Thy Light, Thy Way …: Death of Baby Monday

By Joseph Byron I

A newborns death occurs in secret; coupled with a mothers regret and guilt, it serves as the origins of hatred that lead to the murder of the nurse who witnessed the death.

Sam Steele, a thirty-three-year veteran agent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and a devout Christian, answers the call to assist Sheriff Charles Roper of Creek County in looking into the nurses murder. Investigating the murder of a reclusive young woman whose passions were running and finding peace with natures God, Sam processes a crime scene that produces scant evidence, and examining the body reveals little except the horrible manner of the young womans death. As those in the know close ranks and refuse to give Sam any information that might explain the murder, the case begins to grow colduntil a murder in another county suddenly reveals an unexpected connection.

In this mystery novel, an agent for the Georgia Bureau of investigation hunts the murderer of a young woman, unaware of the strange sequence of events that he will bring to light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480835177

Joseph Byron I

A newborn’s death occurs in secret; coupled with a mother’s regret and guilt, it serves as the origins of hatred that lead to the murder of the nurse who witnessed the death. Sam Steele, a thirty-three-year veteran agent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and a devout Christian, answers the call to assist Sheriff Charles Roper of Creek County in looking into the nurse’s murder. Investigating the murder of a reclusive young woman whose passions were running and finding peace with nature’s God, Sam processes a crime scene that produces scant evidence, and examining the body reveals little except the horrible manner of the young woman’s death. As those in the know close ranks and refuse to give Sam any information that might explain the murder, the case begins to grow cold—until a murder in another county suddenly reveals an unexpected connection. In this mystery novel, an agent for the Georgia Bureau of investigation hunts the murderer of a young woman, unaware of the strange sequence of events that he will bring to light.

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Copyright © 2016 J. Byron Mobley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-3516-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3517-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912448

Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/23/2016

Contents

The Paradox

Chapter I: Transgression

Chapter II: Murder of the Caged Bird

Chapter III: Finding Lisa

Chapter IV: Decatur

Death of Blaine Edgar Gimcrack

Chapter V: The Trial

Based upon reality, all events in this manuscript exist as fables born from prayer and imagination. Names are fictional, as are all characters and their traits; and no name does the author intend to reflect any semblance to any person living or dead. Baby Monday is a real name, one among millions who were to be, and yet, whose conception was for death rather than life. For the child born that day was Regret. Each day, Regret and its siblings, What-If, Sorrow, and Guilt, embrace mothers.

This work is dedicated to all the babies who were but were not, including We Love You and We Regret.

Sincerely,

Your mother and father

The Paradox

By sin, crimes against God, humans lost their oneness with God. A Bridge exists to correct that wrong that is unique and personal to each. One man experiences God in an unusual series of dreams. Though his mind fights God, he must choose whether to embrace the God of Life or the God of Self.

Coming not as a cry—worse was its questioning. The tiny voice was soft and gentle, fragile as a breeze, its existence undeniable; a heart heard and felt the tiny voice’s genuineness. The voice scarcely speaking above a whisper asked, Why do you—why did you not love me? Moments later, after the voice passed, leaving in its wake a deep emptiness and wondering as to whether the voice actually existed or not, Mind answered, Heart cried, and God wept.

Chapter I

Transgression

The Card

Raindrops: each was life unique, and each foreshadowed the death of individuality. And with each drop hitting the windshield, there came a small, undetectable ping, striking heart and soul, opening the storehouse of remembrance. Each drop became a wellspring of remembrance of a day from which all present and future regret would precipitate, without ceasing.

Overhead, in the farthest heights of a wizard’s static globe, heat lightning threaded repeatedly across a black sky, filling the upper firmament from east to west and then from north to south. The lightning stopped; there was only blackness. Aroused, its rumblings through the night sky renewed, and each streak vividly displayed fresh power, anger, and raw, hot energy. Suddenly the white-hot jagged streaks stopped to breathe. And then, spectacular, huge bursts of balled lightning blew forth from the dragon’s mouth. An intense ferocity of pure energy raced across the heavens, following and crossing the pathways of forked lightning streaks.

Each release of energy was from the god who watched over children, and the god was angry. For each pulse of pure-white energy searched for her alone, and once she was located, the full fury and intensity of the dragon’s white-hot breath would descend upon her. White heat would melt flesh and burn through her heart’s cold, case-hardened doors, and there it would burn, vaporizing an already-dead—dead three weeks—heart and soul. The dragon knew the day and time: twenty-one days, fourteen and a half hours ago. The dragon searched. Intangible yet tangible was the illness so generously bestowed upon her by an infection of her own doing. The exact time, moment of contraction, she knew; the dragon knew. She did not wonder or guess if the disease might be terminal. She knew. It was a matter of duration of how long she would live before the dragon, regret, finally swallowed her whole. If she said the right prayer, did the correct ritual, was it possible to escape regret in the next life?

In the early morning darkness, a baby-blue Cadillac slowly cruised along the row of shops and offices, all the way to the end of the strip mall. As always, the car then slowly turned so that its headlights panned the tall shrubs at the end of the parking lot. Her body cringed as her eyes searched for someone lurking in the tall, dense shrubbery, grown wild, or in the dark recesses of the building. With the car doors locked and the high beams on, she gripped the steering wheel tightly, turned slowly again, and proceeded cautiously along the alley behind the row of shops and offices, all the while searching for abandoned vehicles or someone hiding in the dark shadows. A morning routine that had evolved over time into a passionate hunt, knowing there was someone who knew her routine and who wanted to harm her, to rob her in the unprotected, dark openness of an empty parking lot. That person could be anywhere in the parking lot between where she parked and the front door to Whatcoat Realty.

