Fallen Masters (7 page)

“I’ve often wondered why you’re still here.”

“That’s ’cause my Johnny hasn’t returned my calls. If my Johnny Travolta would have me, I’d be out of here so fast—well, I can’t even tell you how fast, ’cause there’s no words to describe it.
That’s
why I’m still here.”

*   *   *

Before Tyler made his rounds, he stepped into the physicians’ lounge for a cup of coffee. There were three interns there, drinking coffee and laughing. They grew quiet and stood as Tyler came in.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “How is it going?”

“Fine, Dr. Michaels,” one of the interns replied.

“You’re Dr. Poole?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tyler poured himself a cup of coffee. “Tell me, in writing a medical report, what does the SOAP method mean?”

“That’s an acronym, Doctor,” Poole replied. It mean ‘subjective, objective, assessment, and plan.’”

“Very good. And to what does the subjective refer? Dr. Blake?”

“The subjective part of the report tells what the patient says about his symptoms in his own words,” Dr. Blake said.

“And the objective?”

Dr. Urban, the remaining intern, replied. “The objective part of the report details what the doctor sees and hears when he observes the patient.”

“He?” Tyler said.

“Yes, sir,” Urban replied, not sure why Tyler questioned him.

“How many interns are here at St. Agnes right now?”

“There are nine of us,” Urban replied.

“Uh-huh. All men?”

“No, three are…” Urban paused in midsentence. “Oh. I meant what he
or
she observes.”

“Good for you,” Tyler said. He finished his coffee, then picked up the stack of files again. “Well, gentlemen, are you ready to make the rounds?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Urban replied.

At her nurse’s station, Rae Loona watched the three eager young interns trailing along in Tyler’s wake. She knew, as they knew, and every intern past or present who had interned with Dr. Michaels in the last ten years, that they could learn more in one hour with him than they could learn in an entire semester of medical school.

CHAPTER

13

When the phone rang, Karen Michaels checked the caller ID before she answered. It read
DR. J. D. KIRBY.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said brightly. “Or is this Mom?”

“It’s me, sweetheart,” Edna Kirby said. “How are you doing?”

“Still pregnant,” Karen said. “Just like I was when you called yesterday.”

“And the day before and the day before that,” Edna said. “I’m just thinking that maybe your father and I should cancel the cruise.”

“What? No! Why in the world would you want to cancel the cruise?”

“So we can be here for you when the time comes,” Edna said.

“Don’t be silly, Mom. Tyler will be here. There’s nothing you or Daddy can do when the baby is being born. I will need you
after
the baby is born. You said you would come for the first week and I’m holding you to it.”

“Oh, there is no way you can keep us away,” Edna said. “You think we don’t want to be there to see, and to play with our grandson? And then give him back to you when he needs his diaper changed?” she added with a little laugh.

The cruise was a vacation and fellowship retreat sponsored by the church her parents attended in Nashville. Her father was chief of residents at Nashville General Hospital. Dr. Henry Emory had been on staff there, and when Emory left Nashville to come to St. Agnes as chief of surgery, Dr. J. D. Kirby had recommended that he try to recruit Dr. Tyler Michaels. He had also played a hand in getting his daughter together with the young surgeon, whom he thought showed more promise than any other surgeon he had met in the previous ten years.

“Did you have a good Christmas?” Karen asked.

“Oh, we had a good enough Christmas, I guess—except you weren’t there,” Edna answered. “We had a beautiful church service, then a potluck dinner. Everyone dressed up for it. But I wish we were together. I miss you and want to see you with the baby on the way.”

“It was a nice Christmas for us,” Karen said, but with hesitation.

“Nice?” Karen’s mother’s voice had a questioning lilt to it. “What do you mean, nice? Did something happen?”

“No, Mom, really. It was fine. Tyler gave me the most beautiful diamond pendant you ever saw. It’s just that—” She stopped in midsentence.

“Don’t just leave me hanging, sweetheart. It’s just that, what?”

