Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  “Do you wind surf?”

  “No, but I watched them off the Outer Banks last year when I was on vacation at Buxton.”

  Alexia walked down the aisle to the front of the church. Sitting down on the front pew, she curled her legs up beneath her.

  “Do you want a report on Baxter Richardson?” she asked. “The neurologist from Charleston came by today.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Ted listened intently but didn’t react as Alexia relayed the events.

  “Did the doctor know I’ve been playing for Baxter?” he asked.

  “He didn’t mention it. He was all business and didn’t get too excited about what’s happened, but I was amazed. When Baxter opened his eyes, it was like someone coming back from the dead.”

  Ted pointed to a stained-glass window that depicted Lazarus stepping out of a cavelike tomb with grave clothes still draped about his face. Jesus stood with his back to the viewer, his arms stretched out toward his friend.

  “Do you really think there is a connection between the time we spent with him and the improvement in his condition?” Ted asked. “Don’t you think Baxter could have gotten better anyway? I’m sure the doctors would say that the swelling in his brain finally subsided, and he woke up.”

  Alexia gave Ted a puzzled look. “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I’m glad he’s improving, but I want something dramatic to happen. Something that can’t be explained by anything except God’s power.”

  “Why can’t God’s power be gradual? I don’t claim to understand what was going on while you played and the nurse sang, but I could feel something in the air. Today, it was easy for me to believe that God was involved.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  Ted held up his hand. “Sorry. If an analytical lawyer can believe, then so should I. God has the right to do what he wants to do the way he wants to do it. I’m just letting you know how I feel.”

  Alexia nodded and relaxed a little. A man with feelings was good. Add that to his score.

  Ted continued. “My hope is that people besides Baxter will be affected by what happens.”

  “Like Rena?”

  “And others. Was she there?”

  “Yes. Baxter’s father is out of town, and I don’t know if his brother knows the latest news. He and Rena have an odd—” Alexia stopped in midsentence and changed direction. “Would you be willing to help Rena?”

  “How?”

  “She’s been through a lot and needs someone to talk to about it. I can’t mention specifics without her permission, but she is depressed and reluctant to see a psychologist or psychiatrist.”

  “I’m a music minister, not a professional counselor.”

  Alexia leaned forward. “But you’ve helped me so much. And I didn’t even know how much I needed it!”

  Ted chuckled. “You were easy. All I did was encourage you to walk in the path cleared by your grandmother’s prayers. The only type of counsel I can give is spiritual. Is that what Rena wants?”

  “I don’t know if she’s thought about it in those terms.”

  “Well, I don’t mind you finding out if she’s interested in what I have to offer. But I don’t do any one-on-one counseling with women.”

  “I could be here.”

  “That would help.”

  Alexia nodded. “I’ll talk to her and let you know.”

  “Okay.” Ted turned back to the piano and plunked out a few random notes. “Will I be able to play again for Baxter?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call Dr. Berman’s office and let him know that Baxter is responding well to music therapy. If something dramatic does happen, maybe you’ll be featured in a medical journal someday.”

  “Maybe gradual is better. I’m not looking for fame.”

  Ted hit a few quick notes. Alexia recognized it as the opening measures of Scriabin’s Sonata in F Major.

  “That’s Scriabin,” Alexia said. “I have a recording of that piece performed by Horowitz at Carnegie Hall.”

  Ted nodded. “Speaking of famous performers, have you heard of Victor Plavich?”

  Ted wrinkled his brow. “The pianist from San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “We both studied under Aube Tzerko in California.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, he’s several years younger than I.”

  “Plavich is giving a charity concert in Charleston on Saturday night, and I’ve been invited. We’d be the guests of Jeffrey Richardson. He’s sponsoring a table.”

  “Baxter’s brother?”

  “Yes. I talked to him yesterday about business matters, and he invited me to come and bring a friend. You’re the only friend I have who would appreciate the evening.”

  Ted abandoned the cheerful piece and hit the lower octaves with the dismal opening notes of Chopin’s Sonata in C Minor. “I’m not sure I could handle it if you think Plavich is better than I am. I’d rather not go than have you tell me on the spot.”

  Alexia laughed, though she wondered if Ted was kidding. The look on his face was hidden behind his furrowed brow and glasses.

  “I’m used to fragile male egos cloaked in jealousy,” she said. “I knew several of them at Leggitt & Freeman. They were called the senior partners.”

  Keeping his head bowed, Ted asked, “How did you treat them?”

  “With outward respect and inward disdain. They were as bad as little boys on the playground. But really, are you envious of Victor Plavich?”

  “Not if I talk it out. It helps to bring it in the open. I’ve chosen a different path and can’t let someone else’s success upset me.”

  “Let’s talk about it.”

  Ted looked up and smiled. “We just did. I’m okay.”

  Alexia laughed again. “Your psychiatrist would go bankrupt.”

  “If he shrunk my head, I’m not sure he’d find much more in there than a hammer and some bent nails. Can I wear my painting overalls to the concert?”

  “I’ll have to find out. Do you own a tuxedo?”

