Soul Of The Ancients

By Daniel A. Tucker

Detective Jeremiah “Tex” Davis lay in the hospital dying one year after retiring from the police force. Journalist Justin Hawkins is assigned to write a “puff piece” on Tex. He spends three mornings with him before he dies only to learn that Tex has extraordinary ‘powers’ that have guided him through his exceptional career. These powers enable him to not only see and prevent crimes before they happen, but to see the effect these crimes have on all of society. His powers force him to decide who lives and dies, among other things. Ultimately, Tex is left feeling guilty and uncomfortable about the decisions he’s had to make in his life. As the days pass he begins to trust Justin and decides to warn him of a super-secret ‘dark force’ in the world that uses a broad range of techniques to try to control and steer important people and events in the direction ‘they’ deem necessary. ‘They’ come in the form of government agents, hapless neighbors and maniacal serial killers but ultimately utilize their own ‘powers’ to their own secret end. Their mission is to create well-placed chaos in the world with results that are effective, mysterious and often diabolical & messy. Tex knows that Justin is unknowingly caught up in all of it. He just doesn’t know how to tell him this. A saintly Polish Priest named Father Ski, who ultimately has incredible ‘powers’ of his own, mentors Tex through his difficult transition from this life to the next. He also attempts to help Justin manage the evil dark forces that are closing in on him from all sides. The ones that eventually try to get him in the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781624886737

Book preview

Claudia…

Chapter 1

It was a cold morning in December as I entered the sixth floor waiting room of St. Francis Medical Center after checking in at the nurse station. I was there on assignment to interview the legendary Detective Tex Davis of the Colorado City Police Department. He agreed to talk with me today. I can remember speaking with him on a couple other occasions over the years, but I can’t recall ever doing a full and complete interview. Apparently, he lay dying. My job was to try to get him to agree to me doing a piece, chronicling his long, high profile career. He has rarely spoken with reporters despite his accomplishments and notoriety and is rumored to be a bit of a loner when he was on the force.

I hate doing the human-interest stuff, especially when it involves ambulance chasing. Unfortunately, there isn’t much of a budget to do anything else these days I’m afraid. My boss said, try to get something sensational, as we spoke on the cell phone on my way over here. Really, that’s all he says every time he talks to anyone. In year-end reviews it’s, you need to focus on getting us something sensational next year. In staff meetings it’s, let’s get out there and get something sensational. Every morning when he comes in it’s, I can feel it! We’re going to get something sensational today. I secretly refer to him as the ‘S.S.’ He’s a bit of a mixed up Nazi in more ways than one.

The sixth floor waiting room was set-up with about fifty chairs and all but a couple were filled with anxious looking people doing their best to conceal the worry on their faces. Most were facing a television tuned at an inaudibly low volume to one of the all day news channels. You know, the ones that continuously hammer you all day with their slanted propaganda breaking the complexity of life down into nice and neat twenty-second sound bites. I will say this though; the sets and graphics on these channels are spectacular.

In another corner of the room there is a small group of very young children playing with some toys provided by the hospital. Every couple of minutes you could here someone go Shhh as the playing intensified and the noise the children were making became louder. Then the children became almost silent before growing quite louder again. It reminds me of the sound of ebbing tides on a beach. I could sense that the attentiveness of the people in the room is affected by the sound and intensity of the children’s play as it took on the characteristics of a sine wave pattern. When the children were quiet on the low ebb of the wave, the adults could focus better on their problems. When they were loud at the zenith of the wave, they couldn’t. It’s as if the innocent sound of their games is somehow taking them from whatever concern or misery they’re facing. This makes them uncomfortable and ultimately makes them feel guilt and shame for being so easily distracted from the situation their loved one is currently facing.

While all this was going on I noticed that next to me, on my right side sat a young woman nervously reading a book of nursery rhymes in a hushed tone to a little girl on her lap and an older boy in the chair next to them. Suddenly, a nurse came into the waiting room getting the woman’s attention. As the nervous women stood and walked over to the nurse, she stirred the air enough to somehow inundate me with toxic smell of the gentleman sitting to my left.

