and watched with wild eyes. Finally the surgeon pulled out a small metallic cone from the pilot’s leg. And just like flipping a switch, the pilot went limp and the light in his eyes went out.

  “See! See!” said the surgeon holding up the shiny metal like a trophy. “Now he’s dead!” He ripped off his smock, threw down the forceps and the metal cone and stormed off towards the doors.

  The nurse turned to the priest. “What did the pilot say?”

  “Fuerball,” he said. She just stared at him, tilted her head. “You know,” he said, “the strange, bright lights that follow the planes sometimes. No one knows where they come from.” The priest pointed up and shrugged. There had been reports of bright colored lights flying in formation with the Luftwaffe planes. And at first they though it must be some American weapon, but then the enemy began reporting the same strange phenomenon.

  So they stood there for a moment staring at the pilot, wondering if his eyes would open again, wondering if he had lost his mind in the chaos and terror of a plane going down. And then they heard a noise.

  The boy.

  His heartbeat was faint and he took small, shallow breaths. The nurse cut away his trousers and cleaned the wound. “What are you going to do, nurse?” said the priest.

  “I’m going to do what I can,” she said. “Pray for him!” So the priest put his hand on his shoulder and prayed. The nurse cleaned the wound as best she co
uld and put on a fresh bandage.

  “Can you save him?” said the priest.

  “He’s weak from exposure and the wound is infected. He’d have a chance if we had sulfa.”

  “More coming in a few days,” said the priest.

  “He needs it now.” She scanned the room, checked the back shelves, the floor around them. Maybe a bag had fallen in the rush of wounded. But nothing. Then she started running towards the doors near the front row of patients, officers who had surgery before the primary hospital was overtaken. She stopped near the door in front of an older colonel with colon cancer. He was resting peacefully with his hands on his chest. But mostly she was eyeing the nearly full bag of saline mixed with sulfonamide hanging over his head. She started to reach for it but the priest pulled her aside. “They’ll hang you in the town square.”

  She stared into the priest’s old eyes. “I don’t care. I think I’m done with this place. I’m leaving anyway.” And then she turned to the colonel. “The day nurse left the drip closed. It’s a full bag.”

  “If they catch you they’ll kill you just to make a point,” the priest said.

  The nurse disconnected the bag and headed back to the boy. He was moaning again, his hand reaching out for the shiny cone still on the floor. She hooked up his IV, then cleaned the piece of metal and handed it to him. What could it hurt?

  And for the first time in fourteen hours she had nothing to do, so she sat next to him. His pulse and respiration were irregular and she started to think they shouldn’t have spent so much time on the damn pilot. But there was nothing else she could do, except wait. She’d been a nurse near the front the year before and at some point had lost the ability to cry, but this night she observed her hands starting to shake and her breaths coming quick and short.

  God please save this boy and I’ll take care of him as best I can.

  She rolled him to the other side of the room—the living side, next to the recovering soldiers, and sat with him all night, afraid to go to sleep because she couldn’t stand the thought of waking up next to a cold, lifeless little body. So she watched his chest rise and fall, an almost imperceptible movement of his dirty blue shirt.

  She woke up with a start, light streaming in through the windows high on the far wall, and put her hand on his chest. His heart was beating steady and strong. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I’m Marlina,” the nurse said. “You’re from Oppenheim, right? You got family there?”

  He just stared into her eyes with no expression.

  “You got a momma and a daddy?” He held her gaze for a few seconds, then shook his head no. And the nurse held his hand.

  Oppenheim had taken the worst of it, nothing left but pieces of houses. Most completely gone, some torn open like giant doll houses so you could see right inside: living rooms with a sofas and sitting chairs, teacups on end tables.

  The boy started to cry. Leg pain is a good thing, she thought. He’s healing. She tried to go but he held onto her hand and then he gave her the metal cone. She held it tight, and an electric charge raced through her body. She thought to drop it but she knew at some core level, some place beyond logic, that it was okay. She took a deep breath, suddenly full of energy, and slipped the cone into her pocket.

  A week later, dressed in a black habit and white coif given to her by the priest, she left the hospital. It was early morning, still dark. The boy hobbled along for a few kilometers and then she carried him. The cone on a chain around her neck.

  Angela

  Chickasaw, Florida: present day

  In the dream Angela’s running in the woods towards the river. It’s pitch black and cypress knees grab at her feet and low branches scratch her face, feet sinking into the silty bottom. Walt is here. She can feel it, but he’s lost in the endless stretch of blackness and muck that leads to the St. Marys River. Fear starts to creep in but it’s okay: she’s got the Winchester. The mere weight of it, knowing it’s in her hands, pushes her forward. This time will be different, she thinks. Somewhere in the woods a dog barks, then starts to howl. She stumbles forward still searching for the target. Then another noise comes in: BANG, BANG, BANG. She stops, crouches low behind a tree.

  The banging continues until she comes awake, her T-shirt wet and sticking to her back and a death grip on her pillow. She’s lying on the hardwood floor, the old TV behind her glowing bright, white static. The LED numbers on the clock are soft and hazy, casting a green light on the wall. She closes her eyes for a moment, opens them again, and the green blur finally comes into focus: 4:07 am.

