Star-Spangled Rejects

by J. T. Livingston

  Kirk dragged two bags out the door and threw them into the trunk space of the Land Cruiser. He stormed back inside and grabbed an extra jacket he had brought, off the rack. He walked back across the room and threw it at Jimmy. “Put this on—or don’t—I really don’t care.” He pushed past Jimmy and pulled bandages and aspirin from the bathroom cabinets. He threw them into a smaller backpack and looked quickly around the room. He didn’t have time to clean the place, but decided there was no real evidence to prove he had been there.

  He straightened the cover on the bed, but never pulled it back to see the blood on the sheets.

  Jimmy watched in horrid awe while Kirk moved frantically from room to room. If he had been stronger, he would have argued the point more with Kirk—tried to rationalize the situation with him—but, he felt himself becoming weaker by the minute, and he knew that Kirk was in no mood to listen to anything he had to say. He picked the jacket up off the floor and managed to drape it across his shoulders. “Where are my shoes?” he was afraid to ask, but he wasn’t looking forward to walking on the cold ground again in only his socks.

  “Move! Get in the car—forget about your damn shoes!” Kirk yelled. He waited for Crennan to finally make it across the game room and out the door, onto the back porch. He fumbled in his jacket for the key to lock the sliding glass door, but remembered his keys were still inside his car. “Oh, to hell with it,” he growled as he slammed the door shut.

  He forgot to turn off the indoor lights and heating.

  “Hurry!” he yelled. He cast a final glance toward the lake and fought against the unexpected remorse that tried to seep into his head. He jerked open the back door. “Get in!”

  “Whose car is that” Jimmy asked, nodding toward the Mercedes. “Is someone else here?” He looked around wildly in all directions. “H-E-L-P!” he tried to scream. The effort doubled him over in pain.

  Kirk pushed Jimmy hard against the open wound in his back. “Shut up and get in!”

  Jimmy had barely gotten his whole body inside before Kirk slammed the door shut and jumped into the front seat. He felt the vibrations of the car when it started, and immediately felt the warm heat from the vents. He lay on his good side and stretched out as much as he could on the back seat.

  Kirk saw that Jimmy was lying down on the back seat and nodded eagerly. “Yeah, that’s right! That’s good—stay down and don’t get up until I tell you to.” His mind was running in a thousand different directions. He knew, in his heart, that he had screwed things up; he had screwed everything up—and, that nobody could help him now—he had to help himself. Daddy wouldn’t be around to help get him out of this mess. He couldn’t depend on Mike or David to help him out of it, either. No—there was no one he could turn to for help any more. The only person that he had ever truly felt safe with, and could depend on, had died on this day, four years ago.

  There was no turning back now.

  There was a fork at the end of the narrow road that led away from the entrance to the lake house. A turn to the right would take Kirk east, back toward Rome. When he reached the end of that road, he still had no idea of what to do, or where to go. He only knew that he couldn’t go back to Rome—he could never go back home. He laid his head on the wheel and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he took a deep breath and turned west, toward to Georgia/Alabama state line.

  Five minutes after Kirk Blankenship turned west off the narrow road that led to the lake house, Officer Thomas O’Brady made a left turn onto that same road. He stopped when he saw how narrow the road was; it was definitely a one-car-at-a-time road. He glanced down at an aerial map of the wooded area. There was no road sign to identify the road, but if this was the right road, then the lake house should be about a mile down the road, on the left.

  Five minutes—if he had arrived at that road only five minutes sooner—Officer O’Brady would have run smack into the black, 2016 Land Cruiser that belonged to Ernest Blankenship.

  Kirk had not taken the time to relock the entrance gate, so Thomas got out of his cruiser and pushed the gates open. He looked at his watch—it was 3:15, but the skies were getting so dark that it seemed more like 5:30, the time of day when dusk usually arrived this time of year. He drove slowly down the gravel driveway and couldn’t help but notice how beautiful a setting this was. It must be nice to be able to afford a place like this to get away from it all. He doubted he would ever know what that felt like.