I looked up intently from the book I had brought to read as she and the nurse spoke briefly in an inaudible tone. The woman then turned summoning her children with a look in her eye that no one should ever have. The little girl kept shouting over and over, What’s wrong mommy? as she walked over to her mother. The little girl repeated this mantra as they quickly followed the nurse out of the room and down the hallway. The emotional power of this interrupted the other children’s wave pattern of play for a few moments. It was as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing for a time drinking in the reality of the situation they were in. Re-living past horrors and envisioning the ones that would inevitably come as they searched for whatever thought helped sooth the desperation they found themselves in that morning. As the fear was still spiking, one of the little culprits ran up to a woman asking what’s wrong with the little girl mommy, why does she keep saying that? This briefly took the room over the top in its’ collective sense of intensity, tension and emotion. The room was still choked of air as the mother said plainly, never-mind, go back and play. Her simple words broke the spell and allowed the underlying sine wave cycle to continue awaiting its next interruption.

I sunk back into my chair with a thousand thoughts in my head. My last big story was officially about a dog that saved a large ranch in the area from a black bear attack. The real story was that a baby bear had somehow gotten separated from its mother, was hungry and tried to raid the chicken coupe of a nearby ranch. The family dog, a Border collie named Roscoe, somehow found a way to lock the curious cub in the coupe. As you can imagine, all hell broke loose in that little chicken coupe that morning. The ranch owner heard the commotion, rushed in the pen and quickly unlatched the door. In that exact instant, the door violently swung open and the 130-pound cub bounded out of the door almost on top of him. The surprised rancher fell on his back as the shotgun he was clutching inadvertently went off scaring the already highly frazzled bear cub into the nearby woods. The Division Of Wildlife was called in and eventually captured the little guy eating out of someone’s garbage can about a mile up the road later on that day. This was front-page stuff for a few days here around Thanksgiving.

Yesterday, I heard that the little bear had mysteriously died after being re-located a couple of weeks ago somewhere deep in the nearby Pike National Forest. That fact never made it in as a follow up story. It was killed by my boss, S.S. His reasoning was that the public would only accept happy endings when it comes to stories of this nature. I’ve come to understand over the last few years that this vanilla mentality really goes for any story these days.

Sitting facing the window I began to notice how bleak the sky appeared through a nearby window and how the curtains, and walls and floor were just as white. Suddenly, a woman appearing equally as white called out as she entered the room Mr. Justin Hawkins.

Yes ma’am, I replied as I stood up collecting my coat and briefcase and inhaling the putrid smell of my neighbor one last time.

He’s ready to see you now, follow me, she said as I followed her through some doors and down a long and empty hallway. I felt I could finally breathe again as I left behind the stuffy waiting room writhing in its tense foreboding and uncertainty.

The nurse walked as if someone was chasing her. When we entered the hallway we were basically even in step, but as I reached the halfway point she was nearly at the end of it. It was here that she passed a hunched figure dressed in black walking towards us. She quietly said something to him as they passed but I couldn’t hear what it was. As I approached him a few seconds later, I noticed the intense piercing of his gaze as he nodded in my direction tipping his black hat as he passed.

I said, Hello Father, and he replied, Good Day, in a bit of an Eastern European accent as he moved slowly down the hall relying heavily on his cane. There was something familiar about him but I just couldn’t place it right now. I then made my way to the door at the end of the hall where the nurse stood waiting with her hands poised on the door as if she were about to open it. She was a beautiful black woman that half smiled in a way that seemed both peaceful and strong. I also noticed her nametag, Ella Wood, R.N.

Is this our destination Nurse Wood, I said.

This is Mr. Davis’ room, she responded quietly. Please, call me Ella. Everybody does.

Then she asked me solemnly do you scare easy?

Not usually. Why, what should I expect?

The Detective has the Bone Cancer and it’s in his face.

Oh… I said as I quickly tried to process what her words entailed as she then began to slowly push on the door.

As the door opened, Ella said in a happy, sing-song voice, another visitor this morning detective; this is Mr. Hawkins from the newspaper.

I followed the nurse in and held out my right hand. I thought I was smiling, or trying to, but when instinct kicks in it’s hard to tell what expression you’re projecting. My instinct here was one of caution on many levels due to the awkward situation I was in. Trying to get a story about a legend that lay dying requires skills of etiquette I’m really not sure exist.

