Amanita

by Nathaniel Sewell

Overview

Artemis Lamb lives a complicated life. Spirit-seeing clairvoyant, medical malpractice investigator, and trained assassin, she has grown accustomed to walking the thin line between the everyday and the otherworldly. There's not much that can shock her anymore.

But that doesn't mean she's not a little surprised when her employer, Caduceus Re, sends her to investigate a medical malpractice case at a mysterious hospital out in Selene, Kentucky. The plaintiff lawyer, Jerome Jenkins, has been gibbering something about human experimentation, opioid-riddled bodies kept alive, and lab-grown mycelia--and the hospital director, one Dr. Demetrius, is being anything but forthcoming.

But Artemis soon finds the case goes far deeper than one mystery-shrouded surgeon. In the eerily silent Most High Cemetery, she meets Satan itself. Under its control is the tortured soul of her lost lover, Benjamin, and his orphaned child, who yet lives...for as long as Satan allows it.

Amanita is the dark, philosophical tale of one woman's journey into a world divided by love and hate, life and death, humanity and obscenity. As thrilling as it is moving, it's a must for fans of supernatural fiction and intelligent drama alike.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781733736763
Publisher:	Nathaniel Sewell
Publication date:	12/15/2019
Pages:	310
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.81(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

When Artemis Lamb was a young girl, she never battled with her parents before her nine o'clock bedtime. Never. She bathed herself as instructed by her mother with just enough coconut butter soap and foamy lavender shampoo. As the bathroom water vapor dissipated into the heavens, she dried off with a thick white cotton towel. She folded the towel in half with the seams side-down, smoothed out any lumps, and hung it at the center point over a polished nickel rod. She buttoned up her pink, sea island cotton pajamas that her mother had taught her how to press out the wrinkles with a hot electric steam iron. With the aid from her digital wristwatch she brushed her teeth for two minutes. She then washed away any tub residue, wiped the vanity and mirror, and checked her bathroom for the unclean.

Artemis pranced downstairs into her father's expansive den paneled with quarter-sawn cherry panels and a coffered ceiling that had a aged, comforting aroma. She stood like a soldier on an antique maroon and dark-blue patterned hand-knotted wool rug as she faced her parents for inspection. They smiled as they reached for her, as she climbed up between them and onto the soft vintage tufted, dark-brown leather couch as a mindless prime time television show spewed bias light.

"I love you, Daddy," Artemis said. She hugged him around his neck. "Good night."

"Love you, punkin," her father said. He kissed her forehead. He smiled at her with blue eyes that shared a father's wish for his daughter to experience happiness and joy.

Artemis giggled as she twisted over to her mother.

"I love you, Mommy," Artemis said. She kissed her mother.

"Love you, my darling," her mother said with a velvety Irish accent. She hugged Artemis. "You completed all your tasks?" "Yes, mother," Artemis said.

"Now off you go, snuggle in tight," her mother said. She checked her daughter's cotton hair scrunchy, colored in green, orange, and white, and rubbed her diminutive shoulders. "Dream you earned a gold medal. We earn our things."

"Listen to your mother," her father said. His distinct snicker reassured Artemis that he would always protect her. "Be our future Olympian. I'll come tuck you in and tell you a mythological story about gods and goddesses. And then you'll dream about great adventures and mysteries."

Artemis hopped off the couch mimicking her father's snickering laugh as she scampered off toward her bedroom. Mr. & Mrs. Lamb swiveled back to follow their only child with a floppy red hair ponytail and a sly grin on her cherubic face, as she crawled back up the wooden stairs centered by a cushioned maroon carpet runner with brass rods.

Her parents certain her behavior odd.

At parties and gatherings, they scrutinized their friends and neighbors' wrestling matches with their offspring before bedtime. The tears, the sobbing, the begging, or the demonic screeching for more playtime. So they shared Artemis' kittenish nighttime rituals with their close friends, and they all agreed, she was different.