  Instinctively she reaches under the couch for the cold, steel barrel. She brings it close and lays there for a moment waiting for the cobwebs to clear. And then she remembers: she’s here, alone. She wants to go back to the dream but someone’s knocking on her door and the damn dog is still howling and it sounds like its inside the cottage. Suddenly the lights pop on and everything goes white. She brings the rifle up and her right hand slides down to the trigger guard.

  “Angela, it’s Bo! Put the damn gun away!”

  “How’d you get in?” Angela says.

  “You gave me a key. Remember?” The dog, a big German shepherd, is licking Angela’s face and whimpering. Her eyes adjust to the light and there is Bo, a tiny old white-haired woman in a nightgown with little blue flowers. Her mind is sharp, but her hands are constantly, almost imperceptibly shaking, like there’s a little motor inside of her that’s slightly off kilter. “How many pills did you take last night?” she says, her tone soft, like a mother gently probing.

  “Enough.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she says, her eyes studying the large black carton of Merlot on the end table next to the couch, little red spigot at the bottom, a white coffee cup on the floor underneath. She looks up at Angela, her face tired. “Please eat, too. You gotta eat.”

  “Please, Bo. And get this mutt off of me before I expire his ass.” Bo sucks in a quick breath and puts a hand on her chest. A 1940s, black and white, movie star gasp, Angela thinks. Bo grabs the dog by the collar and attempts to pull him towards the door but doesn’t make much headway. The dog’s so big she could probably just ride his ass right out of the cottage.

  “You will not expire this dog,” says Bo.

  “Do you honestly think I would—? And why are we saying ‘expire’?”

  “You started it.”

  “Well, it sounds better than—. Than other words.” And now there is no doubt in her mind I’m a nutjob. She takes a deep breath. You are fine. This is all pre-coffee anyway. Change the subject. “Why is Mrs. Kaufman’s dog here?”

  “That’s why I came,” says Bo. “Something’s going on at Mrs. Kaufman’s house. The dog came over to the big house and wouldn’t stop barking and I’ve got four rooms rented for the night. I wouldn’t bother with it but they’s all Mercedes-class redneck royalty come down from Jax. They want peace and quiet, not a barky dog.” She kneels down and looks the dog in the eyes, both hands on either side of its face. “Why you making such a fuss?” For a moment, Bo and Angela stare at the big, watery-eyed dog as if it would respond.

  “So just take him back to Mrs. Kaufman’s.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. All the lights are on and her back door is open.” She sits down in the wooden rocker. “Why you on the wood floor, huh?”

  “I was watching TV.” Angela hits the off button with her toe, the white noise goes black, then sits up with the rifle resting on her lap. “So why didn’t you call Sheriff Jackson?”

  “It’s probably nothing and he is a moron.”

  “Good point. I need coffee.”

  “Already made it, and I’ve got two eggs and some biscuits.”

  “Bo, it’s 4:00am.”

  “Okay, you gotta eat one biscuit or y’ain’t gettin’ no coffee.”

  ……

  “Do you have to bring the gun?” says Bo.

  “Rifle,” says Angela, opening the chain link gate that separates their property and Mrs. K
aufman’s tiny brick house. “And don’t you worry. Neither you nor the dog will end up, getting, uh, harmed.”

  “At least your head is clear. You’re getting all grammatical again,” says Bo, nightgown and pink Nike trainers.

  “I guess the dog jumped the fence.” The lights are on and the door to the back of the tiny brick house, the one facing the river, is wide open. “This doesn’t look right.”

  “See. I told ya. Now I’m kinda glad you got the gun—rifle.” They head into Mrs. Kaufman’s back yard but the dog stops right at the gate. “Well, if the dog don’t wanna go, then neither do I,” says Bo. That hangs there for a moment, then she tacks on: “Nor should you.”

  “Follow me, we’re fine.”

  The back door leads right into the Florida room with big windows facing the river. It’s hot and musty inside and it reminds Angela of long ago when she used to go to her grandmother’s house in Atlanta. It’s a time capsule from the 1950s: dark wood, lace doilies and cabinets of hand-painted Noritake china.

  In the kitchen Mrs. Kaufman’s got some bell peppers and an onion sitting on a cutting board, a cast iron skillet on the stove top. The fridge door is wide open—inside a big jar of pickles and some bottled water.

  She’s not in the bedroom either. The big double bed is made and the alarm clock is set for 6:00am. “Maybe she left in a hurry? Maybe she had a problem and called 911?” says Bo.

  “We would have heard the ambulance if she called 911.” They both pause in the dining room—a big chandelier, lit up and sparkly, hovers over the table like a space ship. Bo opens a crack in the window blinds with two fingers. “The dog is still there on our side of the fence. Animals know things. Maybe we should leave?” she says.

  “There’s one more door: the bathroom,” says Angela.

  “Yeah, but I’m starting to get worried.”