He then weakly shook my hand a couple of times as he cleared his throat, saying, good to meet ya.

The right side of his face was like the face of any other man fighting cancer in his sixties, weathered, wrinkled and a bit pale. I could briefly see by glancing at an un-bandaged area on the left side of his face that it was raised and discolored in hues of red, blue and purple. I remember my Aunt Ruth talking about something like this when my Uncle Bob, who smoked at least three packs of cigarettes a day for over forty years, was dying from Lung Cancer. She had described patches of skin on his chest that looked like this. The doctors had told Aunt Ruth that his cancer had metastasized and he didn’t have much longer to live. I remember her saying he only lasted a couple of days after that.

Nice to see you again, I replied.

Nurse Wood had just finished checking all of the tubes and machines and was walking out, I’ll leave you two alone for awhile. Let us know if you need anything, detective.

The detective nodded in her direction, grumbling something un-intelligible. He turned to me saying, What did the Padre have to say to you on the way out?

I stood a little bewildered by the question. Anything? he pressed.

I followed, Oh, the Father. He was in here?

Yeah.

He said hello and definitely looked familiar to me. What’s his name?

He’s got this polish name no one can say so he goes by ‘Ski’.

Father Ski, I said as I remembered who he was. I spoke with him after the church shooting a few years back. What was the name of that church?

St. Philomena, the detective replied.

That’s it, St. Phil’s, I said.

That all happened a few years before I retired back in 2001.

We also spoke then, you played some role in the investigation. Right?

I was there right after it happened and then was made Lead Investigator. I also babysat the Fed’s when they came into it. Then about ten days after the shooting that Sunday, 9/11 happened.

Yeah…but…I think the first time we met was in 1985 after a convenience store robbery on Bijou Street, I said. It was my first real assignment.

That was evident, he replied.

Well, why? I said, surprised at his quick wit.

You seemed scared.

I remember a lot of blood.

And, your line of questioning appeared to follow some form of an out of date Journalistic Trade Manual.

I was that bad?

That and I like to give reporters a hard time!

I remember that too.

So, Detective Davis…

You can call me Tex, he interrupted in an angry tone. He went on using the same belligerent tone as he asked me, Why are you here? Is it just to take a little stroll down memory lane, or is there somethin’ you want? I don’t know if you can tell but I probably don’t have a lot of time left here.

Well Detective…

Tex! He fired back.

Uh, well Tex… the paper would like to run a feature on you. Your career has made quite an impact on the community through the years and we feel people are still very interested in you.

And you. What do you think?

I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t agree.

There were a few minutes of awkward silence after this. Tex turned his head away as he lay propped up in his hospital bed, starring at a spot on the ceiling. I took the opportunity to look around the room a little. He was in what they call an Extra Care Unit. There were no cards or flowers anywhere. The T.V. wasn’t on. There was just a crumpled up looking copy of a magazine that lay on the tray in front of him and a covered up tray of breakfast that looked untouched. Then he turned to speak.

What would you like to know?

Well, I said, we could start with the forty-six straight homicide cases you solved in almost 20 years of being a detective. There wasn’t a homicide that occurred in El Paso County in your tenure that you didn’t solve and quickly. And…you solved most of them in a time before the wonders of modern forensics.

He replied smiling, it was really more like 123.

123? I repeated. The records I have come up to forty-six.

So are we going to go blow by blow through every aspect of my career? The homicides weren’t all that pleasant the first time. All of the sudden your readers enjoy re-hashing a bunch of horrific crimes?

Well…no. I followed, what do you think drives people to kill?

I’d imagine a gifted reporter like yourself knows people better than I do.

Maybe…maybe not. I’m interested in what you think.

People are selfish. Murdering someone is the worst possible act of selfishness.

There has to be more to it than that?

O.K., your right. There are the cases of pure evil. He paused and then added, I really don’t like to think about it.

Then, without warning, a couple of orderlies came into the room followed by Nurse Wood. One of the men said, good morning Jeremiah, were here to change…

No one calls me by that name, Tex interrupted in an angry tone. He quickly grabbed the apple from the food tray in front of him and threw it as hard as his frail body would allow at the man who was somehow able to duck. The apple missed him and landed squarely on the other orderlies’ nose, which appeared to explode as it started to bleed instantly.

