Dalton Springs Serial

Epidsode 24- Accusation

Luther moved away from the church vandal, Chucky, to the polished kitchen faucet where bubbles continued to flow.  Sticking his hand under a stream of soapy water, Luther recognized the soft scent of cucumber-melon.  Purity Soap Factory manufactured that exact scent, marketing the popular product in liquid pump soap bottles.

            Luther’s eyes darted back toward Chucky, who continued to watch amused.

            “This isn’t funny,” Luther warned, pumping a mighty fist. 

            But Chucky burst out laughing.

            Rev. Paul Purpose wondered what kind of person could laugh at such a catastrophe.  A deranged, troubled soul, Paul decided.  Suspiciously, he eyed the young man. 

            “You’re behind this, aren’t you?”  Luther lurched forward and grabbed the snot-nosed young man by the collar. 

            “No way,” Chucky refuted, instantly sobering up and erasing the smirk from his face. “You’re crazy if you think I did that.” Chucky pointed to the sink. 

            Denise Purpose listened for Luther to speak again.  She found it difficult to fathom the miracle of speech granted in her home, of all places.  Though she and her minister husband prided themselves on being humble, this incredible restoration of Luther’s ability to vocalize seemed nearly impossible to grasp.  The older, lucid man had suffered with silence for so many years.  And to suddenly experience the gift of speech returned to his tongue was nothing short of amazing.

            “You’ve already proven your guilt when it comes to pipes,” Luther reminded Chucky, still clutching the vandal’s collar.  “If you could destroy church pipes, certainly you could vandalize the town’s water system.”

            Chucky’s face turned ashen.  “I’m telling you, I didn’t have anything to do with soap in the water lines.  Sounds like you’re trying to find a sacrificial goat to take the heat for this.”

            Sudden knocking at the Purpose’s back door interrupted Denise’s train of thought and Luther’s railing accusations.  Luther released Chucky’s plaid shirt, while continuing to glare at the young man. 

            Rev. Paul Purpose ignored the commotion in his kitchen long enough to rise upon his feet, to make his way toward the door.  Cautiously swinging it open, the minister greeted, “Sheriff Sparks.”

            “Evening,” he replied somberly.  He glanced around the kitchen, noticing Denise Purpose in her robe, Luther, who appeared madder than a hornet, and an unfamiliar scruff young man.  “I don’t mean to disturb you at this time of night.  But there’s a situation.”

            “Come on in,” Paul Purpose eagerly invited, gesturing to the sheriff to plant himself down on one of the hard wooden kitchen chairs.  “You want some coffee?” 

            “No, I better not,” Sheriff Willis Sparks replied, quickly dismissing the notion. “I just came from the café.  Had coffee with Gloria.”

            Luther instantly perked up with that little tidbit of information.  Gloria….he hadn’t seen her for awhile.  Too long, it felt.  And Luther recognized an ache of longingness.  Heavens, how he missed Gloria with her whacky gossip and ramblings about yoga, and health food products, and any other conceivable inappropriate topic.  He was a man after all.  Hearing talk about bran muffins, exercise, and gypsy music was not the sort of things which most people in Dalton Springs discussed, especially not the men folk.  But secretly, Luther possessed a burning curiosity in all topics Gloria wished to share.

            “How is Gloria?” Denise probed, her full attention directed upon the lawman.

            “Tired and a bit preoccupied.  But that’s not what brings me here.”  Sheriff Willis Sparks explained, turning toward Luther.  “We have a bit of a problem.”

            “Yes, we know,” Paul Purpose replied, assuming Willis referred to the soap foaming from the faucet. 

            “Oh?  You mean the hospital already contacted you?”  He spoke directly to Luther.

            “Hospital?  What are you talking about?”

            Willis grew rigid in his chair.  Did the mute actually speak?  How could it be?  Years and years of silence had plagued Luther, and now words flowed smoothly from his tenor voice. 

            “Sheriff?” Luther prompted, trying to get a response. 

            “You’re speaking.”

            “Yes, it’s a miracle,” Denise Purpose explained, as though she and her husband deserved some of the credit.  “Hallelujah.” 

            “Wow, that is fantastic news,” Sheriff Sparks replied, amazed at such a thing, leaving Denise to wonder if the sheriff could have been many more impressed had Luther risen from the dead.  If only Gloria could have been there to witness Luther’s faith inspiring event.

            “What about the hospital?” Luther demanded, worried something dreadful occurred.  Was it Gloria?  Or the water predicament at the hospital?  Heaven only knew how extensive the soap contamination spread throughout the community.

            “It’s your son, Earle,” Sheriff Sparks finally came to the point.

            Luther cringed, hearing the words.  Everyone assumed Earle was Luther’s son.  And why wouldn’t they?  Earle carried an old military photo of Luther, they resembled one another, and Earle distinctly called Luther “Dad” within earshot of practically everyone within the hospital’s psych ward. 

            “Earle has escaped.  He managed to sneak past hospital personnel.  Dr. Fango called me, concerned.  Said Earle’s unstable, a danger to himself.”

            Denise gasped. 

            “Have you seen him?” Willis probed, hoping for a positive response.  After all, Earle had a history of exhibitionism.  Being dark and cold outside, Dr. Fango conveyed his concern that Earle might suffer hypothermia….or worse.  Willis Sparks minimized the situation’s alarm level, by keeping silent on Dr. Fango’s dire assessment.  Instead, he interrogated again, “Have you seen Earle?”