She often wondered why she placed herself in such danger, arriving at five thirty each morning. She turned off the ignition of the car. The answer was simple. As a broker, she was the chief player in the game, and the name of the game was money. The daily goal was financial growth. To be sure that her agents were focusing on that goal, she had to arrive before the others in order to check each agent’s appointment book and call returns, and also to see whatever else might be lying around on each agent’s desk. This was to gain as much insight as she could, not only into what the agents were doing personally while at their desks belonging to her, enjoying her electricity and her phones, but also to know everything that was going on. After all, she was not retaining anyone merely looking for a place to hang out or a desk as a place to lounge his or her unproductive body!

Achieving financial growth was the business’s single concern. On the wall behind her desk was a small sign reading:

Wherever you travel, life is an adventure to financial growth. Manipulate all things to the positive, to your success! Avoid negative people and settings that you cannot change. Positive builds and gives growth. Negative tears down and destroys and leads to poverty!

These commandments on the sign she embraced.

Quickly she relocked the door and flipped on the lights in the front office, and leaned her umbrella in the corner by the door while listening to the squish, squish of her rain soaked shoes. Outside the heat lightning persisted.

Promptly she went over to the mail stacked on the edge of the receptionist’s desk; Brenda, the receptionist placed the incoming mail there at the end of each day. The four regular-size white envelopes addressed to her, Denarius Whatcoat, were no surprise: she knew they contained bills. More promising were three large manila envelopes.

From the return addresses, she saw that two were from attorneys—closing packages she wanted. The third was from a sender named George F. Smith, whose florid penmanship was difficult to read. As she attempted to determine whom the envelope was for, a sparkle of pink caught her eye.

The small, pink envelope lay on the floor at her feet. Placing the rest of the mail back onto Brenda’s desk, Denarius grunted, stooped, and squatted to retrieve the pink envelope. By its size and color, she knew it contained a card. She needed a thank-you note from someone—anyone—telling her that she was okay. Whether she knew the person or not did not matter.

As she used the letter opener to slit open the envelope, she wondered why anyone would use a pink envelope for a thank-you card, without a return address or address for delivery, only the name Denarius Whatcoat written across the front. Without a stamp, someone must have delivered the card by hand; or one of her agents had left the card in the pile of mail. If from an agent, what lay inside was a crude joke about fat people. They were too afraid to deliver the card in person. Denarius did not recognize the handwriting.

Perplexed, she drew her eyebrows together as she gazed upon the oddity she pulled out of the envelope: the sheer strangeness of a birthday card. Against an ice-pink background was a giant multilayered cake with white icing. On top of the cake were three candles. Along the sides of the cake, enormous teddy bears smiled, dolls grinned with outstretched arms, trikes hung in the appearance of fast movement, and stars sparkled in joy and happiness. A sudden weakness engulfed her, and she leaned against the desk. Curious, she opened the card.

Outside, lightning flashed and the intensity of the rain gave the impression that it would persist all morning.

Written inside the card were three lines that Denarius read and reread. They told of a thing that no one was to know, no one should know; she’d paid them cash. Even her name, her ID, had been lies.

Yet the words were there, and the words were real! They were haunting, hurting words. You asked the gender. The child to be but would never be was a girl. The doctor killed her.

There was nothing else written. Apparently, the sender of the card, who devised the cruel joke and then gathered the guts to send it, had then furiously obliterated his or her surname at the last moment, with only the faint resemblance of a G remaining, thereby leaving the card shrouded in anonymity. Denarius hated cowardly people. Her father was spineless, just as the father-to-be was cowardly, never returning her calls over the four months she’d tried calling him to tell him of a special problem.

Moving to the bottom of the card, her eyes focused on a phone number. Curious. Though this cowardly sender wanted to remain anonymous, did he or she expect Denarius to call? How absurd!

Obviously, this was nothing more than a cruel joke to exploit her for money.

The wind and rain beat against the front glass. A sudden chill raced through her body as awareness came to her. The sender had to be acquainted with the clinic! No one else knew, could know, other than someone who worked there or had access to the records. She’d used a false ID. A phone number flashed across her mind’s eye: she had used the office phone number, but everything else had been false! That day, that event, all existed as a thing that she refused to allow herself to think about; the false name and ID she’d made up to prevent recognition. The sender had to work there; that person wanted her to get the card today, this day of the third-week anniversary of death.

The rain and wind persisted, beating like countless tiny hands slapping against the glass and wanting inside.

Through moist eyes, she looked past the large plate-glass window, beyond the neatly stenciled lettering of Whatcoat Realty, to a rain-soaked parking lot. Many tiny rivulets of water washed across the black asphalt, gathering trash and dirt; the waters sped to the end of the parking lot. She wished there was a flow of water to wash through her mind and heart, cleansing all remembrance of anguish and guilt. There would be no more past, no yesterdays. The rain intensified. Behind her eyes, anger rekindled from dormant coals, remnants of hostility. Reignited were the broken and tattered remains of that day three weeks ago, when death and deceit broke free of their dormancy. Anger and regret arising from remembrance of that day flashed into an inferno, consuming the wall that she had erected. This wall of protection and seclusion the fire ravished quickly. Yet no fire was strong enough to consume the emotions born that day.

Death does not sleep; time is not yet his, a thought burned intensely as the dragon’s breath blazed across the sky.

Anger, renewed, traveled from her eyes to the multitude of droplets clinging to the front glass, and she felt herself absorbed, becoming a part of the tiny droplets. Desperately she wanted to run outside, tilt her head back to see if the water would cool her eyes, extinguish all hostility, wash away all anger, and drown all memory, all regret.

A large beast arose. Its breath blew hard, sounding as countless small hands slapping hard against the front glass. The breath held the droplets in place. Yet the beast could hold only for a moment, as the volume of rain did not lessen, and the force of another beast was greater. Each droplet was required to submit to the second beast. Through the droplets’ submission came surrender; they merged and became tiny rivulets sliding awkwardly down the glass, racing to the larger streams flowing across the parking lot to the sewer’s open mouth, to eventual death. In death where are uniqueness and individuality?