“Well, Tyler is so sweet, like I said, he gave me the most beautiful diamond pendant.” She laughed. “And he bought Jeremy a football. Not a little one, mind you, a full-sized, real football. It’s as big as Jeremy will be when he is first born. But to Tyler, Christmas is just—things.”

“It’s about tradition and family, built on a foundation of faith and values.”

“I agree. You know that. Oh, Mom, I wish for anything, something—I would settle for him being a little more spiritual. I don’t care about him being religious. I mean, I can’t really complain too much. After all, he has never tried to change me, he accepts—no, more than accepts, I think he even respects that I am a person of faith. But he—”

“Sweetheart, you hold on to your faith,” Edna said. “There’s no need for you to preach. Tyler will come around. This, I know in my heart.”

“I hope so, Mom.”

“Are you going to celebrate New Year’s Eve?” Edna asked.

“Yes. They are having a reception at the ballroom in the W Hotel. Tyler said we could stay home and pop a big bowl of popcorn, then watch New Year’s come in on TV, but I’m the one who pushed him to go.” She laughed. “Next New Year’s Eve we’ll have to hire a babysitter!”

“Well, have a good time, dear. But don’t get too tired.”

“I won’t. And you and Daddy have a good time with the cruise.”

Karen had silently hoped they would change their minds and stay, so she wouldn’t feel alone, after all, on this special night. Despite Tyler’s attempts to be there for her, she felt abandoned—by everyone—and somewhat depressed, but she decided she would keep it to herself, to hang on and think about the positive outcome that lay ahead … after all, her baby had not abandoned her. He would be with her forever. She could count on that.

CHAPTER

14

Grenada

Patricia Rose Greenidge, Mama G, sat in her chair and rocked back and forth slowly as she watched a log burn in her patio fire pit. It wasn’t a high, lapping blaze, but a long, low blaze that was blue closest to the log, then orange and yellow before dissolving into little curls of smoke. The outside evening air was unseasonably cool.

She drank a cup of tea and tried to deal with the visions that were dancing through her head.

She saw a big building, surrounded by towering Corinthian columns, and inside that building, an assembly of some sort. It was not the national parliament of Grenada, nor the Congress of the United States, nor was it the General Assembly of the United Nations.

She didn’t know if she was asleep, dreaming this, or fantasizing in some semiconscious state. Okay—she wasn’t asleep, she knew that. Her eyes were open and she was fully aware of the burning log in the fire pit.

There seemed to be some debate taking place.

“We need someone with a foot in both worlds,” someone said.

“There are those whom we can talk to,” another said. “One of them is here, with us now.” All Councillors turned to look at her with paternal hope for the future.

“Yes, I am aware that Patricia Rose Greenidge is here. I summoned her.”

“You summoned me here?” She stood in a state of awe, with more than a little annoyance stirred into the mix. She wore a colorful housedress, not having gussied up for this occasion, because she had been summoned without warning. Then, as she looked around and became more accustomed to being there—wherever “there” was—a sense of shock and unreality overwhelmed her.

“You are aware of us? You see us?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“I am on the patio of my house. At least I thought I was.”

“Yes, but you are also with the Council of Elders.”

“Who are you, child? And where are you?”

“I am the Governor. I preside over the Council of Elders on what you may call the Other Side.” The voice did not speak aloud but simply entered her consciousness with authority, overwhelming in its power.

“Oh dear Lordy Lord, now I think I’ve flipped for sure.” She was in awe, but she was herself, after all. “I am willing to believe I am not where I thought I was, but do I have to fear where I am?”

“No, you are right where you need to be.”

“Why am I here?”

“It is our hope that you can help us,” the Governor said. “All of humankind is under assault by the Evil Ones. You face a grave danger as never before in history.”

“The Evil Ones? Danger? You’ll have to speak plain to this simple lady.”

“Yes, they are the Forces of Darkness. And they are more powerful than you can possibly know.”

“But aren’t you the Forces of Light? The Good?”

“Yes.”

“Lord knows, I’ve had signs of being called to meet you.”

“Yes.”

