Old School Ch 05 Danville

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance by any character or situation to any actual person or event is purely coincidental. All characters presented in this narrative are over the age of 18.

CHAPTER FIVE

DANVILLE

"Mr. Walker, you should probably take it easy for a few days. Avoid situations where you might fall, particularly climbing or coming down any stairs. If you start getting dizzy, sit down and wait it out. You might get headaches, and if you do, take a couple of these," Dr. Araf Fharwaz said as he pulled a vial of prescription-strength acetaminophen tablets from a pocket in his white jacket emblazoned with the University of Cincinnati Medical Center logo and handed them to me.

I tossed them into the overnight bag beside me, the one Kass had used to bring me a change of clothing — jeans, a sweatshirt, Hush Puppy loafers — that I could wear home after my discharge rather than the rumpled gray suit with flecks of blood on its right lapel and shoulder. I had been kept overnight for observation after being diagnosed in the emergency room the previous night with a grade three concussion, the most serious level.

"I think you'll be OK, Mr. Walker but you should listen to what your body is telling you. That was a very serious blow you took to your cranium. You're lucky nothing was fractured," Fharwaz said. "You need to keep your hands away from the stitches above your ear."

The barrel of Billy Joe Heddley's pistol had left a small but deep gash in my scalp just above my right ear that could be an inviting target for an infection were it allowed to remain open and heal on its own. A small area of hair had been shaved to facilitate the sutures. I had looked in the mirror and was shocked by the garish shade of purple and yellow from the hematoma and swollen bruising radiating from the point of the gun barrel's impact into my ear, jaw and upper neck.

"You should avoid sleeping pills or any medications intended to make you drowsy. You really need someone staying with you for the next day or two as you regain your equilibrium," Fharwaz said.

I nodded stupidly at the doctor but said nothing, either the result of the blow to my head, the painkillers I was given overnight or a bit of both. Kass spoke up. My brain seemed to be a step or two behind reality.

"Yes, doctor, I can do that," she said. "I can look after him."

In my fugue state, I could feel the goofy grin return to my face. I sat there gawking at Kass for an awkwardly long interval. Fharwaz took that as his cue to exit the room. He handed Kass a few printouts with a prescription for a mild oral antibiotic and a germicidal ointment I should use to ward off an infection, something that's never desirable so close to the ear and the brain.

"The orderly will be up shortly with the wheelchair and will take you downstairs where you will get your final discharge papers, Mr. Walker," the doctor said. "You should check in with your primary care doctor in a week, no later than 10 days. Until then, be well."

And with that, the short man with the long white coat was out of the room.

"How's your head," Kass asked.

"Oh ... sore. Really sore. Neck's stiff, too. But it's manageable. They gave me some nice drugs," I said.

"I can see that," she replied, pressing a kiss onto my left cheek, now with 36 hours of razor stubble. "But damn, you're a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Walker."

I took Kass by the hand and caressed it gently. The dopey grin was gone. Now, I looked into Kass's eyes as tears began clouding my own and a mass of feelings welled up within my core.

"Kass, I thought I'd lost you, and I had not figured out how to deal with that. I don't know that I could," I said, those emotions clutching at my words as I tried to say them. The mental brake that I might normally apply to such sentiments pouring from me had been slowed by the narcotics, so any effort to preserve my façade of strength in front of her was useless.

The immeasurable, cumulative weight of the emotional strain, the mental stress, the psychological torment that I had borne since my final afternoon with Dano crashed over the crumbled remains of my resistance and I broke down in front of Kass, just as she had done the night before upon seeing me in the ambulance.

Now, she took me in her arms.

"Les," she said, her own voice quivering as well. "I thought I had lost

you

, especially after the Apostle's warning yesterday. On that horrible drive up here, then as I sat a block away from all the flashing first-responder lights at your office building last night and finally inside the command post on the scene and in those awful, dreadful moments as I walked to the rear of that ambulance fearing that I would see your dead body."

We clutched each other as tightly as you would expect of two people rescuing each other from falling over the precipice. We let our emotions pour forth alone in my hospital room.

"Kass, whatever it takes from me — I swear to you — never again ... never again. I don't want to go through life without you. If the past four months have taught me anything, it's that."