They no longer exist, she whispered. We die; we are no more! Gone is uniqueness; gone is individuality; we are all reabsorbed into a common fellowship of nothingness.

A brilliant flash of lightning and roar of thunder followed, and the lights in the parking lot and the office were out.

Walking slowly, feeling her way down the hall, she felt a wet coldness rushing up her thick legs and heard the squishing in each step; water squeezed from the tops and seams of her shoes.

Behind her, she knew droplets clung to the front glass; she understood that at one time there had been within her body a tiny droplet. A droplet of humanity that was unique, more individual than anything ever created. The child was lost; today was the third-week anniversary, not of life but of death. Overhead, the rain beat hard on the flat roof. Not rain, no, it was the slapping of many tiny hands, too many to count. That droplet within her she had committed to the forces of nature, just as the droplets on the front glass were committed. Neither had a choice nor a means of escape, thousands, millions of tiny hands wanted in!

A tiny voice asked, If I knocked to get inside, would you let me into your heart?

Her face tightened. What she heard was a delusion, nothing more! Too much time in seclusion, she had been told. Idle thoughts and delusional voices; both went into the realm of nothingness. A place of the dead, a realm, she knew where uniqueness and individualism did not exist. No one there was able to contemplate, let alone dream. How could anything, anyone, who did not exist—or who was forced into nonexistence—be chosen to exist? Where was death for an imagined existence? Just as the real hurt and shame in life came not from the imagined, the unseen, but, rather, hurts in life from the known and the experienced. Hurt, shame, all experienced, all locked away in that innermost secret place, which, on Mondays, became a beast bashing at the doors of its chambers, a furious and hideous monster wanting—no, demanding!—its release, and the cell locks formed from case-hardened regret were then welded stronger. That day, three weeks ago, was the death of two. One day, the beast would break forth.

The lights came on as she was fumbling to open her door.

Seated behind her desk, Denarius reflected on the moment when she’d realized that whatever she was going to do, time was drawing short—if she had not already waited too long. For once, she had appreciated her bulky frame; at first glance, she’d appeared only fatter, as the baby bump blended in well. For months, she had contemplated her action; sought the advice of new acquaintances, telling them that her friend was choosing. All gave their advice freely. All but one. Lorie had been reluctant to answer. Denarius later learned that Lorie had once had the procedure. Whether Lorie suffered remorse or just did not want to offer her opinion, Denarius did not know. She had not sought advice from friends back home, those she’d grown up with. She was afraid of them knowing.

However, to form an intelligent decision, she’d turned to the slick, modern magazines containing articles on the subject. The articles had soothed her skepticism and supported her decision; logic had justified ridding herself of that with which Derrick had infected her that night. Many times, she’d tried calling him. Because of her heavy build, guys always joked about her. Derrick knew this; secretly he laughed at her! Because of her large, bulky frame stacked on a short body, men, like the boys before them, scorned her, laughed at her behind her back. Now she was a professional woman with no time to spare on any man. Instead of friends, men, and a social life, there was the opportunity to make money and more money. This she embraced.

Though safety and health had been of primary importance, privacy had come next. The clinic was on a dead-end street. Perfect seclusion; no one would see her or know what she had had done. There would be no questions asked. Making the appointment over the phone, the receptionist had spoken of the safety and cleanliness, assuring her the event would be simple, quick, and painless. The receptionist had even added in a reassuring way, The fetus feels no pain, volunteering that information without Denarius’s asking.

In that instant, Denarius had grasped that she was dealing with the tangible, not the intangible. The appointment can always be broken; she’d told herself at the time. But in the end, she hadn’t broken it.

The wind changed now, bringing her back to the present, as savage tiny hands began beating wildly against the back door to her office. The ferocity of the wind, the madness of the rain, the pleading of the tiny hands—she could no more shut all that out than she could wall off or conceal the event of that day three weeks before. Because of her bulk, no one in the doctor’s office had asked or challenged the information she gave. She’d told the receptionist she had cash and only one ID. After making Denarius sign a notice of declaration, the receptionist had taken the cash. And then, what had once been changeable had suddenly become unchangeable, and because Denarius was short and fat, no one ever suspected what she had done; therefore, there was now no one to judge her.

On the desktop now, she rested her head on her folded arms. How many days, weeks, had passed since she last had a good night’s rest? Too many, too many, just like the tiny hands outside that were too many to count. They’d given her a wonderful shot that fateful afternoon so that she would relax.

Closing her eyes, she felt the car once again riding down a rough street. She saw all the details of that day again too. Creeping past deserted, boarded-up houses, the car paused. A real estate for-sale sign was still visible through weeds and vines clinging relentlessly to its frame and face. How long had the sign been there? A long time, perhaps, on a street no one wanted; her mind pondered the possibilities the property possessed. Oddly, though, her mind produced no answers to those possibilities. The street went nowhere, a dead end; all the properties around were old and derelict, and the street itself was in need of repair. A quick glance at the dash clock, and she saw that she was wasting time, postponing the inevitable, what reasoning and logic dictated she was to do. The baby-blue Cadillac began rolling past two more boarded-up houses. She turned onto a narrow asphalted drive where faded images of paint barely made visible the parking spaces. There was a newer-model Jeep and a white sedan whose make she couldn’t discern.

Using the door and seat, she pulled herself slowly from the car; she straightened as much as possible and gazed at an old chain-link fence still standing, for the most part. In some spots, it sagged heavily forward or backward, like old bones bent by age. In such a manner, the fence continued, parallel to the interstate, until reaching a certain point in the backyard. There, the fence disappeared into a mound of kudzu, morning glories, muscadine, and thorn vines that formed a thick, impenetrable wall between the house and the interstate; only the noise of hurried traffic surged through the mass of vine.