Ella shouted disappointedly, Tex! We just came in to change your sheets! It’s his first day.

In the time it took for her to say this, she had retrieved the apple, put it on the tray, wheeled the cart holding the tray to the corner of the room where the T.V. was and pulled a wash cloth and ice pack out of a drawer as she began to tend to the injured orderly. Ella did everything at ten times the speed anyone else could, including talking.

No one calls me by that name, Tex re-iterated, trying to justify his actions.

As Ella was applying pressure to the orderlies nose with the cloth, she glanced over at me saying, We are going to change Mr. Davis’ linens so you’ll need to step outside for a few moments Mr. Hawkins.

To which I replied, Yes ma’am. I quickly opened the door in relief and went to wait in the hallway.

In my time in the hallway I could somewhat hear the commotion of the bed being changed and Ella giving Tex an earful. She used words like ashamed and too old to act like this and you better apologize. Meanwhile, I could hear Tex groaning occasionally and trying to say things only to be put down by the now Hurricane Ella. I started to see there was something special, almost magical, or otherworldly about her. She has a presence and demeanor that appears to only accept the world as a place better than it can ever be.

Just then, the door opened as I heard Tex sheepishly say Sorry. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the door as it opened as he lay back in his hospital bed and resumed his position of lying there, staring at the ceiling.

One orderly walked out carrying a heap of sheets he dumped out in a nearby basket. The other one followed holding a bloody cloth in one hand and the ice pack on his nose with his other hand. I could hear the unscathed orderly telling the new orderly as they pushed the cart down the hall, I told you to call him Tex! I learned this yesterday. Now do you see! Are you gonna listen to me now and quit being so stubborn?

Ella held the door open and gestured for me that I could go back in saying sternly, maybe we can rap this up soon for today.

I nodded saying, Yes ma’am, as the door closed behind me leaving me alone in the room again with Tex. He was still lying almost flat on his bed staring at the ceiling.

He looked over at me saying, Only my mother can call me by that name. I still don’t know why she gave it to me. Maybe she wanted a fighter.

How did the name ‘Tex’ come about for you?

The kids back in grade school used to tease me about the way I spoke. They said I had an accent. Like I was from Texas or something, so they started calling me Tex and it stuck. I’d always been kinda tall and thin, even when I was young. Just like a cowboy. It was quite a relief, I was getting tired of fightin’ over my given name and always crying about it all the time to my mother.

I said, Well there’s always…

What like ‘Remy’ or ‘Jerry’, he said quickly. I lived every angle of it. The ‘Tom and Jerry’ jokes were the worst. Besides, no one tough is named ‘Remy’ or ‘Jerry’.

Then, I realized there was a touch of a southern drawl in his speech pattern, minus the yawl’s. I asked, are you from Texas?

No, he replied. I’ve really never been. I guess I helped solve some crimes there by telephone. As I’ve gotten older, I find it funny that what was initially intended to be more teasing, actually lead to no teasing.

Why is that? I said.

I’ll take ‘Tex’ any day over ‘Jerry’ or ‘Jeremiah’. So, I started living my new persona. I always wore a cowboy hat and talked about riding horses an’ the like. I think I was really only on a horse a couple times. Turns out, I’m really not a big fan.

We left it at that. Better call him ‘Tex’ or risk assault by fruit or a ham sandwich or something. I could tell that the commotion had taken its toll on Tex so I took Ella’s request to heart and started gathering my things and excused myself for the day.

I’ve got to get going now Tex. Thanks for allowing me to do your story.

As I was leaving Tex looked over at me and said, Yawl coming back in the morning?

I’d like to. Same time work for you? I asked.

If you can make it in earlier, I wear out quick sometimes.

I replied by asking, Nine then?

He nodded in the affirmative as I briefly shook his frail hand and made my way to the door. I turned to say something else while I opened the door to let myself out but didn’t. The detective’s eyes appeared to be closed as if he were about to doze off.

