The Tesla Gate (14 page)

I couldn't help but laugh.

“No, but that's not bad,” I said with a broad smile, a smile she thankfully returned in kind. “I'm sorry, I assumed you had heard some news,” I said pointing at her radio in the corner, which was belting out a gospel oldie that I was not familiar with.

She smiled and opened a drawer under the table then produced a small black object and pointed it at the radio. The music instantly stopped.

“I had a CD changer put in that old box years ago. I don't think the radio had picked up a broadcast since the moon landing.”

“You don't have another radio?” I asked.

“No sir, I don't even own a car. And TV … forget about it.”

“But, why?”

“Because the news and TV programs serve nothing more than to depress us and make mush out of our brains. I prefer to read and make up my own mind!” she proclaimed.

“I can't disagree with you there,” I said, looking around at her formidable library on the shelves semi-circling the room. I gave her a brief update of everything going on in the world for the past few days.

She listened quietly, registering very little emotion except for a smile when I mentioned Albert Einstein and Abraham Lincoln.

“You said you had lost someone?” I asked when I had finished my news update.

She nodded her head.

“Yes, his name is Shasta. He was my spirit guide for years. I had never really seen him, at least in the way that I see you, that is … until a few days ago.”

“When the storm started,” I guessed.

“Yes, I came downstairs and saw him sitting in here on the floor by the radio,” she said nodding her head at the now-silent antique. “He was tapping his foot and singing along with the music … I can't remember the song now but it did have a catchy beat. He was eating a cookie and got crumbs all over my rug.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“He got scared,” she said as tears began to streak black eyeliner down her pale cheeks. “When he realized I could see him, really see him, he ran out the door … or maybe he thought I would be angry about the mess he had just made, but I haven't seen him since.” She began to sob uncontrollably.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked with true sympathy.

She looked up at me pleadingly as tears began to stream and spoke in a quivering voice.

“Find him … please find him.”

CHAPTER 16

The Search
for Shasta

“People are meant to go through life two by two.
'Tain't natural to be lonesome.” 

—Thornton Wilder, “Our Town”

My initial thoughts were to thank her for her hospitality, quickly retrieve Seth and Jackson, and then, with utmost haste, resume our journey. This was not at all what I had planned for our trip, but how could I say no? All I wanted was to spend time with my son, as much time as I could for as long as I could. But how could I say no? Miss Chenowith had been very kind to us.

She was a sweet lady and she was very upset. Could this boy, Shasta, be in danger? I didn't think so, but how could I be sure? I was terrified for a few brief moments when I thought something had happened to Seth outside the motel. Unfortunately, I would soon enough discover that those instincts would prove to be correct. None of us are invulnerable.

Before I agreed to anything of the sort, I had a few questions to ask of Miss Chenowith.

“What is a spirit guide?”

She smiled and dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief produced from her robe pocket.

“Well,” she began. “They are most commonly thought of as an entity that remains a disincarnate spirit in order to act as a guide or protector to a living, incarnated human being.” She tapped her fingers on the table and said, “In this case, the human being is me.”

“I don't understand. He protected you?”

“No, at least not that I know of.”

She pursed her lips into a thin line and twisted her mouth from side to side as she considered her answer. Miss Chenowith stopped and exhaled deeply before replying.

“I guess the only way to say it that makes any sense is that he was a kind of enhancer or amplifier, relaying messages back and forth between this world and the next.”

I stared at her blankly, having no clue what she was talking about.

“He was always there with me, well … most of the time, anyway. He would occasionally wander off,” she said with such endearment in her voice that it sounded like she was recalling the exploits of a beloved mischievous child. She shook her head and continued, “He talked to me often, told me things about himself, kept me company. He loved me …”

Tears began to stream down her cheeks again.

“You said he was an enhancer or amplifier.” I tried to get her back on track. “What did you mean by that?”

She sniffled and dabbed her eyes again before blowing her nose into her handkerchief with a tuba-like report. She screwed up her tear-swollen eyes to look at me and took a deep shuttering breath before answering.

“If I ever had trouble getting through to a soul, Shasta acted like an interpreter or go-between to clear up the communication that I was having trouble picking up on.”

I felt like I was trying to have a serious conversation with someone as to the exact location of Santa's workshop. Yes, I felt ridiculous, but I knew that what we were discussing was as real as the sunrise that brilliantly shone through the window behind Miss Chenowith. My mouth twisted like I had just sucked on a lemon as I forced myself to finish the conversation.