Infused within the traffic noise was another softer, gentler sound, and she thought about how odd that was. There was a profusion of children’s voices, alive, richly filled with eternal childhood joys. No children were about playing; no children were in the abandoned houses. Yet the voices were present, alive and real! Voices alive and real, but no children did she see. A chill rushed over her, as the thought, the insight, occurred to her that the voices were the sound of children no more. The distant past mingled with the sounds of children of yesterday, all merrily waiting. … And then, there was a second, equally chilling revelation that those sounds of children past were waiting, calling, for the children of this day to come and join their voices. Their voices would all then be added to those of the past, becoming the eternal present. They would call for the voices of the future, still hidden from the world and awaiting their condemnation, to join all those of the past, to run and play imagined games in their imagined world, forever hidden from the living. How many now built imaginary castles in the dust of time, in the shadow of a great, grayish skyline of acceptance, rejection, and denial, a skyline rising in majesty, glorifying human desire and logic? She laughed to herself, mumbling, Bad breakfast! And then she looked at the house a second time. It was not a home; there were no children, only imagination. The home was a piece of commercial property. Breakfast and remnants of my granny’s old-timey religion create weird thoughts! she thought, and again she laughed.

However, each morning, ever since deciding what she would do about her dilemma, two real ghosts haunted her: the ghost of the present and the ghost of the ancient voices of those now dead. Utilizing modern logic, she’d gained drive and determination, and the strength to shut out those voices, reminding herself that what she was about to do was legal and acceptable in the eyes of the state and society. Regardless, Aunt Clarice and all those countless voices back home would never know, could never judge her for having a child out of wedlock or having lost that child. Nevertheless, the ghosts of those old voices haunt her that day, telling her to stop and turn back. However, the gods of ambition and self-fulfillment spoke even louder. Never could those ghosts, the old religious views of her mother and granny and aunt, blame her. It was their fault, their views from long ago, a time of repression; they knew nothing of being able to fulfill the wildest dream and find personal wealth.

Yes, she thought with a smile. This was a new time; a woman had charge of her body; no man, no religion could dictate what she was to do with her body or her life. It was a new era with new rules! Greater than all else was desire. And one of the new rules was to skip bad breakfasts!

At her desk now, Denarius laughed and then cried as a gust of wind blew the rain hard against the rear of the building. Thousands of tiny hands pushed mightily against the back door, rattling the door against its hinges, hands, voices demanding entry. However, she was safe now, just as she’d reasoned that day, even when viewing the house as a home, a place of disenfranchised children, emancipated from this life, where the tiny abandoned souls had been liberated by fate into a new life with greater power. That was how it had to be! Yet, for her sanity, her mind now refused to admit that day had ever existed. That was how it had to be! If she never thought about it, never spoke it, soon, by never thinking of it, never speaking of it, there would come healing. That day would be a date obliterated from memory. That day would belong to someone else. That was how it had to be! If an incident never occurred, it was nothing, no more than the manifestation of a dream. She would be forever healed through the act of forgetting. It was a house, nothing more, a place empty of children, just as she would be and was to be, barren and empty after leaving it.

Never had she known true love; certainly not that night. It had been an emotional event, only lust. A time to conquer and a time to be conquered; never had there been any real love. Now she had no love to give anyone. In fact, it would pleasure her to hurt the doctor, to watch him bleed slowly, die slowly for the hell he’d placed on her!

What I did, she confirmed within herself now, was legal, a business thing. I paid his price. There was no counseling, no lingering, no consolation. It was as if I were a side of meat in a slaughterhouse, with the service he provided.

They had never spoken their names to each other. She’d thought it odd that the place was so cold and sterile, but her chief concern at the time was getting in and out quickly so that she would be free of the tiny thing that infected her.

Denarius Whatcoat now raised one side of the desk blotter: there it would be, out of sight and hidden. Might she hope that if hidden so far back, time would erode the event until nothing remained? Never speak, never think, and the day will cease.

She looked at the birthday card again. Turning it over, she read the writing on the back side. The sender had penned, Few ask or want to know. However, you asked. The baby you delivered was a girl. Her eyes fixed on the next two words: born alive. Through blurred vision, she continued reading the hateful note. The child was late term and would have been delivered normally, born naturally in three weeks or so. The doctor severed the spinal cord at the base of the neck to stop a beating heart. She then read the sender’s signature, which included a name: With deepest sympathy, Lisa. Was what the woman had written a lie? Was it all a lie—to gain money?! At the bottom of the card, in small print, was the same phone number. Numbers written slowly, purposefully, giving all indication that Denarius, the recipient, was to call the number.

Denarius recalled now how they had sedated her that day. The room had breathed an air cleansed of humanity. Where all were nameless beings disconnected from spirit and reality, just as that which was within her was a nameless, unwanted cyst.

The sedative had begun as a warmness spreading along her spinal cord, into her back, and then to her pelvis. Her mind had felt numbness; her thoughts had slowed and then rolled one into another; she’d had no control. She’d fought; she’d felt herself swinging higher and higher. Consciousness perched at the top of the arc, degrees of dreamy semi-consciousness occupying the long arches arising from where thoughts no longer collided with other thoughts, and in this place, there had existed only a deathly quietness and a bottomless emptiness pulling her body into an uncaring ease of non-thought.

Though she’d fought to remain conscious, she’d felt something moving inside her, detached and not a part of her. Competing between the points, her mind had swung from consciousness to a vagueness, with vivid images of the room and lucid voices of those present coming to her in the induced dreamy and uncaring calm. There was a point that she could not discard, though she knew it was only a dream. Many times, she had recalled the incident, which this day, this moment, was still fresh.

Always there was a fat and ugly cow, a horrible beast willingly led into a large room sterile of life; two humanoids, shelled mechanized beings, whose outer coverings resembled human skin. The humanoids stood at the end of a large, low table, which they placed the ugly beast on top of. The humanoids, mechanical man and woman, two robots created by social demand, began extracting that which was inside the ugly cow. They jerked on the thing inside the cow, using long forceps to seize and pry, until an even uglier baby calf emerged. The cow looked and lowed in loving compassion, seeing only beauty.