In the hallway, I reached for my cell phone. It had been buzzing almost continuously in my pocket since I’d been in the room. I figured it was my boss S.S. He had an uncanny knack for calling me as I was on assignment. Like he couldn’t wait to see if I found something sensational. He probably wanted to meet for lunch or something and re-hash the morning. I glanced down at the screen as it illuminated with my touch. Sure enough, it was ole’ S.S. He called five times with each call being roughly eight minutes apart.

Then it buzzed again. Hello, I said.

Hey Justin, it’s Bruce, he exclaimed, just wanted to call and see if you’d be able to grab some lunch with me around noon over at Pike’s Pub. I’ll buy.

Uh…Yeah, Bruce, sure I just got out of meeting with Tex…what is it 11:30…I can be there a little after noon by the time I get out of here and make it over to that part of town.

All right boss…see you then…can’t wait to hear what you’ve come up with, he replied.

Ah, Yeah… see ya in a few.

As I ended the call and reached down to put my phone back in my pocket, I chuckled to myself thinking it must have taken S.S. everything he had not to ask me if I came up with something sensational.

Chapter 2

I drove to the restaurant thinking about the meeting with Tex. It was hard to see him their and in such a frail, sick condition. He had done quite a bit in his years of service for the community. I found it odd though that he was still in the hospital. It was clear he didn’t have long to live. I figured maybe a hospice would be better for him. Maybe he had no one close to help him navigate this part of his life. Nonetheless, it was kind of a travesty that a man who’d done and given so much didn’t even have a card in his room.

Soon I found myself at the Prospect Road exit and got off the highway just to the south of downtown. I was only a few minutes from the paper now, and the pub was right across the street from it. The courthouse was catty corner to the paper and almost right next to the pub as well. It’s a major hangout for people in the legal system as well as people at the paper. This comes in handy for networking and getting vital information for the people in my line of work. The Pub has probably taken a bit of a hit over the last few years due to the ongoing downturn in the newspaper industry. In the five years since 2000, we’ve lost nearly half of our staff.

As I got closer to the Pub, I started to prepare myself for the lunch I was about to have with S.S. I find that you have to get yourself into a really up and phony mood to deal with his opinionated, self-impressed, over the top personality and latent self-esteem issues. I also find that most people don’t like their boss. Still, I’d like to think most people in managing positions are really pretty all-right people if they’re given half a chance and cut a little slack. Sometimes they’re forced to make tough decisions that probably aren’t overly popular. Typically, I think most people can still respect the person, even if they can’t admit to it. Absolutely nothing about Bruce puts him in this category. He’s an arrogant, de-motivating imbecile that takes way to much pleasure in putting people down. The people that work with him hate him. How he got to be Managing Editor of a once great newspaper is anyone’s guess. Rumor has it that his father has a high position in the corporation in California that now owns the paper. It’s a two-sided sword; no one has the guts to ask him anything personal to see if any of it is true and no one wants to know him well enough to be able to. Unfortunately for me, and for reasons I’ll never understand, Bruce has decided he likes me.

As I walk in, a waitress named Marcie spots me as she waits on a table. She briefly makes eye contact with me tilting her head a couple of times in the direction of the bar. There’s Bruce standing holding a drink and talking with a couple of pretty young women. They seem relieved as I walk up and say Hey Bruce. He reaches out to shake my hand like a used car salesman whose about to sell me a car for way more than it is worth.

He says, Lets grab a table buddy. What’ll you have?

I nod saying, I’ll just have a Coke.

A Coke! You sure boss? You becoming a big lightweight on me, he said, followed by his quick, haughty laugh. I’ll see you ladies later. I was jealous of the fact they were getting their lives back as I went off to have lunch with S.S. Usually he would have invited women who were just randomly sitting there to join us whether he knew them or not. Not that they ever would of or that they ever did. He was of the incorrect assumption that he was overwhelmingly appealing to women. So, I guess today was going to be special. The bartender handed me my coke and I made sure to politely say Thank you.

We followed the hostess across the room and sat at a table in the corner of the Pub by the window. S.S. was shaking hands and making small talk with people the whole way. You would of thought he was running for public office or something. The hostess said as she smiled, "how is this?

I cheerfully responded, Great! Thank you.

I glanced at the menu as S.S. finally made it to the table and