  Ted nodded. “Sometimes I put it on when I come over to the church late at night and pretend that I’m on a European concert tour. It’s ancient and a little bit too small, but I can wear it if I don’t eat too much for dinner.”

  Alexia stood up. “I’ll call you with the details about Saturday night.”

  “Okay, and please contact the nursing service and find out when Sarah Locklear is going to be on duty with Baxter. I think she’s supposed to help.”

  “I can do more than that. Rena could call the nursing service and request that she come on a regular basis.”

  “That would be great. Two are better than one.”

  Alexia’s eyes narrowed, and she turned her face away so he wouldn’t notice. “You mean three?”

  “I was just talking about the musicians.”

  Detective Rick Bridges kissed his pregnant wife, Amy, good-bye and left Charleston in an unmarked car as the sun set behind a grove of pine trees. There was no point in arriving at the Beachcomber Club too early. The sky darkened as he drove north on Highway 17. The investigative file on the seat beside him had grown since his first trip in search of Henry L. Quinton. He’d learned from a homicide detective in Rhode Island that Quinton sometimes used the name Hank Quincy and had a wife named Gayle, who lived in Baltimore. A couple times a year, a detective would contact Gayle Quinton and ask if she’d had any contact with her husband. Whether from loyalty or fear, she always said no, but she lived in a large house on Chesapeake Bay and drove an expensive car that didn’t fit her part-time job as a bookkeeper for a landscaping business. So far, the sporadic instances when officers staked out the house hadn’t yielded any clues about Quinton’s whereabouts.

  A more puzzling piece of the file was the memo prepared by Byron Devereaux after his conversation with Giles Porter in Mitchell County. Aft
er reading it the first time, Bridges left his desk and knocked on the opaque glass door to his boss’s office.

  “Come in,” responded the slender, bookish detective.

  “What’s this supposed to mean?” Bridges asked, laying the memo on Detective Devereaux’s desk.

  Devereaux shrugged. “He talked; I listened. At first, I thought there might be something to it, but in the end I couldn’t see a strong connection. He believes Rena Richardson didn’t tell him the truth about her husband’s accident, and therefore didn’t tell me the truth when I interviewed her about her car.”

  “Has she been indicted?”

  “No, but Porter has circumstantial evidence, skin scrapings from a hiking stick. I’m sure a jury in Mitchell County can be educated about DNA tests, but I doubt twelve people would find her guilty on that evidence alone.”

  “Unless her husband wakes up from the coma and talks.”

  Devereaux nodded. “Yeah, that would be ideal, but for now it’s like a murder case. The person who can tell us what really happened isn’t able to give a statement.”

  “Should I interview her again?” Bridges asked.

  Devereaux picked up a thick paper clip and slowly bent it between two fingers.

  “Not until you have something new to ask her about this case. The hard evidence points to Quinton. He’s the one with the proven criminal record.”

  When Bridges arrived in the Santee area, it was still too early to go to the club, and he detoured into the downtown area. He flipped open the file and found the address for the Richardson house. Stopping at a convenience store, he asked for directions from an older sales clerk who not only told him where to turn but also gave a detailed description of the residence.

  The neighborhood where Rena Richardson lived lacked the illuminating streetlights of downtown. He took a wrong turn, doubled back in the darkness, and found the correct street. Only a few of the mailboxes bore house numbers. Apparently, mail delivery in Santee wasn’t dependent on specific address information. A get-well card addressed to Baxter Richardson, Santee, SC, would find its way to the correct destination without any trouble.

  Bridges peered through the darkness at older dwellings concealed on spacious lots behind large oak trees, clumps of dune grass, and lush bushes. He saw the Richardson home and slowed to a stop at the end of the driveway. The house was in a class by itself, primarily because of the unusually broad expanse of lawn that served as a buffer from the street. A gas lamp flickered in the curve of the driveway. In the dim light, Bridges could make out several cars parked beside a small guest house.

  There was no sign of the red convertible stopped by Deputy Dixon, but a four-car garage stood between the main house and guest quarters. He inched slowly forward along the street, stopped again, and noticed the bright lights of a vehicle behind him that had stopped. He moved forward and pulled to the side of the road so the car could pass him or turn into the driveway. Instead, it flashed its bright lights. Bridges smiled. The headlights were shaped like those of a common model of police interceptor. He guessed he’d encountered local police patrolling the prosperous neighborhood.

  Bridges put his car in park and opened the door. Getting out, he took out his police identification and held it up with one hand, shielding his eyes from the high beams with the other. As he stepped forward, the vehicle turned sharply and accelerated toward him. Bridges fell back against his car as the other swept past him. It struck his right leg and then slammed into his open door with a sharp screech of metal. The driver turned off his lights and skidded around a corner. The detective saw that the car was a blue sedan but in the shock of the moment didn’t get a clear look at the license plate. He wasn’t even sure whether it was a South Carolina vehicle. He tried to run forward, but his leg almost gave way. He limped as fast as he could to the corner, but his assailant had disappeared into the darkness.

  Returning to his car, he sat down and gingerly pulled up the right leg of his pants. Blood trickled from his raw knee and shin. He touched it and glanced angrily down the street. Whoever was driving the car didn’t want to meet a police officer. Bridges, on the other hand, very much wanted to meet him.