The humanoid woman suddenly exclaimed, It is alive!

As he struggled to take hold of what the cow had birthed, the humanoid man shouted, No, it’s not! All I see now is a bull cow, a female only by appearance! As he unscrewed the calf’s head, he said, Life is only a thing of appearance! An appearance perceived only in the fluidness of time! Death is an appearance, not just for the moment, but a ghastly appearance lasting all eternity! Only death do we make immortal!

Knifing through the dream, the female’s voice distinctly said, It’s alive!

And always in response, Denarius’s mind would offer up a single, definitive, no! The word would race through her nervous system to her tongue, but her tongue would refuse to speak. The swing suspending her body and mind in its flight through an uncaring ecstasy would then suddenly stop, holding her over a deep ravine. Her heart would no longer beat. …

That day, she’d heard the nurse speak unintelligible words, and in that instant, Denarius’s heart and body had been enveloped by an insatiable cold.

An hour later, they’d released her. No one would tell her the doctor’s name or the nurse’s name.

Only one of the staff had quietly whispered in Denarius’s ear, What once existed, you are now free of forever.

Hurriedly now she opened the center desk drawer and flung the card to the back of it. There, it was even more out of sight. The number she would never call; the sender did not want to give her sympathy, but merely sought to extort her emotions, and for money! That, she would have no part of. And she was sure the sender worked for the clinic. How else would she know of the event and the details? The logic, the event, and, now, a blackmailer were all scenes and characters of the nightmare that had begun three weeks ago. No, eight months ago. The date of that night with Derrick was August 16.

Two days after the event three weeks ago, Denarius had started to suffer from severe abdominal and pelvic cramps; the physical sensation of her body ripped apart and all her insides ejected. Intense pain would force her to stop whatever she was doing and either lie down or sit perfectly still. Only by inhaling slow, deep breaths followed by rapid deep breathing would the pain eventually cease.

She’d called the clinic and made an appointment for later that day. Dr. Meretricious had left for the day; the receptionist had no record of Denarius’s appointment. The receptionist had given her a second appointment for the following day. Hearing her anger, the receptionist had assured her that the doctor would be available.

At the appointed time on the next day, Dr. Meretricious had courteously escorted Denarius back to his office. She’d sat on a cocoa-colored leather sofa along the wall in front of his desk. He’d asked her to describe the pain. She’d explained the pain to him, telling him that the pain was of such intensity at times that it would immobilize her and she would be unable to function.

I can prescribe an antidepressant, Miss Whatcoat. What you are sensing is a temporary grieving. The same as though you had a miscarried, which, in essence, is what happens in an abortion.

She’d found herself asking, I heard the baby was born alive; is that true?

Who told you that? His face had tightened, becoming critical, even harsh.

Your nurse said that during the procedure, Denarius had answered.

During the procedure you were sedated, Miss Whatcoat. What you heard, your mind produced. When sedated, hallucinations are normal. He’d leaned back in the chair, giving the appearance that no one could or should challenge him.

Leaning forward on the sofa, Denarius’s voice had become more aggressive. I know what I heard! My baby was born alive! You killed her!

A cruel scorn had settled upon his face. Not so loud! There are other patients here!

Standing, she’d let her words charge at him. Should I not go out and tell them you are a butcher?

Do you want a prescription? he’d asked, adding, Or do you want to leave? I will not stand for such false accusations! Your baby came from your body, dead. The fetus you carried was dead! Once the procedure begins, there is no stopping. For you, it was a lucky thing for your health! A dead fetus that will not abort by normal miscarriage presents a health risk, even death, to the mother!

Fighting back tears, wanting what he’d said to be true, her voice had been meek in response. Is what you just told me the truth? Her meekness, a pleading, had continued. My baby was not born alive? It was dead, and I carried a dead baby within me?

He’d come over to her and placed his arm around her shoulders. What you have said, in your own way, is the way it was.

What happened to my baby?

Humbly I tell you that we do what the law prescribes. A fetus we handle with the greatest reverence and respect. Your fetus was dead in the womb.

Tears had trickled down Denarius’s cheeks. I hope you have told me the truth.

Be assured, all of what I’ve said is the truth, Miss Whatcoat.

If it is not, if you killed my baby, she’d said, pausing and then continuing in a clear voice, If you killed my baby without giving me the chance to claim my baby, I will kill you! I will kill the nurse working for you. If what you tell me is true, I will find rest, not torment. If you lie, there will be no rest in this life, for you or me.

Taking her hand, he’d responded softly, I’ve told you only the truth. I will write you a prescription.

The prescription had done nothing to stop or ease the pain. Each night thereafter, at precisely three o’clock, she would be awakened by the sound of a baby crying, and the crying would continue until weariness wore either her or the sound of the baby, or both, to sleep. After three nights of little sleep, she’d made an appointment to see her own doctor.

After she’d relayed to him the abdominal pain that she was having, saying nothing about the procedure or the child that she lost, Dr. Silvereye had checked her weight and listened to her heart. He’d diagnosed an intestinal problem related to her weight, probably diverticulitis. She’d requested a prescription for the pain and insomnia; he’d refused. She’d said nothing about the sound of the baby crying or the pain that mimicked labor.

After a week, the pain and the sound of the baby crying continued, and she’d decided to go see a gynecologist.

Using the same means as she had in finding Dr. Meretricious, the Internet, she’d found a female OB/GYN, whose office was not far from Denarius’s real estate firm. The answers she’d furnished to the appointment clerk’s questions had been obscure. Telling only that she was seven months pregnant and experiencing severe cramps, as though she were going into labor. Afraid and embarrassed, she’d told the clerk that she was not seeing a doctor at this time. I am afraid of losing my baby, she’d whispered hard into the phone.

While waiting on the doctor, she’d invented ways of how to describe what was happening and still keep the truth buried. However, that depended on how shrewd the doctor was; worse would be the doctor throwing her out of the office.