The Lamb's trusted in science and facts. To best care for their precious child, they engaged physicians and therapists. But the healthcare professionals never diagnosed Artemis with anything pathological. The therapists dismissed her claims to have encountered wandering spirits as childhood fantasies. Hallucinations that would cease as she aged. Otherwise, she presented them no clinical symptoms for profound mental illness; She had not checked off any new diagnostic boxes. The experts determined she was peculiar, but otherwise an engaging, happy redheaded child in good health. They speculated with Mr. and Mrs. Lamb that being an only child allowed Artemis to play inside a powerful imaginative inner world. She was a clever, calculating girl, and their observations matched up with her upper ninety-nine percentile intelligence quotient score. And they had deduced she was ambidextrous, but nothing else to worry them.

Every other night back inside her bedroom, Artemis had had a practiced routine. After her father tucked her in and told her a magical story, she set an alarm with her black rubber digital wristwatch, stuffed it under her soft pillow, and slept for several hours. It vibrated and awakened her. Sneaking into her parent's bedroom. She sat American Indian style and waited for her parents to snore. Once she was confident they had drifted off into their deep dreamland, to reduce sound she scooted her socked-feet back toward her bedroom along the home's hallway carpets and tongue and groove wide-planked hickory flooring.

Artemis sat on her oversized beanbag chair within the silence sensing the home's HVAC system cycle on. It blew warm air through a Victorian themed cast iron grille work above her. It clicked off until the room cooled. It clicked back on. She sat back spellbound. Beyond her thin double-paned window she saw along her tranquil midwestern town's blacktopped streets, lined with pruned mature oaks and maples, were a bustling host of wandering spirits. All hallowed over by a golden meridian. They emerged from pitch darkness as illuminated golden particles. They were fast blips down her street as if shooting stars toward undisclosed destinations. Others floated above the manicured lawns like summer fire flies appearing curious and hopeful even during the depths of a frosty winter.

If the Lamb's traveled late in the night, Artemis realized her parents never noticed the nearby wandering spirits. When she asked about them or pointed out a spirit zipping by their four-door sedan, they never believed her.

"Stop with the make believe," they said to her. Her father watched her from the car's center rear-view mirror.

Her mother looked back at her from their car's front seat.

"You're imagining them," Mrs. Lamb said. She winked at Artemis. "Nothings out there, my darling. Someday, when you're older, they'll not be there. I promise."

Artemis gave her mother a tight-lipped smile from the backseat, and she decided never to tell her parents, or anybody, anything else she saw. She concluded no one believed her.

At high school during an ancient world history class, she understood that there are unique events in this world's evolution, or mysterious happenings that occurred that were difficult to explain away. But at college, Artemis' instincts nudged at her that someone was following her. She sensed something nearby her during the foggy morning walks toward class or at Saturday night inside a loud dive bar hanging out with her friends. It was always beyond her visual reach; She knew it. In time, she dismissed the feeling as mild paranoia from school stress; It was not God, or any other hokum she had learned about in her liberal arts college's mandatory religious studies class. Her family had never walked into a church, synagogue or other; She, like her parents, were not Bible thumpers. The only statement Mr. and Mrs. Lamb ever told Artemis before their tragic accident was that there might be a higher power protecting her. She thought it implausible. She suspected it was just random wandering spirits she had grown accustomed too that from time-to-time tried to interact with her. But they were always peaceful spirits searching for answers and seeking a bright diamond shaped crease in the visual spectrum for them to emigrate.

One day, Artemis was in a work meeting; A new file was being assigned to her. She was unaware that soon she would meet her praetorian minder. And her understanding about the supernatural world was about to transform.

"Girl," Wylie said. He was older, wrinkled and bald. He sounded like he was straight out of eastern North Carolina.

"I'm not a girl," Artemis said. She was now a tall, athletic and a striking redhead that lacked freckles.

"True. I'll not tangle with you, you'd hurt me," Wylie said. He tapped atop his yellow oak desk for a pack of cigarettes, even though he stopped smoking years earlier. "You're my best investigator, warning, this file's not pleasant. To be blunt, it's a mess."