“What would you have me do? I’m one person. Good Lord and butter, I know that I am but a simple woman, but I have faith and know that if we pray hard enough, the forces of good will always win out over evil. You telling me that I have been wrong my whole life?” She tilted her head with natural curiosity, almost like a child.

“We want you to—”

Pop!
In Mama G’s patio fire pit, a trapped gas bubble in the log detonated loudly, sending up sparks and a small flare.

Mama G looked about her, now visibly shaken, having a weird, almost metallic taste in her mouth that she could not explain—a kind of interdimensional bad breath that made her terribly uncomfortable. A dark and sinewy figure moved quickly into the tropical bougainvillea and the darkness, carried away by the scent of the frangipani trees. She shuddered at knowing that she had just experienced both light and darkness in battle.

She saw nothing else except those things that were so familiar to her: an old black-and-white picture of her parents in an oval frame, a vase that had belonged to her grandmother, a curved glass secretary and bookshelf, her cat curled asleep on the back of the rattan sofa.

“What would you have me do?” she asked again.

The place she had just visited, the Council of Elders, the Governor, all were gone.

Had they ever been here?

Or, more to the point, had she actually been there?

She was already interpreting visions, premonitions, troubling feelings that had been plaguing her. But what good were such aphorisms and noble intentions in the face of the catastrophe that Mama G foresaw as a storm on the horizon of time?

Her faith was shaken, and the power of prayer—a thing that she had always relied on—seemed suddenly like a very small candle with which to fight the darkness.

CHAPTER

15

London

Asima moved across the street as swiftly as she could. The chaos in Piccadilly Circus on this warm day was overwhelming, with cabs, buses, and tourists bustling about everywhere. Car radios and street speakers were amplifying the latest hit by Charlene St. John, the American pop star. A vibe of compassion could be felt even amid the urban clangor.

This was not the environment Asima had envisioned for raising her children. She had instead dreamed of a bucolic setting, either here in England or in her native Grenada. But she had followed her husband, Muti, here, and she did not regret that. It was part of the package.

She hurried herself and her little ones over the crosswalk and made it safely to the other side of the buzzing street.

Education was important to Asima. Having been raised in the Muslim tradition, she had also grown up in the New World with all its opportunities of that tradition as well. She had graduated at the top of her class, and it was then that her dream of raising her family there, or someplace similar, had first occurred.

She had been inspired to write about island life, about her own life. She was confident that one day she would take her life story and share it to inspire people all over the world. She would help to educate them about the true beliefs and traditions of Islam in a world distorted and diluted with terroristic ideologies and discolored by violence.

Though she held a Ph.D. in political science and world philosophies, at one point Asima put her life—and her dreams—on hold. She had gotten married. She had rewritten her first book at least three times, but still she felt it was not ready to put out for publication. Since that time she had written two more books, but was still working on the ending chapters of the third book. She and Muti had several children, the oldest a son named Shakir, age fourteen.

Most people would never see Asima in the role of erudite professional, writer, teacher, or activist. Not because she wore traditional clothing or lived within a culture that was sometimes antithetical to women’s progress, but because of her beauty. Even as she walked with her children along a bustling urban street, many people, men and women, stopped to stare at her. She carried herself with a melodious, radiant energy, and her dark eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes were so pronounced that she never needed to wear makeup. Her cheekbones were sculpted in a way that was the envy of any model. Her figure was no different than it had been at nineteen when she had first met and fallen love with Muti Faradoon.

He was her hero, her heart, her true soul mate.

Even though Muti was far more traditional in his beliefs than she, she had long ago decided that she would sacrifice her personal and professional desires to be with him. Beneath the cultural stamp, he was still somehow different. He understood who she was. Their courtship had been quick, and their love strong from the very first moment they met. Muti possessed a childlike innocence and humorous demeanor that had been challenged only once: when two of his brothers were killed in a suicide bombing on the border of Syria and Iran ten years ago. To this day, Muti never discussed the bombing. He always just said that they, Rami and Hamir, were victims of “a senseless plan.”