Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

Martin leaned back on Martha’s desk and looked up at the two marines. They were both staring at him, at attention. “I’m not going to like this, am I, Colonel?”

“No sir, I doubt you will,” Simpson said with a deadpan expression.

“To Lieutenant-General William McDaniels,” Martin began reading aloud. “Effective immediately, Captain Nathan Martin, M.D., is to be recalled to active duty, and is to be assigned responsibilities that require his unique talents and capabilities. Those exact duties are to be left to your discretion. He will continue to serve in the United States Army until all promised obligations made by Captain Martin on July 12, 1974, have been met.” His mocking tone quickly changed into one of alarm, and he could almost imagine the two marines laughing inside. “This is bullshit!” Martin spat out the words. “This can’t be legal.”

“I am not a lawyer, Dr. Martin, so I will reserve comment. However, legal or not, you will be coming with us.” Simpson’s tone had developed some arrogance.

“Not before I talk with a lawyer.” Martin was back on his feet. He circled the desk and found Martha’s Rolodex.

“Please feel free, Doctor, but I have to ask you to hurry. We have a plane to catch.” Simpson took a step forward as Martin dropped into his secretary’s chair and started furiously dialing a number on the desk phone.

“Ira? It’s Nathan. Thank God, I caught you. . No, I’m not in jail. I’ve been drafted, by order of the president. . Yes, it’s very funny, and no, I’m not joking. There are two marines in my office right now. . I served fourteen months on active duty after residency. I was supposed to be in for six years. . Huh? They paid for medical school and gave me a stipend during residency.” His tone was becoming defensive as he listened to what his friend and lawyer were saying. “They let me go. I didn’t ask for it. I was offered an early out, forgiveness, they called it, and I took it. I don’t owe anyone anything. .” Martin’s face was turning red as his lawyer talked. “What do you mean, ‘go with them’?” He jumped to his feet and shouted into the phone, “You can’t possibly be serious! They can hold me for the entire six years?” He listened with bulging eyes. “Screw their fine print, and screw the ‘balance of what’s left.’ This was over thirty years ago. There has to be a statute of limitation, or something!” Martin listened to his lawyer for another couple of minutes, and then collapsed back into the chair. “They want me to go somewhere with them and are using this as a threat.” His voice was now filled with resignation, the reality of his position becoming more obvious. He glanced up at Simpson, whose face remained completely impassive. “I haven’t asked.” There was another long pause as Ira outlined Martin’s options. “Okay, Ira,” he said, his voice filled with frustration. “Thanks.” He hung up.

The two marines waited while Martin took several moments to compose himself. “It seems, gentlemen, that you have me at a disadvantage,” he said finally.

“Yes, sir, we do. Unfortunately, we need a decision now. Are you coming along as Dr. Martin or Captain Martin?” As if by telepathic command, two MPs appeared in the doorway.

Defeated, Martin handed the presidential order back to Simpson. “I wouldn’t want you outranking me, colonel, so keep calling me doctor, and sir.” He slowly stood, then rounded the desk. “I have to address my staff first.”

“It’s already been taken care of, sir,” said Simpson, giving the last word a little more emphasis than necessary.

Martin looked up into the gray eyes of the marine. “I guess you guys have thought of everything,” he said sarcastically. He could face going with them to some secret meeting — that was intriguing and a little exciting, but interfering with his department was over the line.

“If we did, we wouldn’t need you,” Simpson said just as sarcastically and headed out the door.

Oliver sat across the table from Father Coyle and Bishop McCarthy; both men had similar looks of confusion.

“Let me guess. You don’t know whether to have me exorcised or committed.” He meant it as a joke, but it hit embarrassingly close to home. “To be honest, up until this morning, I wouldn’t have objected to either.”

McCarthy and Coyle looked at each other and then back at Oliver. It was Coyle who spoke first. “That’s quite a story, John. I have to admit, it’s not what I expected. I knew something was wrong, you’ve been withdrawn and not yourself since you came home, but I assumed it was about your sister’s passing.”

“I had similar thoughts,” the bishop said and then nosily began searching through his briefcase. He retrieved a large manila folder, placed it on the table between them, and looked back up at Oliver.

“What’s that?” Oliver asked.

“This is your life, at least your professional life, John. Your legacy. I brought it here so you could read through it before you made a decision.” Oliver reached for the folder. “The church has received a hundred or so letters and commendations from various government officials and charitable organizations all praising your work. There is probably twice that number from parishioners, some dating as far back as thirty-four years. And if that didn’t convince you,” Bishop McCarthy extracted a thin folder with a single sheet of parchment. “I brought along this.”

Oliver knew what it was the instant he saw the cream-colored paper. It was a special note, handwritten by Pope John Paul II himself, thanking Oliver for all his work and congratulating him on the creation of his twentieth parish. “I appreciate your effort, but this is not a crisis of faith. I will admit that as I watched Mary die my faith was shaken, but this has nothing to do with that. What happened this morning with Mr. Flynn was real and verifiable. It was not a manifestation of a psychiatric or personal disturbance, nor was it demonic possession. The visions are related — I’m convinced of that.”

“John, I don’t want you to take offense, but you know my background is in psychiatry,” the bishop started. “Everything that you’ve shared with us could have a psychiatric explanation, including your encounter with Mr. Flynn.”

“So you think I have a dissociative disorder severe enough that my perceptions are being altered, but not so severe that it disables me,” Oliver tried to keep his tone neutral, but his frustration was embarrassingly evident.

“I realize that you truly believe what you are saying, but that’s the way. .”

Bishop McCarthy didn’t finish his sentence because Oliver had seized his wrist. For the third time this morning, Oliver felt his consciousness flow into and mix with another. His body felt light and his mind free; he wanted nothing more than to stay in this particular moment, but he knew he couldn’t. Reluctantly, he let his bishop’s wrist go and the connection was broken. He fell back into his chair exhausted, and it took several moments for him to realize that Francis was standing over the prostrate form of Bishop McCarthy.

“What did you do, John?” He was yelling, but Oliver was having a hard time coordinating his movements and processing what he was seeing.

“I’m all right,” a voice said from the floor, and it took Oliver a moment to realize that it was McCarthy.

Francis helped his bishop back to his feet and then into a chair. Oliver watched the two men get resituated. His breathing was still heavy, but his mind was clearing. “Still think it’s a dissociative disorder?” He said as both of the two men facing him wore expressions of fear and anger.

“That was hardly necessary, John,” Francis said. “You could have killed him.”