"When you use, not pleasant, and the word, mess," Artemis said. "I get knots in my stomach."

The medical malpractice insurance business was not a kind world. The files Artemis investigated were all about after-the-facts, as in, after a physician amputated the wrong limb, or the wrong baby died during childbirth, or the wrong anesthesia protocol gorked an innocent patient's brain.

"We've got millions exposed," Wylie said. He squirmed on his high-back leather chair as he fumbled with his thumb and forefinger along the edge of a common Manila envelope. "The captive tower's funded. Actuaries completed the funding study late last year, then some nitwit in Fort Wayne got greedy, and decided we should reinsure the entire deal, the entire tower, but now?"

Wylie hesitated for several moments staring down his long, rectangular office at a furniture grouping centered with a cherry veneered coffee table and cushioned red leather chairs.

"Dude," Artemis said. "What?"

"I'm not sure," Wylie said. He glossed his hand over his bald head. He had enough gray hair left to cover the circumference from ear-to-ear. "I've got this bad feeling with this one. I'm not sure what to say, go manage this mess. Too old these days, I'd put other people in danger."

"Got it," Artemis said. "Anything else?"

"I like you," Wylie said. He hesitated. "I mean in a mentoring way, you understand?"

"What?" Artemis said. She slouched onto a side desk chair. She screwed her brown leather loafers into the side of Wylie's desk. "Cough it up."

Wylie wobbled over toward her. He waved her shoes off the side of his desk. Artemis shifted back and moved her shoes onto the office's light-gray colored loop-pile carpet.

"This is evil, alleged unauthorized cremations, bodies disappearing," Wylie said. He bent forward, his elbows on his knees, and he handed her the encryption passwords for the file within the envelope. He preferred not to use his business email.

"What are you thinking?" Artemis said. "You've got that look."

"Something else," Wylie said. "A lust for money over human dignity? I can't quite figure out from the files. It all reads nice and clean, like they did the family a favor, preventing a toxic outbreak or similar nonsense. I think they make up their excuses as they go."

Artemis thought a hairy spider climbed along her neckline. She acknowledged Wylie. She was not afraid of spiders, but she understood what the sensation meant. If Wylie's thirty-plus years of experience were knocking his instincts into submission; it was bad.

"Why are you of all people afraid?" Artemis said. "You taught me the business. I'm well-trained to take care of myself, thanks to the military, and, a few others."

Wylie stared over at Artemis. He gave her a blank expression, and he sat back and interlocked his fingers over his paunch.

"It's not about money, this time, I feel it. I always listen to my instinct," Wylie said. He sighed as if he expected the worst. "It's the medical records; they are clean, like a clinical risk manager went through them with an exacto knife. But that perfection makes them flawed. It's not drugs, maybe opioids? They are hiding something, messing with the captive's money? I don't know, some tax dodge to keep the doors open?"

Artemis enjoyed the hunt; Wylie's cryptic observations triggered her memories from previous files and dangerous investigations.

"What's my budget?" Artemis said. She stuffed away the envelope and squeezed with her fingertips on the only ring she wore on her left hand.

"Are you kidding?" Wylie said. He shook his head as he shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."

"I don't understand," Artemis said.

"Unlimited, the word from up the chain," Wylie said. He glanced back over at Artemis. "Your best work is with death cases. There are a bunch of bodies in this claim. We've got batch language in the policy form. Even so, I suspect they'll try to negotiate a big global deal. Be warned, this is bigger than us." He paused, he examined a framed family photo from a time when Wylie had a complete head of hair. "You'll be all alone, they want this kept quiet."

"I enjoy being alone," Artemis said. "I hunt best when I'm out there all alone."

Wylie scooted his chair forward and opened his desk drawer to reveal personal work papers, paper clips, convention nicknacks, and a heavy-looking Glock 34 resting on top. "Have one of these, right?"

"Yeah, straight forward weapon," Artemis said. She examined the German-made weapon. "You know I do. I'll pack my tools. I'm not a gun person, untidy, leaves too much evidence behind."