  Thomas put on his brakes when he came around a small bend in the driveway, and almost hit the Mercedes. He got out of his cruiser to inspect the car—its engine was still running. “Someone must be here,” he spoke aloud, the obvious. He looked around the immediate area, but didn’t see anyone. He opened the driver’s door and turned off the ignition. He walked slowly around the car and saw tire tracks, in the gravel—they appeared to have swerved around the Mercedes, evidently toward the entrance gate, since Thomas didn’t see any other vehicles in the driveway. He kneeled down to get a closer look at the tire marks. “Yep…definitely more than one car.” He left his cruiser where it was and began a slow walk toward the back porch. He saw lights on inside the house, and immediately drew his gun—more out of reflex than fear. When he reached the door, he saw that it was open about half an inch. Someone had to be inside; after all, there was a running car parked in the driveway. Or, maybe someone else had been there and left in a hurry; after all, there was more than one set of tire tracks. Regardless, all of this rationalizing gave Thomas ample reason, and cause, to enter the property—without waiting for the back-up team to deliver the search warrant.

  Thomas eased the door open and stepped inside. He listened for any sounds coming from upstairs, but didn’t hear anything. He moved into the kitchen and pushed the door open that led into the small bathroom—nothing or nobody was in there. He backed into the game room and directed his gun to the left, toward a room in the far left corner. A dim light was coming from that room. He listened intently, but didn’t hear anything, so he eased himself into a large master bedroom suite. A light was on in the bathroom, but—again—there was nothing or nobody in that room either. He took notice that the shower stall was still wet—someone had taken a shower recently.

  When he was certain that he was alone in the house, he returned his gun to its holster and began walking around the large room. He walked around to the left side of the bed and saw a long, heavy chain—a key was still in the padlock. “What the hell?” he said as he lifted the chain. It had to be at least twenty feet in length. He followed the end of it and saw that it was secured to a metal rail beneath the bed. He stood back up and looked more closely at the bed. It looked rumpled, as though someone had made it quickly—maybe, too quickly.

  Thomas pulled the left side of the cover back. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but something compelled him to move to the other side and pull it back, too. When he did, he saw the large spread of blood on the pillow and sheets. “Oh, Dear, God…” Thomas bowed his head quickly. “Please, no…don’t let me be too late.”

  He made a quick search of the rest of the lake house and rushed back to his car. He radioed Dispatch—it would seem that he needed back-up quicker than anticipated. He told them that he had arrived upon what could be a possible crime scene. He also gave them the tag number on the Mercedes and asked them to track it. He started to close the door to the cruiser and turn on the heater, while he waited for the forensic team to arrive. The running car still nagged at his brain. Someone still had to be here if that car had been left running. He rubbed the back of his head and got out of his car. Once again, he perused the beautiful setting that surrounded the lake house. His gaze returned, more than once, to the dock, and the still waters of the lake that surrounded it. He felt a slight nudge against his right shoulder and spun around, but nobody was there. “What was that?” he shook his head. Once again, his gaze returned to the dock, and he felt the slight pressure against his shoulder. He couldn’t explain it to anyone if he had to, but he knew that some
thing—or someone—was directing him toward the dock.

  A tremendous burst of thunder roared above him, and Thomas could have sworn that he felt the vibrations coming up through the ground. “Okay, okay,” he grunted as he looked toward the darkening skies. “I can take a hint.”

  He began walking toward the dock.

  There was a small row boat tied to one side of the dock, next to steps leading down into the water—other than that, the area was empty—no other boats or houses, and certainly, no other people were around. Thomas walked to the very edge of the dock and looked out toward the middle of the lake. He looked upward again. “I don’t get it. What is it that I’m looking for?”

  Another loud burst of thunder sounded, causing him to jump and glance down into the water.

  At first, he saw nothing—just black shadows that seemed to move stealthily beneath the water. He shook his head and was ready to turn around and leave, when he saw it.

  A hand—fingertips really—that were on top of the water one second, and slowly sinking the next.