She kissed me, in equal parts joy, passion and love — and more than a little thanksgiving. I'm sure it was quite the sight for the orderly with a wheelchair who had waited awkwardly before he cleared his throat to announce himself.

"Hi. Mr. Walker?"

Kass and I looked at each other and chuckled.

"Guilty as charged," I said.

I sat in the chair, per hospital liability regulations, and he took me to a checkout kiosk where a helpful clerk photocopied my driver's license and insurance card, charged $500 to my credit card as my estimated co-pay, and handed me more papers. Then we were wheeled to a door that opened onto a circular drive where the valet had retrieved Kass's car from the short-term parking lot specifically for patients being discharged. Once the orderly had confirmed that I was safely inside with the car door shut and my seatbelt fastened, Kass pulled away. In 15 minutes, I was back in my Hatch Street brownstone greeting Ryder, who was so overjoyed that he sprinkled the foyer with pee, even though Kass had taken him for his morning walk.

Kass helped me to the sofa. She had made me a nest of quilts where I was to spend the afternoon. A moment later, she brought me two pills and a glass of orange juice.

"Here. Take both. Here's the remote. Other than to use the bathroom, you have no excuse for getting up," she said.

"Yes ma'am," I said and smiled at her.

"Oh and Kass?" I said as she headed toward the kitchen.

"Yep?"

"I love you."

She smiled again.

"I know."

▼ ▼ ▼

Saturday was something of a blur. Painless but unfocused. Memories of the day exist in a gauzy detachment from reality, snapshots of moments: waking in a hospital room without a clear recollection of how I got there; seeing Kass holding an overnight bag with a change of clothes for me to wear for my discharge, though I didn't recall asking her to bring them; my heart taking flight as Kass and I kissed and the orderly arrived to take me to the discharge area; bits of basketball games and movies on TV as I drifted in and out of sleep.

How much of it was attributable to the blow to the head from Billy Joe Heddley's pistol Friday night and how much of it derived from the pain meds that made the day tolerable, I can't say.

But this is Sunday. I made the decision to back off the pain pills. I told myself I'd rather cope with the pain than feeling high. That was before my head and neck began to throb after I awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee and Kass's pretty face smiling at me.

"Good morning," she said. "Thought I heard some groaning up here. Or rather Ry did and got up here first. How's your head?"

"Owwww. Sore."

"Can I bring you another prescription Tylenol?"

"Oh no. Done with those," I said.

"Regular Tylenol?" she said.

"Maybe that, but I have to get out of this bed. It's after 9. I hope Ry hasn't peed the floor."

"I let him out back about 90 minutes ago and he did his business. He's good."

I thanked her just before I tried to sit upright, sending a bolt of pain from the battered right side of my head down my neck and through my shoulder. Kass gave me a hand. I was wearing only my boxers and a t-shirt.

"I must look a sight," I said, my hair pointing in every direction, particularly on the right where it was matted with blood and antiseptic solution the hospital had applied.

"Yeah. But a welcome sight."

"Too gross to kiss you good morning?" I asked, still trying to focus my eyes on her.

She leaned into me and gingerly pressed her lips to mine. My breath had to smell like an unkempt gas-station restroom, so I did her the favor of not pressing it further.

"Want to have breakfast before or after you shower," she said. "It's about ready. Bacon, eggs, English muffins, the works. And coffee if you're up to it."

"You're the angel on my shoulder, Kass, and I am so damn fortunate. If I've put this together right, you were a critical link in a chain that saved my life Friday. And now, you've made me breakfast. That's more than just love. It's a blessing," I said.

She pursed her lips and batted her eyes as they began to overflow, and she dabbed the tears away. Words were probably there. She just couldn't push them out without crying. Again. So I stood, my head throbbing in protest, and wrapped her tightly in my arms.

"Thank you, my love," I said.

She wrapped her arms around my waist and gripped my t-shirt in her fists, and there we stood until she had collected herself. Then she pressed another kiss to my stubbly cheek, a coda to this tender moment.

"I love you, Les. Friday made me realize how much," she said. "Now breakfast's gonna get cold. Come on downstairs or I can bring it up to you."

"Lead the way," I said.