            “No.”  Luther shook his head, suddenly pondering an almost inconceivable thought:  could Earle somehow be involved in the community’s sudden soapy water crisis? 

© 2007 by author.  All rights reserved.

episode 23- Bubbles

Rev. Paul Purpose and his wife, Denise, stared wide-eyed in amazement.  Luther, the former mute, continued coughing.  But Chucky, the confessed church vandal, laughed uproariously.  Soap bubbles continued flowing from the Purpose’s kitchen faucet, filling the sink with a mountain of suds. 

            “What on earth is happening?” Denise Purpose demanded to no one in particular. 

            Chucky sat back in the stiff kitchen chair, crossing his arms and smiling smugly with satisfaction.  Quite a diversion, he mused.  He felt the air of tension disappearing, replaced instead with growing concern for the obvious emergency developing with the water lines. 

             Meanwhile, over at Purity Soap Factory, horrified Lillian Sparks cursed under her breath.  Her narrow green eyes glared at Glen Galloway, while her hands fisted tight.  “I told you something like this was going to happen.”

Smirking, controlling Glen waved a dismissive hand.  “You worry too much, Lillian.”

“Worry too much?” Lillian shrieked, feeling raging pressure build in her skull.  She hadn’t experienced this much pain since her brain tumor surgery, a couple years prior.  Of course she worried.  Dalton Springs’ water lines were obviously tainted.  And when officials started investigating, the trail would lead directly back to the soap factory and her involvement.  What would her husband, Sheriff Willis Sparks say?  His career could be on the line.

Glen postured, moving to Lillian’s office blinds.  He closed them tight. 

“I told you this idea of dumping suds into the old abandoned mine was a bad one,” Lillian muttered, her heart racing in her throat.

Striding towards the older woman, Glen responded, “No one can prove we’re behind this bubble problem.”

“What do you mean?” Lillian felt herself losing control with Glen’s absurd words.  “The phone has been ringing off the hook with reports of bubbles in the water lines. This is a soap factory.  How else could the water become contaminated with bubbles?  There’s not another business in the area that could have produced this kind of terrible situation.”

“You leave that to me,” Glen instructed calmly.  “You leave that to me.”

“I’m sorry Jack,” frustrated Earle Goode uttered, slamming shut the hood of the white electrical van.  Shaking his head slowly, he wiped his greasy hands on a rag Jack had provided from an oversized tool box.  “Until we get a hose, your van is grounded.”

            Jack sighed, looking towards the horizon while Sophia Jonson contemplated the prospect of spending the night in Hobnar County Landfill.

            As if reading her mind, Jack stepped close to Sophia, reassuringly stretching his calloused hand to her shoulder.  “Don’t worry,” he told her, lifting his hand upward, to stroke her hair.

            Blinking hard, Sophia verbalized her concern.  “It’s late.  Close to midnight.  We’re stranded with no real prospect of getting home.  Not tonight, anyway.  The gas stations in both Dalton Springs and Brightan are closed, so is the repair shop at the implement dealership, which works on vehicles.  So, who would we call?  The sheriff?  Hell, no.  His crazy daughter, Angelina, is the one responsible for our predicament.  And with Earle having escaped the hospital, we’d find ourselves in a heap of trouble.”

            “I say we stay here,” Earle interrupted, feeling safe in the landfill.  “You can call for help in the morning.” 

            “I agree.  Let’s crawl in the back of the van and wait out the night,” Jack responded reassuringly.  “I’ve got granola bars and beef jerky.  What more could you desire?” 

            Sophia realized Jack flirted with her, though she was in no mood to reciprocate.  Looking up at the bright moon, she nodded, sensing it would be a long night.  A very long night.

© 2007 by author.  All rights reserved.

episode 22- CONFESSION

“Okay, okay already,” Rev. Paul Purpose’s voice boomed, responding to the incessant banging on the parsonage’s back door.  “Hold on, I’m coming.” Groggy, the minister struggled to focus on the two shadows outlined against a backdrop of black night.  Thick clouds stifled the full moon’s light.

            Luther moaned, jabbing the vandal in the back with his clutched fist, a cue to fess up. 

            Rev. Purpose switched on the back porch light and instantly recognized the mute.  But who was the young lanky man with him?  Finally, the minister said to Luther, “I’m surprised to see you out at this time of night.”

            To give the criminal a better incentive to confess, Luther stared at the perpetrator with hard fixed eyes, his face threateningly contorted.  Then he shoved the man, pushing him into Rev. Purpose’s cozy kitchen.

            “Ah-ah-ah,” the man stuttered, his eyes darting between the minister and Luther, who was trained to destroy such a man.  The criminal wondered why his captor failed to speak, instead grunting. 

            “Sit down, sit down,” Rev. Purpose invited, pulling out two wooden chairs for Luther and the uncomfortable stranger.

            Luther waited until the vandal sat, before moving to the empty seat.  Rev. Purpose remained by the stove where he curiously watched the peculiar interaction of his guests. 

            Slowly, Luther lowered himself, keeping a considerate distance from the uneasy stranger.  But, he remained close enough to be a threat, should the young man try to flee. 