“You talked to him … but you couldn't see him?”

She smiled and put her index finger to her forehead.

“Not like you and I, but in my mind's eye.”

She tapped her finger on her brow. “It's really hard to explain if you haven't experienced it.”

I knew I was getting out of my comfort zone, and this really wasn't the point anyway, was it? I had no hope of understanding what Miss Chenowith was telling me, not without a common point of reference, and I was about as psychic as a grilled cheese sandwich. She wanted help finding this boy, a boy who now had some hybrid blend of the ethereal and physical form like Seth. That was something I could comprehend, something I could wrap my mind around. I started to ask if he looked the same when she saw him as he did in her mind's eye, but again, what would be the point? I needed to keep it simple and to the point.

“What does Shasta look like?” I asked. “What can you tell me about him that might help me find him?”

I discovered that Shasta had been a slave on a plantation just a couple of miles outside of Jackson. He was about nine or ten-years-old when he died, but Miss Chenowith did not know how he died because Shasta did not know. That was a memory that was thankfully lost to Seth, as well. Hopefully that was a subject that was forgotten to all Impals, but I knew that wasn't entirely true. The Fiddlers were very much aware that they had perished when their home burned. Perhaps that was a different circumstance because they all died together, or because their house seemed to have passed on with them even though the house didn't return when the phenomenon started. I didn't know; my head could explode just thinking about it.

“What was he wearing? What was his hair like?”

According to Miss Chenowith, Shasta wore a pair of gray trouser overalls with a white button-down undershirt. He wore no shoes and his head seemed to be shaved. A chubby face that she fondly described as “bubble gum” cheeks topped a slender body, giving his head an oversized appearance. He had an unusually dark complexion that was clearly visible under the shiny translucent sheen characteristic of all Impals.

“Any idea at all where he may have gone?”

Before she could answer, Seth and Jackson came trudging up the hallway. It startled me a little because I had not heard the door open. I guessed Seth must have taught him the trick of passing through the door like he did through the chair and the ceiling at home a couple of days ago.

“Seth, we are going to look for a little boy named Shasta. Is that okay with you?” I asked as I felt the cold and warmth of Jackson lapping at my hand.

He looked at me skeptically for several moments and then shrugged.

“I guess so … when are we going to the moozem?”

“A couple of days,” I promised. “As soon as we find Shasta, we'll be on our way.”

Seth was not keen on this idea but he grudgingly went along with it. We searched the neighborhood around Miss Chenowith's house. Evidently the neighbors thought our gracious psychic host was every bit as unusual as Seth and Jackson. They gave her the same wide berth they afforded my son and his pooch. I didn't know for sure, but I guessed her neighbors probably referred to her as Dizzy Lizzie or Spooky Chenowith, the weird old woman at the end of the road.

The neighbors watched us comb the streets from behind the comfort of their drapes, autos, fences, and hedges. A light wind rustling through the leaves of the ancient sycamore and maple trees lining the sides of the street gave a comedic whispering overture to the obvious murmuring going on about our little posse. We searched the streets thoroughly, and then by late afternoon we had covered a good portion of the woods that bordered the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, Miss Chenowith's home backed right up to the woods, and we accessed her back yard via a loose board in her cedar fence.

No one was any worse for wear, except me. My neck and ears were on fire from the itch of what seemed like a thousand mosquito bites. I also suspected I might have a tick or two burrowing into an unpleasant spot on my body. I gently fingered a couple of knots on my head from running into low hanging tree limbs. I am usually not that big of a klutz but my attention was drawn to the forest floor; I am deathly afraid of snakes.

I was not surprised to find Seth or Jackson unaffected by our woodland excursion but Miss Chenowith was a surprise. She was spry for her age, not only had she kept up with us all day, I guess if I were being honest, I would have to admit to trying to keep up with her, but she seemed completely unaffected by the insect barrage that now had me in so much misery. Was she one of those rare people that seem to be invisible to mosquitoes or maybe tasted bad to the little winged blood suckers? Perhaps she just had the foresight – no pun intended – to apply insect repellent before we left.