We sat in the semicircular breakfast nook booth at one end of the kitchen. I had pulled on my bathrobe to cover my underwear. Kass was wearing the same business casual pants, jacket, blouse and flats she had worn since the start of her day early Friday morning at Felson's on Main in Danville. Stopping to pack was the least of her worries.

"Now that I'm a little more clear-headed, I was curious — how was it that you contacted the FBI and warned them of a plot to kill me," I said. "I recall someone walking into your store, but then there was pink paint involved?"

She began a detailed chronological account of what had happened, and I stopped her when she mentioned someone called The Apostle. That rang a bell.

"You know, early in this whole mess, not long after Dano died, I put Gene Fassbinder on Burnley's tail and found out about this creepy church, I was doing some online research of my own. I came across a long piece on Reddit written by a citizen journalist under the pen name The Apostle and it had all this history about the church and how it got its start. I didn't put too much stock in it at the time because you have no idea who's writing the piece or why. But I made a PDF of it and sent it to Gene. I should still have it on my laptop."

I got up, started my personal laptop, found the folder of material I had curated about the Ebenezer church and Burnley and found the Apostle's 47-page story. I took it over to Kass and we scrolled through it, amazed at how much of the writer's work had been proved true.

"That's got to be the same person," she said. I nodded.

"Got an idea," I said. One person who could confirm it was Sandy Corder. But where the hell was my phone? I hadn't seen it since the

Moffett v. Moffett

settlement meeting when, I realized at last, I had turned it off. I had never turned it back on.

"Oh crap, Kass. I haven't seen my phone since early Friday afternoon when I turned it off during an important settlement conference. You were trying to call me, weren't you," I said, horrified at the realization. She swallowed hard and nodded.

"I am so sorry honey. I don't recall whether the phone was in the pocket of my overcoat or my pants. I don't know where my coat or the briefcase I was carrying are, either."

"I've got Sandy's number if you want me to call it," Kass said.

"If you're up to it," I said.

The agent answered on the second ring, recognizing Kass as the caller.

"Happy Sunday, Miss Felson. How can the Federal Bureau of Investigation be of service this morning," she said, sounding more chipper than one might suspect.

"I'm with Les helping him recuperate at his house and he realized he has no idea where the mobile phone, overcoat and briefcase he was carrying when he was attacked have gone," Kass said.

"I'm pretty sure they were collected at the scene as evidence and are at our office in Cincinnati being processed," she said. "We may have to send the phone to Quantico."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, our tech analysts can open it up and see what was going on at the time ...," she said before I cut her off.

"I can save you a bunch of time. Nothing. I had powered it off earlier that afternoon because it kept going off during a divorce settlement conference with calls from the media over the Burnley suicide note. I never remembered to turn it back on before I got jumped in the deck. So I would guess there may be missed calls from you just like those I missed from Kass," I said.

"That would explain a lot," she said.

"So why have your geeks at the lab in Quantico break into it when I can just give you the pass code and you can access everything right there?"

Sandy was quiet for a moment.

"Uh ... sure. I guess we're so used to fighting for stuff like that ..." the agent said.

"But there are conditions. One, you give me the phone back right after you get a chance to examine it along with my camel hair coat and briefcase, and you have to avoid materials that clearly involve confidential legal communications," I said.

"OK," she said. "And I'm sensing there's another."

"Two, tell me how to get in touch with The Apostle," I said.

"I'm sorry, we're talking about a cooperating federal informant. We can't just identify them," Corder said.

"Well, she's already pretty much identified herself to me," Kass interjected. "If she hadn't, Les would be dead right now."

"That's true, but she came to

you

under the most extraordinary and dire of circumstances. We didn't give her up," Corder said. "And she didn't use her actual name either, did she?"

"No," Kass said.

"But I think she has identified herself somewhat publicly. Back in October when I was trying to figure out what this Ebenezer church was all about, I came across a detailed piece of citizen journalism that had been posted on Reddit by someone using the pen name The Apostle. Kass and I read it and every relevant claim made in that piece is true," I said.

"I'm not familiar with that," Sandy said.

"I can email it to you if you like."

Sandy exhaled. "Sure. Go ahead."

In 15 seconds, the email with the PDF attachment was gone. In a few more, Sandy saw it arrive via her mobile. She opened it and scanned quietly for the better part of a minute.

