Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (32 page)

“What is the prognosis for victims that contract anthrax, Dr. Chandak?”

“Unfortunately Candace—I’m afraid that it isn’t good at all for victims of inhalation anthrax. Most estimates show eighty percent to ninety-five percent
fatality
rate, even–”

“Ninety-five percent fatal?” Candace interrupted. The graphic behind the doctor changed to read: “DEATH IN 24 HOURS.”

Dr. Chandak dropped his shoulders solemnly. “Yes Candace, up to ninety-five percent fatal even
with
antibiotic treatment,” he said. “And inhalation anthrax acts very fast, sometimes killing its host within 24 hours. As for gastrointestinal anthrax, which would likely result from consuming tainted meat, the fatality rate is twenty-five to sixty percent. Cutaneous anthrax is very treatable and generally not fatal.”

“Oh my! Drew, why do we suspect tainted meat?”

“Well Candace, it’s very rare in the United States to get anthrax in any form, so much so that when we think of foodborne pathogens we think of salmonella, e.coli, listeria, campylobacter, even staphyloccus, but almost never anthrax. However, in this case over fifty victims or their family members have been interviewed and here’s what we have discovered.”

Blake waited. Nick waited. Both leaned forward in their chairs, breathless, over one hundred miles apart, connected through the conduit of television by this bearer of horrific news that, if he released the words that dripped from his lips would rain destruction on each of their lives.

“Every single one of the victims, both dead and those still hospitalized, ate at an underground supper club last Saturday,” Drew said. “Now here’s the strange part. The supper clubs were held in ten different cities across the country and were hosted by ten different chefs, but—here’s the catch.”

Nick picked up his glass of Maker’s Mark and slugged it, knowing what was coming, knowing he was powerless to stop it. He tried to act calm, in control, even in the privacy of his study. His legs remain crossed, relaxed, as he tugged up his socks to be perfectly in place when the verdict was read.

“Every chef was employed by the same restaurant owner and the events were all part of the same club,” Drew said.

“And who was that, Drew?” With the focus off the hurricane in the Bahamas, Angelica rose from the sofa to check on the girls.

“Candace, the chefs all work for acclaimed restaurateur Nick Vegas, owner of all ten restaurants that employed the chefs and founder of the recently announced 50-Forks Club. The dinners last weekend were the first for the new club’s members.”

Angelica stopped. “Nick Vegas,” she said and she looked down at Blake, his head supported by his fists, his eyes locked with tunnel vision to the set. As he leaned forward his shirt collar pushed back allowing Angelica to see a pulsing black blister on the back of his neck. She tugged his collar slightly, the pressure still not distracting Blake from the television. Her eyes widened as she took in the hideous black lesion on Blake’s neck. The oblong blister looked to be about the size of Blake’s 9 MM pistol barrel and just as black. Angelica gently removed her hand from Blake’s shirt and walked to the kitchen to straighten up the dishes as she continued watching the news.

“And have you spoken with Mr. Vegas?”

“Yes, Candace, but he declined comment or to be interviewed for the story.”

Candace paused for a moment, either unsure what to say or waiting for a teleprompter. “But...but, isn’t meat inspected? How would tainted meat get into the food supply?”

“That’s the question that regulators and, perhaps even law enforcement officials, will want to have answered,” Drew said. “My understanding is that the Food Safety Inspection Service is already working with local health department officials and the chefs to determine the source of the anthrax. I need to emphasize once more that this is still very preliminary and that all we know for certain is that health officials have verified inhalation anthrax as the cause of death in five victims.”

“Doctor Chandak, have cases been confirmed for gastrointestinal or cutaneous anthrax?”

“No, not at this time. I suspect if they were going to find cutaneous anthrax then it would already have been reported, as it’s easy to identify.” As the doctor spoke, a graphic of a man with a grotesque, black boil on the side of his face appeared. Angelica looked at the blister and quickly turned her head to Blake, who didn’t move.