            After a long uncomfortable moment of silence, with tension-filled air, Rev. Purpose asked directly, “What’s going on?” 

            With flashing hands, Luther gestured to the vandal.  His eyes appeared daggers, aimed directly at his foe.  Finally, the mute crashed his fist hard onto the table, pounding with a fury.  He had lost all patience.   

            Startled, the wide-eyed young man raved, “Okay, okay.  I did it.  There, are you happy, you crazy old man?”

            Bracing his hands against the edge of the table, Luther slowly rose to his feet, his lips twisting with rage.  Rev. Purpose stood dumbfounded.  What was happening in his kitchen?  It appeared as if all hell was about to break loose.

            Jabbing his pointy finger into the vandal’s shoulder, Luther instinctively lashed with his tongue.  “You miserable punk.”

            “What?” the minister blurted, surprised.  “Luther, you spoke.  You just spoke.  Hallelujah, it’s a miracle.  Luther can speak.”  And then he performed a little celebratory dance on the blue linoleum, around the table.

            Abruptly, Rev. Purpose halted his dance.  “Luther, you can speak?  How?”

            But Luther ignored the minister, instead maintaining his threatening posture and stare upon the petty criminal sitting directly beside him.  “Tell this good man what you did,” Luther demanded, his tone harsh.

            By now, the two men had disturbed Denise Purpose, who came to the kitchen doorway in stunned silence. Had she not heard it with her own ears, she never would have believed the miracle, which manifested itself when Luther opened his mouth.  The mute was speaking.  No longer was his tongue constrained.  Smiling, she glanced upward, as if looking towards Heaven.

            “Tell him now,” Luther spoke again, his voice loud and raspy from his shallow breathing.  His chest heaved up at down as his fist pounded the table once more.

            Terrified, the vandal sheepishly muttered, “I cut the pipe, the church pipe.”

            Rev. Purpose leaned forward, astounded.  “You caused the flooding?”

            The young man nodded in horror, afraid of the consequences that were surely to follow his coerced confession.

            “You, and your friend,” Luther corrected.

            “What is your name?”  the minister asked the stranger, knowing full well this man didn’t reside in Dalton Springs.  Surely, he came from Brightan, a place with a reputation for a few scoundrels. 

            “Chucky.”

            The minister nodded, sighing.  “And what is your friend’s name?”

            “Dale.”

            “And where’s he?”

            “He’s not around tonight.  He’s working late.”  Chucky turned pale, afraid.  “You gonna call the sheriff?”

            Paul Purpose failed to respond, his mind still reeling from the unexpected news.

            “Well?” Chucky repeated, his eyes unable to fix upon the minister’s.  Guilt appeared to have gotten the best of the vandal, or maybe fear.  If authorities got involved, there would be punishment.  Chucky dreaded the threat of jail time. 

            “I don’t know,” Rev. Purpose said contemplatively.  Then he offered his thoughts.  “I think you’re a good person who made a bad choice.”

            Chucky started to respond, but found his words quickly interrupted. 

            Luther moved away from the table, coughing.  What started as a tickle in his throat became hoarse hacking. 

            “Oh my,” Denise commented, stepping toward the struggling older man.  “I’ll get you a drink of water.  Maybe that will help.”

            Luther nodded as his chest continued convulsing with his coughing. 

            But a funny thing happened when the minister’s compassionate wife, lovely Denise Purpose, turned on the sink’s spigot.  Soap suds bubbled from the faucet. 

   

            

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 21-Flashing Dagger

“Don’t look at me,” Earle shrieked, unsuccessfully attempting to shield himself from the fixed gazes of Sophia Jonson and Jack Hermosa-Tyler, who appeared out of nowhere in the rancid landfill.

            Sophia blushed in embarrassment while Jack attempted to communicate with the Earle, whose hands shielded his most sensitive region.       

            “It’s okay.  We’re not going to hurt you,” Jack assured. 

            “Where’s my plane?” Earle demanded, his voice edgy.  “I can’t find my plane.”

            “I don’t know,” Jack replied slowly and in an even tone, to avoid alarming Earle.

            “They kept me locked up, against my will, in that miserable hospital.  And they’ve taken my plane.” 

            Sophia stepped forward.  “I’m sorry.”

            “Who are you and what are you doing here?” It suddenly occurred to Earle to ask.

            “I’m Jack and she’s Sophia.”  Pointing to his white electrical van, Jack explained, “We’re having trouble with the vehicle.”  He failed to mention the direct cause of the problem—a determined stalker named Angelina Sparks. 

            “You going to turn me in?” Earle probed, unwilling to return to confinement. 

            “No, man,” Jack replied, shaking his head. 

            “It’s one thing to be hospitalized with a head injury from the crash.  It’s another to be kept because of nakedness.”

            Curiosity got the best of Sophia.  She felt relieved not having to ask.

            “I have a rare skin disorder,” Earle explained.  “I get flare-ups where my skin is hypersensitive.  At those times, it’s difficult to wear clothes.  I was having a flare-up when I was flying the plane.  All the rescue people, including Dr. Fango, misinterpreted my nakedness.  Now here I am, trying to find my plane, so I can get my clothes.”