Whatever the reason, she was more than happy to immediately start dinner for us as I bathed. She thoughtfully handed me a bottle of Calamine lotion as I made my way to the bath tub with utmost haste. I felt like I was going to skin myself if I kept up the vigorous scratching. I had never been more eager to soak in a hot tub.

I felt somewhat better after I bathed and applied generous portions of Calamine to my swollen skin; of course, when it comes to bug bites, only time can completely get rid of the incessant itching. We had a dinner that was every bit as fabulous as breakfast. It was so good and I was so stuffed, I secretly wished that I was capable of squenching.

Seth thought it was delicious as well, and usually he is a finicky eater. I was so preoccupied with complementing our gracious host on the meal that I did not notice Seth when he excused himself to go outside and squench. I didn't notice that he had taken a couple of rolls with him, along with a hand full of casserole. If I had noticed, I might have saved us a lot of time and trouble.

We spent the following day helping Miss Chenowith in her search for Shasta. We made another pass through her neighborhood, this time in my vehicle, and then drove a couple of miles away to the location of the plantation where Shasta had lived 150 years ago. The house and out buildings were gone, the only evidence of their existence was a thin weathered stone outline of the foundations. The property was now owned by a local dairy farmer and a dozen black and white heifers grazed nearby. Miss Chenowith knew the farmer and was able to access the property by unlocking a padlock securing a large metal gate.

“Charlie told me I could come out here whenever I wanted,” she said, referring to Charles Paladino, the owner of Paladino Farms.

“Did you come out here to talk to Shasta?” I asked sympathetically.

Miss Chenowith made a little barking sound as she quickly threw her hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh. When she was confident her laugh stifled, she brought her hand down, revealing a humorous grin.

“No, he hung out at my house most of the time … why would he want to live out here by himself?”

I shrugged but before I could reply she pointed her finger at something over my shoulder.

“I liked to come out here to fish!”

I followed the direction of her finger and saw a small pond nestled amongst a group of mimosa trees. A couple of cows frolicked nosily in the shallow water near the far bank. I smiled. I loved to fish as a kid, but as I got older and my work took more and more importance in my life, that pastime was relegated to the back burner … like so many other things.

“Crappie or bass?” I asked.

She looked at me indignantly. “Catfish.”

I smiled. I loved catfish. The Trotline was one of my favorite restaurants back in Conway. Their secret recipe deep-fried batter was so good I was amazed that in the 30 years they had been in business, they had never expanded or franchised. They had stayed in the same little cinder block building for years, near … well, it was near Lake Beaverfork, the place that Ann and Seth spent their last day together. A pain shot through my gut as I tried to redirect my thoughts away from that terrible spot.

“Southern fried or Cajun?” I asked.

She looked at me with the same indignant expression.

“My dear man, you are not in Louisiana, in case there was any doubt. We southern fry our chuckleheads in Tennessee. That's the way God intended it!”

No pun intended, but I couldn't help but chuckle. I had heard that term before but it was by my granddad when we would go crappie and bass fishing and he would inadvertently pull in a catfish.

“Away with you, chucklehead!” he would shout as he pitched the unwanted catch back in the lake.

Miss Chenowith looked at me suspiciously for a moment then her face split in a huge grin. She gave a tittering laugh before she suggested that we split up and meet back in the vehicle in an hour. Seth was to go with her, a prospect I was uncomfortable with but decided to allow as long as Jackson accompanied them. Besides, it's almost impossible to separate a boy and his dog. So I was on my own.

It wasn't long before my apprehension returned as I waded through the tall grass. The sky and clouds might be a different hue right now. The situation in the world currently was unprecedented, including my own personal situation. But nothing, not even a mysterious cosmic storm and return of the dead, could completely distract me from my lifelong phobia of snakes.

The hissing sound the wind made as it blew through the green wispy waves did not help matters either. My apprehension was soon relieved when I came upon an ancient, knee-high rock wall surrounding a neatly manicured burial plot. I could tell that the cemetery was old from the weathered appearance of the headstones, but the grass surrounding the 40 or so markers had been recently trimmed. As I walked around the perimeter of the little cemetery, I saw a small wooden sign posted on the outside of the south wall. It read:
Cared for by the Madison County Historic Preservation Society.

There was nothing else posted, no indication if this little grave yard had any historic significance or whether it belonged to a particular family or to a long-forgotten community. I soon came upon a relatively smooth surface of the wall that afforded a good view of all the markers. I sat down to rest and to ponder.