“Cutaneous anthrax occurs when one comes into direct contact with anthrax, either in the soil or, most likely, by touching a sick animal or products from an animal that died of anthrax. It begins with a rash but quickly forms an ulcer with a black center. It would be hard to miss the visible signs, so if there were any of those cases I suspect we’d know about them.”

Angelica stood at the kitchen bar only a few feet from her husband, but isolated from him. He was lost in the television, engulfed by news even though he rarely cared about, much less watched news. She looked back at the television set to see the final image of the segment, a magazine photograph of Nick Vegas with a bulldog in front of his stately Buckhead home that connected him, somehow, to Blake. The image of Nick disappeared and was replaced with the other top story, a satellite image of a fierce hurricane that covered all of the Bahama Islands and was intensifying as it headed north. Somewhere below that mass of clouds was a tiny island, and on that tiny island was her twin sister. Angelica glanced to the guest bedroom adjacent to the kitchen where Rose’s daughters slept. She felt as if she was being presented with a puzzle. More than that. A test of some sort. The pieces were Blake, Nick, Rose, the hurricane and this wretched plague. And, she realized, every piece affected her. Was she supposed to act? To do something? To wait? She fingered the black and white beads that hung from her neck, rolling them gently between her thumb and index finger as she pondered the questions.

She would have to think about it later, perhaps in her secret garden. For now, she looked back at Blake who had dropped his head to stare at the floor, evidently swallowed by his own puzzle of grief. A puzzle, Angelica feared, that Blake may have created. A game of greed he wanted to make and play, only now it had turned deadly. It had grown into a frightening storm that threatened everything Angelica hoped for and cared about. She tried to remember a dream, a nightmare that she had had, but the details had slipped away. All that remained was a gnawing feeling.

As Blake slumped low to the floor on the sofa, Angelica’s eyes fell to him from high above. She narrowed her eyes on him, but said nothing, thinking only of the tools at her disposal, at the gifts that had been given to her. Compassion, forgiveness, support, understanding, healing, tolerance, caring...these were the tools she had in ample supply. The gifts that God had given to her. Judgment was not one of her tools. That tool and responsibility belonged to God.

She looked once more at Blake’s neck, the boil clearly visible as his shoulders collapsed, his hands supporting his forehead as if it were a dead weight. Something about the blister was familiar to her. Something to do with the plagues the talking head had mentioned. Walking to her bedroom, she retrieved her well-worn Bible from her nightstand and sat on the bed. With the Bible resting in her lap Angelica stared into her dressing mirror. Her rounded abdomen protruded in her reflection, showing the life that grew within her. She thought about her unborn son, due only three months hence, and wondered where he fit into the puzzle. Her vision for the life she wanted for him was so clear. To be raised honestly by loving parents with God and nature as the guide, embracing and honoring his Cherokee heritage. Through the doorway she saw Blake walk to the kitchen and return with a bottle to the living room. She sat quietly, her fingers caressing her belly, gently rubbing it in a counterclockwise motion with her fingers as she looked down. The same motion she had seen moments before as a hurricane spun its path of destruction. She stopped suddenly and began circling the other way.
“No, we’re not victims son, she said aloud. We’re not without power.”

Angelica opened her Bible and thumbed through the pages, her fingers somehow knowing where to go. She flipped the pages furiously until she reached the book of Kings. She began perusing the text like a speed-reader, searching for two specific words. In chapter twenty, verse seven of Kings, she found the words. “Boil. Figs.” She read the entire passage with great care.

“And Isaiah said, take a lump of figs. And they took and laid it on the boil, and he recovered.” She recalled reading the passage when she had planted Nancy’s Tree, reading every mention in the Bible of figs. She found that figs were there from the beginning, in the book of Genesis, when Adam and Eve knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons. And so she planted a fig tree for Nancy that had indeed flourished. Now she would call on those fruits that grew from the pain of losing Nancy to heal Blake’s pain.