            Something didn’t compute.  Sophia felt certain she had heard there was nothing to be found in the plane, including clothes.  The only exception was an old photo of Luther, which had caused quite a stir in Dalton Springs. 

            “There’s a secret compartment in the plane.  I need to get my clothes and wallet.  A hospital gown won’t do,” Earle chuckled.

            Pointing to the overheated boxy electrical van, Jack offered, “I’ve got an extra pair of coveralls.  You can have those, if you want.”

            “That would be great,” Earle said, following Jack.  “Once I get dressed, I’ll take a look at your van; see if I can fix it.  I’m a mechanic.”

            “I thought you were a pilot.”

            “That, too.”  Earle smiled, looking back at Sophia.  He passed her a flirtatious wink.

            

Passion in a man usually stemmed from two sources—heartfelt, uncontrollable love; or brutal, dangerous anger.  In Luther’s case, he brimmed with driving rage.  As if every cell of his body was charged and poised for action, Luther needed to vent. 

            He had made it his mission to identify and capture the villains who had defiled the church, cutting the water pipes.  In his quest, and persistent wanderings of Brightan, he successfully came to know the vandals’ identities. But the redeeming and crucial part of his goal was yet to be accomplished.

            Traveling down the darkening streets of Brightan, Luther moved towards his intended destination point, caressing the handle of his sheathed dagger.  Whispering powerful words of encouragement to himself, Luther boosted his morale.

            To date, Luther effectively maintained his secret of regained vocalization.  Silence had served him well, absorbing knowledge from the hallowed sounds and words of others’ voices, without responding with his own.  Tonight, Luther wondered if it would be different.

He continued on, finally reaching a perch near a dilapidated, ranch-style home.  Garbage and debris lay strewn across the patchy, dying lawn, while overhead beamed a full ball of a moon. 

            Hunkered down, Luther waited for his opportunity.  He knew the ritual.  At approximately ten minutes past ten, a tall lanky perpetrator would arrive home, occasionally lugging a case of beer.  A second, stockier culprit might join him moments later. 

            Faded into the trees’ shadows, Luther vigilantly watched.  Spry, like a cat, Luther prepared to pounce.  And at exactly twelve minutes past the hour, that’s precisely what he did. 

            Charging forward, like a raging bull, Luther toppled the lanky vandal, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

            “What the hell…”

            Tempers flared as arms flailed. 

            Moonlight glinting off the cold silver metal of Luther’s sharpened dagger added an element of unexpected terror to the criminal, now pinned on the dank ground. 

            “Don’t move,” Luther’s booming voice instructed, as he continued to skillfully flash the dagger overhead.

            “What do you want?” the common criminal demanded, knowing full-well he was in no position to argue.

            Luther’s gray eyes blazed with rage.  It had been a long time since he held an enemy at knife-point.

            “What do you want?” the question rang out again.

            Luther chortled, and then growled, “What do I want?”  He wanted to say retribution, but the word caught in his throat as he thought of Rev. Purpose’s teachings.  Instead he managed, “Restitution.”

            The vandal quivered under Luther’s forceful, clutching grasp. 

            “Now get up,” Luther ordered, jerking the man to his feet.  “It’s confession time.”

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 20-Daring Escape

“You’re what?”  Sophia turned sharply in the black vinyl passenger seat, shooting Jack Hermosa-Tyler a look of utter surprise. 

“You heard me,” Jack replied matter-of-factly as he turned the wheel of his white electrical van, pointing the vehicle in the direction of Brightan.  As a gentleman and a matter of pride, Jack refused Sophia the opportunity to drive them in her Jeep to their destined date spot.  So, they traveled roughly, lumbering in his white electrical cargo van.    

“Does Rev. Purpose know?”  Sophia fought to get the words out.  Shocked, she barely could speak.   

“I’m sure he has suspected for several days that my mission of rewiring the church is nearly completed.  By this time next week, I’ll be done,” Jack replied, swerving hard to avoid a discarded rusty muffler on the road. 

Sophia fell sideways, her head grazing Jack’s right shoulder before she managed to sit tall again in her seat.  “And then what?” she probed.  Though she knew the day would eventually come when Jack finished at the church, she dreaded the idea of her tenant packing up and leaving, returning to Minneapolis.  He had become a source of comfort to her in the weeks he had stayed in the guest cottage, strong and virile, easy on the eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about that.”  Jack offered nothing more.

“News around town is the soap factory will be remodeling and I’m sure they’ll need a good electrician…if you wanted to stay.”  Sophia glanced nonchalantly out the window, though deep down she burned with powerful emotion.

Before he could respond, out of the corner of his dark eye, Jack caught a glimpse of a car racing wildly towards the back of the van.  Looking more intently in his rear-view mirror, he muttered, “Holy hell.”  Reactively, Jack stiffened, gritting his teeth.  Instinctively, his distinguished jaw twitched. 

“What?” Sophia reeled again in her seat, twisting to see why Jack sounded so alarmed.

“Sit back and hold on,” Jack instructed, his deep voice booming.  “Hold on.”

Sophia braced herself, her blue eyes widening. 

The car, a Mustang convertible, raced faster, coming within inches of the white electrical van before slowing.

“What kind of lunatic…” Before Sophia could finish the question, she had an answer.  Reflected in the large side mounted mirror, she instantly recognized Angelina Sparks. 