The doctor, a young woman with long strawberry-blond hair and a wide row of freckles lightly dotting her cheeks, had entered the room, holding an open folder.

She’d promptly closed the door and the open file folder. Miss Whatcoat, I am Dr. Glenmore. How are you today?

That was a normal doctor’s question. Denarius had replied, Not very well at the moment. I am having severe abdominal cramps, Doctor. They are so bad at times that I have to lie down or cease whatever I am doing. Thankfully, none occur while I’m driving.

You told the appointment clerk that you are seven months pregnant. How long has this pain been occurring?

Three weeks, Denarius had answered quickly.

Have you dilated any?

Briefly, Denarius had firmly clenched her jaw, knowing, at that moment, that she had to tell Dr. Glenmore the truth—the truth not as it actually was, but as Dr. Meretricious had relayed it, and in the manner in which she wanted Dr. Glenmore to interpret the truth.

Dr. Glenmore, I am not pregnant now, but I was three weeks ago. After beginning to confess this version of the truth, she had gone on with the rest of it. I had a miscarriage. My doctor wants to treat me for intestinal problems. He thinks something is wrong with my intestines.

She had paused, resolved that she could not cry; this was nothing more than a business matter.

Dr. Glenmore had simply looked at her.

Denarius had then continued. I had a miscarriage three weeks ago, as I said. I came to see you because you specialize in pregnancy and birthing. I need to know … is my problem mental or physical?

Leaning against a small counter, Dr. Glenmore asked, What doctor were you seeing for you pregnancy?

My regular doctor is Silvereye.

Where was the miscarriage? Dr. Glenmore asked.

A hospital … a clinic. I was driving, and the labor pains became very intense. Looking for a fire station, I found a clinic.

Who was the doctor attending, and what did he say?

Dr. James Meretricious.

He is an abortionist! Are you telling me that you had an abortion?

No, never, never that—please! The pain was so great; I needed help! I saw the medical emblem on the sign! Denarius had gasped then, adding, You know the snake on a pole!

Calm down and tell me the rest, Dr. Glenmore had told her.

Feeling sudden desperation, Denarius had said, A nurse rushed me back to a room! The baby, my baby, was born dead! The nurse told me the baby was a baby girl, such a beautiful baby. Dropping her head, Denarius had paused and cried softly. Why did God take my baby?

When a mother loses a baby by miscarriage sorrow for the loss is normal. Emotional impact from an abortion can be devastating, extending for a longer time period, Miss Whatcoat.

An abortion is horrible! Mine was a miscarriage! Denarius had responded.

Dr. Meretricious is an abortion doctor who’s in it only because he can do nothing else and craves the money, the cash. He is a merchant of death!

It was nothing like that! All abortionists should pay for the pain and suffering they cause! That is from what I hear. I went there only because I knew that I was giving birth—or so I thought!

Death is not something for us to decide. Such a matter is a concern of God.

I did not have an abortion; I am not an animal! Denarius had snapped.

To be blunt and honest with you, Miss Whatcoat, only you know the truth. I see your story as lacking credibility. I know Dr. Meretricious all too well! The mother who has a miscarriage wonders if something is wrong with her physically. With an abortion, she fears she may have physically damaged herself. In an abortion, the mother judges herself and suffers terribly, emotionally and psychologically. No medicine will cure psychosomatic problems. A friend of mine is Christian Psychologist. He treats emotions of the heart and mind.

At Denarius’s office door there now came the sound of a light knocking. She jerked her head up at the sound. Standing in the open doorway was her receptionist, Brenda Worthy, looking down at her. Anger flashed through Denarius’s body; she felt her face tensing, wondering how long Brenda had been standing there staring at her. Had Brenda seen anything? Had Brenda heard her talking?

Had Denarius betrayed herself?

Yes? Denarius said curtly.

Sorry to disturb you, Miss Whatcoat, Brenda replied softly and then stopped.

Well! Get on with it! What do you want? Denarius snapped.

I need nothing. The lights were out in the front; the mail was still on my desk.

Slipping around, snooping! Spying on me, Denarius countered.

No ma’am. I do not snoop. What do I have to gain by doing that? I saw that you had been here, were probably still here. I was afraid you were sick; that’s all. My soft step is the way my mother taught me to walk. Mother says a lady should walk as though she is floating on a cloud.

Picking up a pen, the tip began pointing, jabbing at Brenda as Denarius spoke. So you are thin and move about like a breeze, while I am heavy, fat even, and lumber about like a huge cow? Is that what you mean? Actually, whatever Brenda thought, Denarius did not care. She enjoyed scolding her as though she were a small child; she waited for the pathetic and shy Brenda to jump.

With her body inclined forward, Brenda replied, No, ma’am. I knocked on the door, and as I did so, the door opened. I was even more concerned by that. I stepped in to see if you were all right.

Brenda’s body bent forward even more, causing her shoulders to hunch forward. Her body resembled a body caving in on itself; her entire being stretched out, bent over, held tense, with her hands clasped in front of her.

Denarius answered sharply, I’m quite all right. Her contempt for the miserable little creature standing in front of her then forced her to ask, How long have you been standing there ogling me?

In the lull prior to any response Brenda was capable of, Denarius saw a little bastard mulatto girl, born outside of wedlock, whose white father she would never know, running down the hall toward her office. Though times were different, even better, social injustices still existed. The child was lucky to have been born dead, and that alone was justification for stopping that day at the clinic when she’d felt the birth pains beginning. Would she hug the child when she rushed up to her? Yes raced through her mind; her heart quickened at the thought of holding her baby girl. The baby girl stopped and wrapped her tiny light-copper arms around Brenda’s leg.

Miss Whatcoat, Brenda said now, Again, I tell you I was not spying! I stepped up to the door. As I knocked, the door opened! Please believe me!