She laid the Bible on the nightstand, stood, and looked in the mirror, turning sideways to see the profile of her maternal form and the life that grew within. Always she had laughed in embarrassment when locals said she reminded them of Angelina Jolie. Blake had even insisted it was true when they were first married. As she stroked her belly and looked in the mirror, she smiled and admitted that she did resemble the actress she had seen pregnant on television.

Angelica didn’t like this game, this puzzle that she was somehow a part of, but she believed it to be another of God’s tests for her. She went to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and retrieved gauze and tape. Then, she walked to the kitchen, opened the freezer and took out a bag of figs that she had picked from Nancy’s Tree a few months earlier. She put three in the microwave to thaw. Blake sat at the sofa with a newly opened bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey already a quarter gone. When Angelica had left the room he was lost in the glass of the television. Now she returned to find him lost in the glass held between his two hands. He stared at it as if he were a lost soul. He lifted it to his lips, tilted the glass and slowly drained it, taking no pleasure in doing so. Without looking, his right arm reached for the bottle as he refilled the glass.

Angelica opened the cupboard door over the sink where she kept many of the medicines and tinctures she made. She retrieved the jar labeled “Four Thieves Vinegar” and reached for a soft cloth. She had grown each of the ingredients herself for the vinegar. The lavender, rosemary, sage, rue, wormwood and peppermint all came from her secret garden, as did the garlic. She even made the cider vinegar herself from her own crabapples and let it all infuse for two weeks before straining into the jar. She removed the softened figs from the microwave. Making sure they were comfortably warm, she walked to Blake, dipped the cloth in the Four Thieves Vinegar and washed the boil on Blake’s neck. He became vaguely aware of what Angelica was doing, but couldn’t concentrate on its meaning, so overcome was he with fear that he felt cerebrally paralyzed. Angelica washed, hoping the antibiotic properties would work their magic. She placed the cloth down and reached for the figs, gently placing them on the blister.

Blake felt their warmth, feeling for an instant that Angelica had found a warm blanket to cloak and protect him. He clung to that feeling of hope, the maternal reassurance that she infused him with as she secured the figs to his neck with gauze and tape. She took the cloth and patted Blake’s neck dry and returned everything to the kitchen, dutifully putting everything in its rightful place. Then, Angelica walked back into the living room and stood in front of Blake. She reached over the coffee table and placed her right hand under Blake’s chin, lifting it so that she could see the tears hidden behind his eyes. With her left hand on her belly she looked into his eyes as she said, “We love you.”

And then, Angelica smiled and walked to bed.

With the talking heads saying the same things over and over, Blake sat and drank. And drank. As the whiskey swirled inside him and the footage of the hurricane raged on the screen, Blake slumped on the sofa, lying down to feel his back adrift on a raft in a wild sea from which there was no hope of rescue. He raked his mind for ideas of salvation, brilliant ideas that appeared as momentary islands of refuge, only to see the islands turn sour and become swallowed by the storm as quickly as they appeared, leaving nothing in their wake other than Blake, utterly alone. His head crashed on the armrest with the glass still in his hand as it lay on the floor. The very real visions from the television became horrific nightmares in his sleep. He dreamed not of being in the sea. Rather, he dreamed of being on a mountain. Of being handed a shovel from a demon on the mountain and being commanded in a twisted tongue to dig deep into the soil, to bury all the wrongdoings that he had done and to return to the soil what rightfully belonged there. To return all the poison that he had unleashed from the soil.

In the dream, Blake took the shovel and dug. He dug a hole deeper than himself, deep enough to bury the mountain of lies, greed and destruction that had poisoned his heart and his soul. The deeper he dug the freer he felt, the more joyous he felt. He dug to the haunting song of the mountain as a screeching raven perched high above. As he climbed from the hole he pushed everything into it that had caused him such suffering. The sheds, the fences, his truck, the lies, money, his football trophies—even Nick was shoved into the hole as Blake waved goodbye. He pushed and shoveled dirt back over the hole, filling it until he could stomp and dance on it.

When the music stopped in the dream Blake stood and smiled, surrounded not by what didn’t matter, but only by what did. There was only himself, Angelica and his son.