“Lunatic is right,” Jack agreed, shaking his head, careful to look ahead, not distracted solely by Angelina’s wild driving.  “There’s something wrong with her.”

Glancing around, Jack calculatingly eased off the gas pedal, allowing the boxy van to slow.  Rolling down the window, Jack stretched forth his arm, signaling Angelina to drive around him. 

In response, Angelina revved her engine.

Again, Jack motioned for the determined tailgater to pass. 

Nearly clipping the silver bumper of the van when she swung around, Angelina took Jack’s cue, bringing her car beside the electrical van.  But before she could ease the front of her car parallel to Jack’s vehicle, Jack slammed on the brake.  Swerving, Jack skid as he turned away from the stalker, onto a gravel road.   

Angelina failed to react in time, shooting past Jack’s turnoff. 

Horrified, Sophia watched, predicting Angelina’s next move.

Jack stared straight ahead.  Pressing his foot all the way to the floor, he caused the van tires to produce a mountain of blinding dust.  Raising his voice loud enough for Sophia to hear, he asked, “Where does this road lead?”

“Lover’s Lane.”  Sophia sounded embarrassed, but Jack didn’t notice.  “It’s a secluded overlook on Raven Lake.”

“Does this road turn off before then?” Jack worried about being cornered by a jealous and maniacal Angelina Sparks. 

Sophia nodded, “Yes.  A turnoff leads to the landfill.”

“How far?”

“A quarter mile, on your left.”

Jack let off the gas pedal, slowing in anticipation of the turn.

“There.  Right there.” Sophia pointed.

Peering over his shoulder, Jack finally looked back for a brief moment, capturing sight of the racing Mustang in the distance.  Taking no chances, Jack floored the van again.

“It’s not far,” Sophia said, her eyes darting from the road ahead to the road behind them.  “Past the trees, follow the curve.  The road will split.  You need to veer left.”

Jack obeyed, taxing his white van to its limit.  Driving dizzying speeds on a black top road again, the needle in the temperature gauge moved into the red zone. The engine smelled hot.

“There,” Sophia uttered while Jack swerved. 

Surrounded by a thick stand of trees, Jack felt a slight sense of relief knowing they were better concealed from determined Angelina.   

The stinging scent of rotting garbage permeated Jack’s nose.  Sophia pinched her sultry lips tight as a sign of disgust.  Venturing deeper into the dumping grounds, Jack searched for a place they could hide from the spying eyes of Angelina Sparks, while allowing the van’s engine to cool.   

Jack drove past the empty attendant’s booth, toward another thicket of trees.  Glancing out his rear view mirror, he felt a wave of relief.  Absent was the red Mustang. 

“You think we lost her?”  Sophia dared ask, worried the vixen, Angelina, would emerge any moment.

Concealing the van amongst a cluster of spruce, poplar, and birch trees, Jack turned off the engine.  “I sure hope so.”  He forced a smile, causing Sophia to blush. 

Jack had wanted the chance to be alone with Sophia, but in his wildest dreams, the idea of spending a romantic evening at the county dumping grounds never crossed his mind.  But here they were, finding refuge in the landfill, unsavory scents permeating their nostrils. 

“Come on,” he prompted, jumping out the driver’s door, rushing to aid her out of the passenger side of his electrical van.  But as he rounded the front of the vehicle, he noticed smoke billowing from under the hood, making its way through the front grill. 

Sophia evacuated the van of her own accord, joining Jack in surveying the unexpected trouble.  “This doesn’t look good, Jack.”

He nodded in agreement.  Before he could open the hood, they heard a noise, saw a sudden movement in the trees’ undergrowth.

“Be careful,” Sophia warned, as Jack stepped toward the sound.  “It could be wild animal—a bear.  They’re out of hibernation now.”

Picking up a heavy stick, Jack armed himself as he moved slowly closer. 

“What is it?” Sophia called after him.

Jack failed to respond.  Finally, he gasped in alarm.

By this time, Sophia stepped right behind him, wide eyed, clasping her mouth with her quivering hand. 

A naked man moved from the shadow of the trees, standing tall, frightened.

Her voice muffled, Sophia uttered, “Heaven help us.  Earle B. Goode has escaped the hospital.” 

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 19-Prepared

Hushed and poised near his fireplace’s large wooden mantel, Luther inspected a display of impressive weaponry: guns, swords, spears, daggers.  He had acquired his collection of armaments mostly after his service in the Special Forces when his voice had departed and people found him unthreatening. 

            Glancing into a beveled mirror mounted above the mantel, Luther spotted his battle-worn face.  In his fifty years of earthly existence, he recalled being thrust to the brink of hell in several military conflicts.  His haggard face reflected years of living on an emotional precipice where rushes of adrenaline seemed the norm. 

            His unexpected encounter at Hobnar Regional Hospital, with the daring pilot who had crashed near the landfill, had sent adrenaline coursing through his veins once more.  The shock of seeing this young man who so strongly resembled Luther’s family had jolted Luther back into the world of speech.  At first, streams of profanity passed his lips, eventually followed by softer refined words.  But uttering words to others hadn’t crossed his mind.  Other methods of communication remained preferred.  He had grown accustomed to his world of silence.  It suited him well, playing into his desire to listen and absorb wisdom from others. 