Derrick—that was the name of the father of the little mulatto—was tall and had a muscular build; his skin was tanned to almost polished bronze. He was part Native American; she was sure he’d told her that. Mulattoes had beautiful skin, rich as new copper or olive toned, like the complexions of those of Mediterranean descent. Beautiful complexions. Mulattoes were beautiful children, with beautiful skin. My child will be beautiful, not fat! Denarius thoughts stopped at that, and a single word, will, rushed, unstoppable, through her mind; its total weight settled upon her heart. Suddenly another word, would, then another word, could, and then a third word, was; and those three words collided, and a new word surfaced, never, and that new word walled off the word will. The child, the beauty and hope in the previous moment, was now would have been and could have been; but there was no future for the little one who was dead now, dead by a man’s hand—that was the way it was and not as he had said. Her baby was dead and in the past, a place where dreams, hopes, and aspirations were never to be.

Miss Whatcoat, are you all right? Brenda asked now.

Denarius felt her own empty stare fall on the speaker of those words.

Brenda persisted. I answered, and you gave no reply; it’s quite unlike you, ma’am.

Denarius’s beautiful child was no more.

Her hard, cool face mirrored her heart. She glared at the little creature standing just inside the doorway, her body apologetically slumped forward.

Gibberish! Denarius snapped at Brenda. What you actually mean is that I am fat! I’m going to die and burn in hell! My sins are great, as you judge me, and known by all! Why not say that?

As Brenda began her response, Denarius’s large hand came down hard against the desktop. She shouted across the room, Allow me to finish! I run this company! Success and failure are by my doing! Those two things I must devote myself to! One is to embrace, the other is to fear and resist by whatever means possible! Success is the god I serve! Do you understand?

Yes, ma’am. I am none of the things you’ve said. Other than doing the job you hired me for, I want none of the things you insinuated. Brenda dropped her head; her shoulders began jerking, and Denarius heard her crying softly.

Seeing a transparent little creature whose heart was as tender as spring clover, Denarius realized that she had spoken harshly, too harshly, causing harm when she’d meant no harm; or, at least, she hadn’t meant for the little creature to implode as soon as she did.

Brenda capitulated mentally, emotionally, and physically, ending up a mass of sobbing, emotionally wrecked flesh, in less than four minutes.

Denarius softened; the little creature broke.

Placing her arm around Brenda’s shoulders, Denarius felt odd as she struggled to speak. I know I am too hard, too difficult, and one of little compassion. Real estate is a cutthroat business; the stakes are high, and money is sometimes tight. Please understand that I meant you no harm. There are difficult issues facing me, which I must deal with. Forgive me.

The little creature was placated.

No, ma’am, you did not wrong me, Brenda said. I should have buzzed your office on the phone. As Christ forgives us, so I forgive and must ask you to forgive me.

Denarius sighed in order to suppress her laughter at the way Brenda’s small mind viewed life. Thank you, Brenda. However, the wrong I did was greater than you, a child, can imagine. I should have died, rather than steal a portion of the world’s future. By that sin, I have forged my own hell; designed for myself a life filled with remorse, guilt, and shame. Denarius laughed and sang, smiling. Wish me dead, wish me no more, so that the day of my evil, the day I lay with Satan, will be no more; so that day will fade into the dust of time and will be no more, and I shall be more—no longer a harbinger of regret.

Brenda’s wet eyes searched Denarius’s face and eyes. Ma’am, I don’t understand a word of what you’re talking about, though I know Jesus does. Denarius laughed, and Brenda ignored the laughter. I’d never wish you or anyone dead. To do so would be passing judgment on that person, as I would be saying I cannot and do not forgive that person, and I desire their wrong against me to be their demise. God reserves judgment. To be forgiven, we must forgive.

Denarius wondered, Why am I allowing childish and foolish ranting to continue? There was to be a closing this morning!

However, Brenda continued, barely without pause. After all, what if the person you wished dead had died without having come to Christ? If I wished a person dead, and if that person died before coming to Christ and being forgiven, I, the person making that demand would be committing a sin worse than the original transgression perpetrated against me.

Though Denarius hated religion and Christianity in particular, she heard herself asking without thinking, What if the sin … what if the one wronged is now dead? In fact, what if the one harmed was not yet born?

Jesus forgives all who come to Him, Brenda responded sheepishly. Today, your questions are most strange. I don’t understand. Jesus does, though.

Biting down, shaking her head, Denarius frowned. Never mind! she said in a huff. Make some coffee, and be off to your duties!

Yes, ma’am, Brenda responded and straightened her posture.

Brenda was halfway down the hall when Denarius called sharply, Brenda!

Turning, Brenda answered, Yes, ma’am?

Never mind; it will wait, Denarius said as she closed her door.

Returning to her desk, she thought of the closing to take place at eleven o’clock. Outside the rain ended.

Suddenly Denarius heard a distinct voice, speaking as softly as the little creature’s steps. This voice originated and came from no particular place; rather, it seemed to come from all places, and the words settled upon her heart and mind, preempting all other thoughts.

The voice, which would not be ignored, said, An abomination was done to me when the children of old were sacrificed by fire to Moloch. Forgotten is that which I formed in the womb as mine. Do you worship me? Or do you worship that which cannot and will not endure?

Denarius moved to the sofa. She leaned forward and placed her head in her hands, listening to the deep stillness of an unfathomable emptiness, for nothing could fill the emptiness left behind by the voice. It was the same voice she’d heard before, three weeks ago, right after leaving the clinic. And she’d heard it once before that, long ago.

Knowing eyes watched her through narrow slits formed by fingers separating closed blinds; she knew also they watched her to see whether her driver was a male lover or a girlfriend.

Again, Denarius thought back to that fateful day three weeks ago. Holding her head high and moving with quick determined steps, she’d concealed her emotions. However, as she opened the Cadillac’s door, that action had been like a triggering mechanism releasing her emotions as she recalled what the nurse had told her in the recovery room, and what she herself had heard during the procedure. Tears had trickled down her cheeks as she’d backed out of the parking space and then put the car into drive. She’d heard each piece of broken asphalt crunching beneath the tires as the car swung out of the drive and onto the narrow dead-end street.