"Good, pack it, and those other, ah, tools, you use. Drive up there, take a real truck, with big wheels," Wylie said. He piano tapped his wrinkled fingers on the desktop. "When you get into Kentucky, use back roads. Use cash. I'll get you a draft for the bank. Don't report it back to any expense reports. Spend it, then lose the receipts. Understand?"

"Wylie," Artemis said. "With my hair and skin I can't hide."

"I am aware, I have eyeballs," Wylie said. "Get up there, get a hotel room and go introduce yourself to the head of risk management, and their general counsel. The contact names are in the file. I suspect they are all locals, never worked anyplace else, so this is their home. They'll be real protective."

Artemis considered Wylie's counsel.

"They know someone's coming, how long to respond?" Artemis said. She crossed her legs. "If I miss my guess, they've already hidden the bodies, and whatever else."

"We have twenty days to deny the claim. And unless my thinking is off," Wylie said. He shoved his desk drawer shut and locked it. He doubled checked the lock by rattling it with the key. "Both sides are in league with each other, local plaintiff firm. If you just showed up, they might slip up. I need you up there. Be careful, this file will get nasty. I just know it."

"You always told me, none of us has clean hands."

Wylie grinned. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, and released it through his pug nose. He looked through his offices' smoked glass windows out toward a high-end country club. The course filled with snowbirds, and locals racing golf carts down wide fairways playing chaotic left, right Army golf.

"We were greedy, shortsighted, that's on us," Wylie said. He shifted his office chair backward and forwards. "We got into bed with snakes. I don't want you to get bit, but we have to clean up this mess. Artemis, you understand, this could sink us? I'm too old to redo my resume."

"I got it," Artemis said. "I'll find the problem."

"I do not doubt you," Wylie said. "The Company conceals from me your other work, mostly, but they're pleased. I keep getting files they demand I assign to only you. Do an old man a favor, be careful."

"I'll have my tools," Artemis said. "I'm cautious by nature."

Artemis got up and marched toward Wylie's closed office door. Wylie sprang up, he stopped her. He hugged her tight, like a father hugs his daughter.

"You get back here," Wylie said. He looked downward as he backed away from her as she opened the door. "Hear me?"

Artemis punched Wylie on his shoulder.

"Don't go all squishy," Artemis said. "I got this."

Artemis drove from downtown Tampa, Florida across the Gandy Bridge over blue waters being disturbed by powerful fishing boats knifing across leaving behind them turbulent wakes. Brown pelicans glided nearby the bridge with their wings out, floating, just before they dove for an unsuspecting pescatarian meal.

Back home inside her modest apartment in downtown St. Petersburg, she shut the window blinds. For the next three days, she reviewed the underwriting files, the claim files, and loss data. Artemis thought Wylie prophetic. The electronic medical records were perfect, almost textbook like. For a medical malpractice insurance claim investigator, it meant something sinister. She searched the Kentucky town's map, and she found a hotel chain near the hospital where she would set up operations.

Artemis sat back, considered her options, and thought her first trip into Selene, Kentucky required a late-night visit to the local cemetery. The wandering spirit world was always the best local source for her because they had already experienced their eternal truth.

CHAPTER 2

Artemis stared out her hotel room's tempered glass windows within downtown Selene, Kentucky. She searched from the third floor for any wandering spirits. But the township's streets and avenues were dark, still and calm. It appeared like any normal American hamlet washed in minimal pale light from a line of faux antiqued street lamps set in front of a fancy town square centered by a granite and marble courthouse built from a make-work project from the mid-1930s. She got up and put on her down parka that covered her below her pants pockets and headed downstairs to walk outside into the frigid air.

"Git ya truck?" The valet said. He stood inside the hotel chains ordinary lobby, as he chatted up the uninterested female late-shift desk clerk who did not glance up at Artemis. The lobby had an over-used smoker scent eliminator system, as she stood near a mid-century ash tray stand set in a corner near the front doors.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Amanita"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Nathaniel Sewell.
Excerpted by permission of Nathaniel Sewell.
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