            Luther was no fool.  In his younger days, he traveled the world, embarking upon dangerous missions, bravely fighting exhaustive battles.  Even now, as his eyes closed, seared memories replayed in his mind.  Painfully he remembered a treacherous saber duel that had marked his jaw line with a long grisly scar.  Easily, Luther recalled the sound of clanking silver blades which had flashed under the unrelenting heat of Grenada's sunny sky.  Ferociously, Luther had fought, defeating a cruel enemy.  But Luther had paid the price, unable to remain unscathed in battle.  Damage inflicted upon valiant Luther resulted in nearly sixty stitches that horrendous day.  Those were physical scars.  Subsequent emotional trauma plagued him with a heavier toll.

           The place was Panama. This tropical paradise proved more dangerous, Luther being a soldier responsible for psychological warfare.  In his assigned role, Luther helped maintain the complicated military stereo system blaring heavy metal music into Gen. Noriega's compound.

           Shuddering with terrifying memories, Luther backed away from the mirror feeling more resolved in his determination to do something positive with his life.  Though he couldn’t change the past, nor do anything at the moment about the lunatic of a man laying naked at Hobnar Regional Hospital claiming to be his son, Luther knew where he could make a difference….Brightan.  The villainous church vandals still roamed the streets of the neighboring town—hoodlums on the prowl. 

Desperately, Luther required a weapon.  Unquestionably it would be impractical for Luther to strut about carrying his prized saber, the very sword responsible for Luther’s salvation in Grenada.  But a treacherous dagger could do the trick.  Luther possessed such a menacing tool.

Stepping closer toward the mantel, Luther clutched the dagger, concealing it within a leather sheath attached to his belt.  Armed, he felt prepared.  Heaven help him, justice would finally prevail.

Meanwhile, back near the Grubby Cauldron, Rev. Paul Purpose stepped in front of Gloria, halting abruptly.

Her tear stained face revealed the extent of anguish her soul suffered—all on account of Luther, whom she shockingly proclaimed to love all of a sudden.

“I’m having a difficult time connecting your professed love for Luther to binge eating at the V.F.W.”  Though Rev. Purpose usually conveyed a deep sense of compassion, his tone exposed his lack of understanding.

Sniffling, Gloria uttered, “I’m tortured.  On the one hand, I’m in love with the man. But he’s got secrets.  You know exactly what I mean.”  Earle B. Goode’s name remained constrained within her lips.  “I’m sorry, Rev. Purpose.  I got so upset that I lost control.”

“Does he know you love him?”  The minister eyed her directly.  “Gloria?”

Shaking her head, Gloria responded the best way she knew how.  “No.”

“Well, for goodness sake, don’t you think it would be in your best interest to tell Luther?”

“Not anymore.”  Gloria worried that Earle’s appearance in Dalton Springs had sabotaged any hope of forming a lasting loving relationship with the mute.  “I have to get over Luther.  Simple as that.”

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 18-Continued Confinement

The patient, who had come to be called the naked pilot, once again attempted to rip off his clothing until he received a sedative injection.  Lately, he displayed more belligerent tendencies, refusing to keep covered.  Distinguished Dr. Elliot Fango kept the younger man confined at Hobnar Regional Hospital for observational purposes.  Out of necessity, Dr. Fango imposed strict visitation limits for the patient after raging community curiosity brought people throughout the entire county to see firsthand, Luther’s offspring.

            According to records contained within the magnificent state of Minnesota, the naked pilot’s official name was Earle B. Goode.  Although he didn’t share Luther’s surname, citizens of Dalton Springs referred to the man as Luther’s son.

            “Dr. Fango, how long can we hold this man?” Nurse Helga Hofenheimer asked as she disposed of the contaminated syringe. 

            “Until he’s no longer a threat to the community,” Dr. Fango sharply replied, knowing full well Earle was as harmless as a fly.  A little pesky maybe, but harmless nonetheless.

            And then there was the little matter of clothing.  Earle refused to keep dressed, instead wandering the long halls of the hospital stark naked—until he found himself subdued and brought back to his assigned room.  Surely, Earle couldn’t be released into the community without remaining properly attired….which brought the whole mystery full circle.  What was Earle doing piloting the plane in the nude?  If it had been Earle’s intention to shock his father, Luther, by appearing in Dalton Springs naked, he had succeeded.  In fact, he had stunned and appalled the entire prudish county.

            “You think he’s dangerous?”

            “In freezing temperatures, he flies and crashes a plane naked, speaks deliriously and exhibits belligerent tendencies....You tell me, Helga.”

            Psychiatry wasn’t Dr. Fango’s specialty, but he knew more about it than the nurse, and his position of authority gave him credibility to hold Earle B. Goode indefinitely, or until someone offered a darn good reason to release him.

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 17-Proclamation

“Put the sausage down,” Rev. Paul Purpose instructed Gloria, after he had dashed the entire way to the V.F.W.  Panting, he quickly regained his breath.

            Gloria held a link of pork sausage speared by the sharp tines of her silver fork.  Slowly lifting her hazel eyes to see Rev. Purpose, she fought to keep her composure.  With matted brown hair and tear-stained cheeks, she sniffled. 

            The holy man had never witnessed Gloria in such an unkempt and despondent state.  Pointing to her sausage, Paul Purpose counseled, “You really don’t want to do this.”