Softly, sweetly, a voice had spoken, overriding the road noise and her thoughts. She’d checked the radio, but it was off. Good; she’d wanted to be alone and not hear any voice, especially not a man’s voice. Straightening the car to hug the roadway, she’d driven a few feet farther, hearing the voice again, louder this time. Again, she’d checked the radio; still off.

The voice had said, Did I, who fashioned you in the womb, not also create and fashion the child within you?

The words had struck a painful jab to her abdomen. Clearly, the voice had not come from within her, of that she’d been sure. Nor had it come from any single point of origin. The sound of the voice had been like being immersed in water, where the water was the voice, a sound coming from everywhere at the same instant. The voice had been troublingly familiar; yet, even worse had been the angst she’d felt because of the unsettling words. Had the voice placed a curse on her?

Perhaps, she’d reasoned, the voice was a troubled spirit which she had picked up. That idea had given her solace. The voice was an entity, one of the many voices she’d heard inside and outside the clinic that day. However, if the voice was an entity of one once living and now dead, she’d concluded that the message was for her to discern her judgment, leaving her to determine the source of the entity. With that, her sense of solace had left. Had she heard the voice of one dead soul which existed only to haunt her? Had the voice, devised by her imagination, originated in her heart? If so, was she out to destroy herself? The latter was contradictory to normal reasoning. She’d then resolved that what the doctor had taken belonged to her body and not to itself; it had not yet had a self. Besides, the matter was an acceptable practice, both legally and socially. If the voice were a spirit of the dead, such a conclusion was also a contradiction to normal logic. After reasoning this, Mind had pondered as to what if the voice was not a contradiction, and if, instead, she was the contradiction? Could all human thought and logic be nothing more than a series of contradictions? Doubt and rejection had then pelted her heart. Mind had then reminded her that she served the gods of today, the gods satisfying her will. Thinking that, she’d sought reassurance to ease her troubled heart but found none that day.

By the time she crossed over I-285, the voice had returned. Neither shall a child be offered up, sacrificed to your idol. My hands fashioned you, just as I fashioned the one sacrificed.

Just as the words of a voice from beyond all else had refused to be silent or to go into oblivion, so too had her emotions refused to quiet or to lie still. The voice had not been that of some lost entity who had hitchhiked. Strangely, her emotions had not attempted to reconcile with the voice in order to silence the voice; rather, her emotions had aligned with the voice, making her logic the alien, placing a heavier weight upon her.

Crying, she’d quickly turned into a parking lot, braked suddenly, and placed her head against the steering wheel. Distraught, she’d understood the cruel sentence her emotions had imposed on her, condemnation by both her heart and the mysterious words of the voice.

She’d cried out against the steering wheel, Not I; it was not I! My friends advised me the decision was best for my career!

The voice had replied, You did not seek my counsel.

My loss is not by my doing! she had cried back. It was them! They counseled me—my friends; the doctor and nurses at the clinic! No proper guidance did I receive! They are the cause of my grief, not I! If a sin exists, the responsibility rests on them, not me! I am the victim! What do you not understand?

Once more, the voice had responded, So the one I created is not the true victim? Tempted, you did what I forbade.

Raising her head, looking past people milling about in the parking lot and above the businesses, she had seen a long thin cloud. They could have said, ‘No. We will not do as you ask.’ My friends could have said, ‘No. Do not do it.’ They directed me to go there, and never did anyone say, ‘No. Do not go there!’ My car could have broken down; the clinic could have burned down in the night!

Still, you did choose; you did what you wished, as you are free to do, the voice answered.

Again, she’d cried in her defense, My friends persuaded me! I was tempted by them! Don’t you understand that there was no time? I did not have any time or support! Can’t you understand me?

I know you are hurt, and I am willing to forgive you if you ask my forgiveness and accept me.

Accept what? Why can you not accept the sin is on them, my friends and those at the clinic? By their volition, I was convinced to do as they told me to do! I am the victim! They caused the death of the innocent one, not I!

A tiny voice had then said, Why did you not love me? I loved you, though you did not know of my beauty and uniqueness.

Please understand, the bloodguilt is on them! They caused your death, not I! They knew the suffering and pain I would carry. They said nothing, nothing of emotions arising; nothing of the wrong I did! How can I be judged guilty?

As the words of condemnation momentarily faded in her mind, a tear blotted the number 8 on her desk calendar. For a moment, Denarius wondered as to the importance of that number, this day’s date, other than that it signified twenty-one days, eighteen and a half hours since the anniversary of death. The day was Monday, and as she realized that, the significance of the number and the day merged. She had a closing to attend in downtown Atlanta at eleven o’clock. It was now exactly 10:11. Even barring an accident or traffic congestion, the time was tight.

Walking fast toward the front of the office, she saw two associates with a couple she hoped were buyers ready to close on a deal.

She stopped at Brenda’s desk. Brenda, call the law offices of Alexander, Hardman, and Royston. Tell Mr. Alexander that I’m on my way! Heading toward the door, she added, Tell them I was detained! In an accident—whatever. I’m on my way!

This closing was vital. Without this closing, she was looking at the lesser god, insolvency. At the door, she turned to see Brenda holding the phone to her ear while looking up the law firm’s number on the computer.

Should be there in fifty minutes, tell them! Denarius said.

Yes, ma’am. I’m calling them now, Brenda said to the now-empty doorway.

Briefly, outside the door she stopped and felt the hot brutal sun.

Located on Peachtree Street, the law offices were in an old two-story building jammed between two other taller, newer buildings with elevators. Two flights of stairs waited to challenge Denarius. The building had not changed, other than for modernization of everything except for an elevator. Jim Alexander’s father had purchased the building in 1947. For those unable to climb the stairs there was a small conference room on the first floor. Denarius was too proud to ask that the closing be in