  9

  A shout that tore hell’s concave, and beyond frighted the reign of chaos and old night.

  PARADISE LOST

  In the morning, Alexia called the nursing service and asked about Sarah Locklear’s schedule.

  “I’ll check the computer,” the girl on the phone responded. After a few seconds, she said, “Yes, she will be working tomorrow night from eleven to seven.”

  “Third shift?”

  “Yes, the night shift. She asked to be put on a regular schedule, and the only slots available are at night.”

  After she hung up, Alexia phoned Ted with the news.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “I’d like to go back.”

  “Do you want me to be there?”

  Ted hesitated. “That’s up to you. You may have to be up early in the morning to go to work.”

  Alexia answered with a slight edge in her voice. “It’s not that. I’ve stayed up late plenty of times when preparing for a trial. I just don’t want to be a third wheel. You and Sarah Locklear have something to contribute. I’ll just be sitting there.”

  “Wait a minute. That’s not the way it works. Yesterday, you encouraged me to believe. Today, it’s my turn. God doesn’t measure significance the same way we do. All that’s important to him is obedience motivated by love. Your comment yesterday at the church set me straight. Whether it’s my playing, Sarah Locklear’s singing, or your praying that causes a breakthrough, we all share in the end result.”

  Alexia relaxed. “Okay.”

  “What time do you want to be there?”

  “About midnight. That will give Sarah time to complete the shift change. Should I try to contact her in advance?”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “No, only the agency.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. Based on how quickly she caught on the other night, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Alexia thought about Gwen all morning. On partnership meeting day, the six equity partners at Leggitt & Freeman met for a catered lunch served at a fancy table in Ralph Leggitt’s massive office. As an associate, Alexia had been invited to attend several times to give brief reports. She’d concluded that the meetings were a cross between a fraternity bull session and an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club. The partners even passed around a silver-inlaid cigar box at the conclusion of the meal. Today, Gwen’s immediate future would be decided between bites of crab cakes with wild rice and a dessert tray guaranteed to add a half an inch to Leonard Mitchell’s waistline.

  At 1:30 Alexia began watching the clock and listening for the beep of the phone that signaled a call. Whenever Leggitt & Freeman fired an employee, he or she left immediately. The firm administrator, a retired military officer who rarely smiled, stood beside the terminated employee’s desk to ensure a swift and harmless departure. Alexia had thought the gesture melodramatic until Gwen told her of the time a young paralegal downloaded a virus that knocked out the central server as a parting gift.

  Alexia’s phone beeped. She punched the line.

  “It’s Gwen Jones. Do you want to take the call?”

  “Yes.”

  The several seconds it took to transfer the call seemed longer than usual. When the light came on, Alexia picked up the receiver.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I’ll give you a clue: I’m calling from my cell phone in the car.”

  “I can’t believe it! You’ve been there longer than anyone except Sue Geller.”

  “Nine years, seven months, twenty-seven days.”

  “Who gave you the ax?”

  “Leonard broke the news, which surprised me since I wasn’t sure he had it in him to do any dirty work in person. In fact, he seemed upset. Maybe he’s got to train someone else to decipher his handwriting
now.” She barked a laugh. “But I think he may have voted to keep me. It was a tender moment, to the extent that’s possible with Leonard. I told him not to worry about it.”

  “Did he give you a reason?”

  “He said I was too old.”

  “That’s an invitation to a discrimination lawsuit!” Alexia exclaimed. “I know a lawyer in Orangeburg who will chew them up and spit them out—”

  “Alexia,” Gwen interrupted, “I was kidding. He told me they were reallocating personnel and don’t have a spot for me. Strictly business.”

  “Right. How do you feel?”

  “Not as bad as you did when Ralph Leggitt canned you.”

  When she was fired, Alexia left the senior partner’s office, stormed past Gwen’s desk, and slammed the door to her office so hard it knocked pictures off the wall.

  “Do you want to go home or come see your new spot? It still has boxes of paper and office supplies in it, but you can get an idea of the layout.”

  “Not today. I think home and a bubble bath are in order, and it will be nice to watch Oprah without having to record it. I think today’s show is about women who found true love and riches after age fifty-five.”

  Alexia smiled. “Okay, but you can start work tomorrow morning if you want to. I haven’t talked to Rachel, but I’m sure we can work out the details by the time the coffee is ready.”

  “Would it be alright if I take the rest of the week off and come in on Monday? I need a few days to unwind, and then I’ll show up ready to be my usual vivacious self.”

  “Of course. That will give us time to get everything set up.”

  The following evening, Alexia kept looking at the clock. Normally, she relaxed when she arrived home from work, but the anticipation of going back into town to see Baxter had her as fidgety as if she was waiting to cross-examine a hostile witness. She wanted to believe Ted Morgan’s reassurance about her involvement in praying for Baxter, but his perspective didn’t stand up to her analytical scrutiny. Alexia was active, not passive. She wanted to be doing something, to experience the surge of adrenaline that accompanied intense activity. She paced through the house.