"Shit. Give me a minute and I'll call you back at this number."

It was more than a minute. Thirty-five, to be exact. Kass answered and put her on speakerphone.

"OK, here's the deal. Yes, Les's phone is in our possession right now. It's going to take a couple of days for the techs to go over it, but we'll turn it back over to you when we're done. Two, I can't give you a name or phone number for our asset," Sandy said.

"I understand," I said. "I just wanted to thank her for risking her life to come forward and save mine. That's all."

"I will convey that to her. That's the best I can do for you right now."

Kass spoke up. "And you tell her that if I can ever do anything for her ..."

Sandy was silent for a moment. "I will Kass. Very sweet of you, and I'm sure she will appreciate that a great deal."

We agreed that I would meet her Tuesday afternoon for a debrief. It would be short because I remember very little about what happened in that parking deck. I'd even be hard-pressed to pick the men out of a lineup. Hopefully, I'd also get back my phone, overcoat and — most concerning — briefcase containing confidential client files. I reminded her of that, and she said she had already been admonished by the deputy U.S. attorney, Mike Pinlok, to steer clear of the briefcase contents to avoid a protracted court battle.

With that, we said our goodbyes.

"I don't know if it's that conversation or your coffee, but I seem to be shaking off the brain fog and thinking a little clearer this morning. At least to know that if I look half as gross as I feel ...," I said.

"Yeah, you could use a shower," Kass interjected, nodding matter-of-factly. "Shave, too. You're like kissing a cactus."

▼ ▼ ▼

Throughout the day, the temperature had plunged and it was getting steadily colder outside. The day's high, 47 degrees, came an hour before I awoke on this Super Bowl Sunday. An arctic front was slicing across the Midwest, colliding with moisture from the Gulf of Mexico to touch off snowstorms that had already inundated Illinois and was moving into Indiana and western Kentucky, according to the Weather Channel. It would make travel dicey here by the time Philadelphia Eagles and Kansas City Chiefs kicked off in the early evening in Phoenix. By then, the temperature would be in the mid-20s, cold enough for snow to stick and freeze on pavement.

"Kass, do you have to go back today?" I asked as we strolled down Hatch Street with Ryder in the icy bluster.

"Tomorrow's a workday," Kass replied. "And I'm going on day three in these clothes except for the two nights when I slept in one of your t-shirts."

"If you can resolve the workday part, I can help resolve the rest with a drive to the mall and Nordstrom's and buy you a change of clothes," I said. "I'm a lot better, but I'd feel even better having you around. Says in the literature Dr. Fhar-whats-his-name gave me that for a grade three concussion, a patient should not be unattended for at least 72 hours," I said. "Of course, I have ulterior motives, too."

"What kind of motives," she said.

"Any motive that keeps me close to you for as long as possible. Besides, you could get caught in that bad winter weather ..."

"I got a better idea," she said.

▼ ▼ ▼

The last time I had stood outside 370 East Main Street in Danville, Kentucky, it was perhaps the lowest moment of my life — after a catastrophic few hours in which my relationship with Kass appeared to have imploded. I had watched helplessly as she lugged her bags from a weekend visit with me in Cincinnati up the steep front stairs that led to her second-story apartment over her shop, Felson's on Main. When I think of the definition of bleak, I will always equate it to the heartbreak I felt on that desolate, wee-hours drive alone back to my house.

Now, thanks to providential grace, the stupid brutality of Tony Moorefield and his two henchmen and the bravery of an FBI informant known only as The Apostle, I was on my way to restoring my relationship with Kass as she, Ry and I pulled into her private, secure parking spot behind her store. She wouldn't even allow me to carry my own overnight bag, citing Dr. Fharwaz's orders.

My argument for buying her new clothing so she could stay with me another night in Ohio wasn't sufficient to overcome her need to return and open her business the next morning, even if an overnight snow shut everything down by Monday morning. After all, I had been able to contact my secretary, Donita, and inform her that I would be medically incapacitated and recovering for a few days from the pistol-whipping I endured in our parking deck Friday afternoon. She would reschedule appointments I had through Tuesday or find another partner to handle matters when appropriate. I also left a voicemail for Wilson Rush informing him of my injury and convalescence, should he manage to give a shit.