            Gloria’s hand appeared a heavy burden hoisting the fork with its pierced sausage all the way to her awaiting lips.  Though she heard Rev. Purpose’s impassioned prompting, the words failed to register. 

            “Stop,” Rev. Purpose’s voice thundered, startling onlookers in the periphery.  “Put your fork down and come with me.”

            The good man pulled Gloria’s elbow, taking her away from the table and the plate of sausage for which temptation had gotten the best of her.  Guiding her along, he managed to rescue her from the building, bringing her into the crisp fresh air.

            As the cool breeze smack hit Gloria’s face, she began to whimper, “What have I done?”

            Abruptly stopping, turning compassionately towards his parishioner, Paul Purpose consoled.  “This isn’t the end of the world.  One misstep doesn’t make you a lesser person.”

            A little cry escaped Gloria’s mouth, her tongue working to give coherent utterance. 

            Grabbing her shoulders, staring Gloria square in the eye, Rev. Purpose remarked, “It’s not a sin to eat meat.”  Although her other behavior of sneaking over to Brightan, of all places, to engage in questionable yoga and belly dancing was another matter altogether.  But now was not the time to discuss these indiscretions when her surprising behavior centered upon the ingestion of sausage. 

            Pulling away, Gloria responded, “I’m not worried about that right now.  Instead, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

            “Take a deep breath,” Rev. Purpose said, not once, but twice.  “Let’s walk it off.”

            Together, they strolled on scenic paths towards the church, past the Grubby Cauldron and Schuyler’s Market, where the V.F.W. had acquired the hundred pounds of sausage in the first place.  With each passing step, Gloria felt a gradual welcomed settling in her core. 

            “Tell me what happened today, Gloria.  Why did you go on a binge?” Rev. Purpose finally probed once Gloria had regained her composure, wondering what on earth could have triggered her outlandish deed.

            Sounds of birds singing in the background muffled when Gloria began to respond.  “I love him,” she blurted, slowing her gait, fighting not to break down in tears.

            “Love who?” shocked Rev. Purpose demanded, stopping to look into Gloria’s clouded hazel eyes once more.  This bombshell of a revelation took the holy man by surprise.  In the years since Gloria had joined the community of Dalton Springs, she seemed content to be single, tending to business at the Grubby Cauldron whenever she wasn’t escaping to Brightan to indulge in her other eccentric activities.

            “Luther,” she replied as if the reverend should have known. 

            “Luther?” he mimicked, the furrow between his dark brows deepening. 

            “You act surprised,” Gloria remarked, staring right back at the man who considered himself enlightened in all facets of the townsfolk’s lives.  This revelation came out of left field, incongruent to Rev. Purpose's perception of reality.  Had he missed something along the way, signs?

            “Luther?” he repeated, to make certain he didn’t misunderstand.

            Shaking her head while huffing a sigh of frustration, Gloria tread once more.  Speaking over her shoulder, she proclaimed, “Yes, I-love-Luther.”

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 16-Shady Dealings

“It’s illegal,” Lillian Sparks shrieked behind the steel doors of Purity Soap Factory’s conference room.  Thrusting herself upon her feet, she moved wildly across the gray commercial grade carpeting, flailing her weathered hands.  Emphatically, she attempted to convince the two schemers sitting across from her at the oblong wooden conference table.  “Heaven forbid.  I’m married to the sheriff.  If I get tangled up in this, this….” Lillian fought for the proper words.

            “Hold on, right there,” a lyrically smooth male voice interrupted.  The baritone sound instantly brought silence to the room where glass windows were shrouded with darkening blinds. 

            Biting her tongue, feisty Lillian continued to move, propelled by a surge of adrenaline. 

            The deep voice spoke again.  “Willis will never know.  No one will know.”

            Bashing her fist hard against the table, Lillian quaked.  “People will find out.  And then what?  All three of us will go to jail.  And my husband’s career will be ruined.”

            “What are you talking about, Lillian?” a second, though higher-pitched, masculine voice sounded.  “None of us will go to jail.  Not a one.  And about Willis….he won’t know unless you tell him.”

            “I don’t think you want to do that, Lillian,” the deeper voice threatened.

            “All I want is to get through the end of the year.  Retire early.  Hell, I’ve been at this plant nearly thirty years.  And in all that time, we’ve never had to resort to the tactics you two are proposing.”

           The baritone voice belonged to a big man who pushed himself upward, out of his chair.  Large and intimidating, he walked slowly, deliberately making his way around the long table to the spot petite Lillian Sparks stood.  Though he appeared a horror of a man to some people, Lillian eyed him dead-on, ignoring the glinting of his flashing gold and onyx pinky ring.

            Lillian never allowed herself to be deliberately bushwhacked by this thug of a man who wore Armani suits, Gucci shoes, and his meticulous red hair slicked back with a fine sheen.  Though Lillian was small in stature, she roared dangerous like a lion.

            The huge man and little lady butted hard into each other, until finally, the guilty third party pulled them apart. 

            “Lillian, you’re out-ruled.  We’re going to proceed, as planned.  You can either play along, or we’ll fry your tail.  Your name is implicated in everything here.  Understand?”  It was the higher-pitched man who spoke so candidly.  He appeared nothing like his counterpart.  Instead, his head was shorn of its patchy brown hair and his left eye was concealed by a dark eye patch.  His muscles bulged under the rolled up sleeves of a black shirt.  Red blotches marked his taut white skin. 

            “There’s got to be another way, a legal way,” Lillian argued. 

            “We tried.  Remember?” The second man stepped back to his chair, relieved the tension diminished in the room.  “Damn mayor won’t give us the permit for the additional bubble holding tanks.  If we want to proceed with expanding production, there’s only one course of action.”

            “But draining soap sludge into the abandoned mine isn’t the answer.  I’m telling you,” Lillian argued again, fighting to keep her tone civil.  “We can hire a truck to haul the sludge, as we originally discussed.”

            “That’s cost prohibitive,” the big man interjected.  “For appearance sake only, a truck will come twice a week, at a very visible time to get a token load of bubble sludge.  Other than that, soap residue will be piped directly into a fissure in the old mine.”

            “One more thing,” the bald, patched man added.  “We’re giving you a raise, Lillian.  A nice bonus to help ease your conscience.”

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.

Episode 15-Proposition

He didn’t mean for it to happen, but when Sophia Jonson stood in the gravel driveway and flashed him a pleasant smile, Jack Hermosa-Tyler instinctively winked. 

            Sophia came closer, flattered by Jack’s friendly gesture.  It wasn’t everyday that this talented artist received such a greeting. 

            Had Jack been subjected to primitive interrogation methods in a bleak room with nothing but a stool and suspended light bulb, he would have categorically denied intentionally flirting with the lovely Ms. Jonson, who just happened to be the nicest, prettiest woman in all of  Hobnar County.  He looked at her face, soft and gentle; her blue eyes, stormy like the sea. And when she smiled at him, he felt as if every ounce of him were melting.

            “Hey,” she said, approaching closer to the white electrical van where Jack stood removing the brown leather tool belt from around his muscular frame.  He had just come from the church.

            “Hi,” Jack replied, twisting to close the van’s back door.  How he managed to drive with a tool belt slung around his waist was hard for Sophia to imagine. 

            “You’re home early.”

            “Yes,” Jack agreed without offering details about the motivation for his hasty departure from the church.  But, had the name Angelina Sparks entered the conversation, Jack would have flinched.

            “It’s good to see you.” 

            Those words of encouragement brought a sparkling smile to Jack’s handsome face.  His dark eyes fixed upon Sophia and for a brief moment he stood speechless, for she had taken his breath away. 

            “Come on, I want to show you something,” Sophia said, pulling at Jack’s muscle-bulging arm.  Her warm hand slipped downward then, finding his fingers, which she securely grasped.

            Her voice brimmed with excitement as she led the talented electrician into her home overlooking wondrous scenic Raven Lake.  It had been only the second time he had crossed her threshold since arriving in Dalton Springs, and he found great pleasure there, in her presence. 

            “This way,” Sophia whispered, enjoying the lingering contact of his calloused hand against hers.  She took him to her most private place, a studio filled with canvas, easels, and paints. 

            Filled with awe, Jack Hermosa-Tyler stared at Sophia’s many oil paintings, and a few lifelike sculptures she had scattered around the room.  “You could open a gallery.”

            Graciously accepting the compliment, Sophia said, “Actually, my work is commissioned in two galleries; one in Minneapolis, the other in Chicago.”

            “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”  Jack continued looking at the paintings, their rich colors and textures. 

            “Listen, I didn’t bring you here for this.  I want to show you something else—something very special.”

            Jack’s curiosity piqued. 

            “Here.”  Sophia removed a white sheet draped over an easel, next to the window.  On the canvas was a portrait of none other than her temporary tenant, Jack Hermosa-Tyler.

            Jack’s jaw dropped, but no words sounded.  For a long moment, his dark eyes drifted between his hostess and the detailed portrait which accentuated a flirting smile. 

            “You like it?” Sophia felt uncomfortable in the heavy silence.

            “Very much,” Jack finally responded, his eyes turning, locking solidly upon her provocative glistening lips.  He stepped closer. 

            “Jack?”

            He moved again, pressing into Sophia.  Breathing deeply, Jack inhaled the intoxicating scent of her.

            “Jack?” Sophia’s voice rose higher, breaking his seeming hypnotic trance. 

            Shuddering, Jack retreated, but not before apologizing, “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s okay.”

            Jack felt awash in relief, yet he couldn’t drive away the burning desire to feel her close to him again.  There could be only one solution.  “Go dancing with me, Sophia.”

            Blushing, Sophia replied, “I can’t dance.  I’m horrible.” 

            “I’ll teach you,” Jack promised, his dark eyes alight with fire.  “There’s a band playing tonight in Brightan.”

            If Jack had been any other man, Sophia would have flatly refused.  Dancing in Brightan?  Ha, what was the world coming to?  But he was Jack Hermosa-Tyler, the skilled electrician whose days were numbered in Dalton Springs.  If she didn’t accept his invitation now, there might not be another chance. 

            “I’ll meet you back here in an hour. We’ll go have dinner, afterwards dance.”  With that, Jack Hermosa-Tyler departed, leaving Sophia Jonson with nothing but a painting of him and a promise.

            

© 2006 by author.  All rights reserved.