  Thomas never hesitated. He threw off his shoes, hat, and jacket, and dove into the frigid lake. It only took him mere seconds to open his eyes and see a man begin a final plunge into a watery grave. He wrapped one strong arm around the man and began kicking his way back to the surface. His head popped above the water and he gasped for air. He looked up at the two feet that separated the water from the dock. He knew that he would never be able to lift a man the size of this one that far from the water onto the dock, so he floated him toward the row boat.

  Thomas had seen Ernest Blankenship in several local television commercials, so he had immediately recognized him once they were above water. It took all the strength he had—plus some extra that had miraculously appeared out of nowhere—for Thomas to drag the man toward the front end of the dock and into the rowboat. He knew nobody would ever believe him, but he would tell his wife later that night, about the strong pressure he had felt against his backside and legs—pressure that provided him the extra push he needed in order to save Ernest Blankenship.

  He quickly climbed the ladder at the end of the dock and pulled Blankenship from the rowboat. He began CPR on him until the man began coughing up, what seemed like, gallons of lake water. He turned him on his side and said, “Hang tight, buddy. I’ll be right back.” He rushed back to his car and radioed Dispatch again. “This is O’Brady again—get me an ambulance out here—to the Blankenship lake house—STAT!”

  He became aware of just how cold it really was—especially in his wet clothing—when he rushed back to Blankenship. He gathered his shoes, hat, and jacket, and put them all back on over his wet clothing. He grabbed Blankenship under the arms and dragged him back to the police cruiser. He laid him on the back seat, turned the heater on full blast, and pulled an old army blanket from the trunk. He wrapped it securely around Ernest. “You’ve got to hang on—help is on the way!”

  Ernest felt the warmth from the vent and opened his eyes. He reached out for the officer’s arm and whispered in a hoarse voice. “Find—my—son…”

  Thomas stared back at the man, whose skin was blue from being in the frigid water. He was more than a little amazed that Blankenship had regained consciousness. “I will—I will find Kirk.”

  Ernest closed his eyes again and whispered something else that Thomas couldn’t quite make out.

  “What did you say?” he leaned closer to Blankenship.

  “Woman—in—lake…”

  “Oh, Dear, God…” Thomas shook his head and backed quickly out of the car. “Is there someone else in that lake…” he was talking to himself the entire time he was running back toward the dock. He tossed aside his shoes, hat, and coat—again—and dove back into the frigid water.

  CHAPTER 38

  So Long Bernard

  It was almost 4 o’clock when Bertie walked back into the kitchen for the umpteenth time in less than two hours. She placed her hands on her hips and stared up at Max. “I can’t believe you didn’t warn me about this!”

  Max looked down at the feisty angel who had been at his side more than 50 years now; on days like today, it felt more like 500 years. “Bertie, like I’ve already explained to you four times now—I did not know this was going to happen. Yes, Martin was concerned about the possibility that it could happen, but the odds were against it. You have to remember—Doug has only been dead for what—63 years? He was only 20 years old when he died on July 16, 1953 during the Battle of Pork Chop Hill. We’ve always known that it was possible that he could run into someone who knew him when he was alive back then.”

  “But for goodness sake, Maximus! We’re not just talking about anyone here—we’re talking about the person who killed him!”

  “Correction, Bertie—Charles Whiting did not set out that day to kill Doug. It was ruled an accident—death by friendly fire.”

  “Humph!” Bertie snorted. “I sure as hell don’t see anything friendly about getting shot in the back by one of your own men. I don’t understand why they call it friendly fire, anyway.”

  “Today’s Army might agree with you on that, Bertie. They might even refer to such a death as ‘collateral damage’ instead—either way, it usually refers to an accidental death. The term ‘friendly fire’ actually refers to an attack by a military force. It can be caused by misidentification of the target, inaccuracy, or, even human error—which was the case with Doug and Charles. Charles was young and inexperienced. He was nervous and panicky that day, and literally tripped over his own feet.”

  “Collateral damage? I think I like the term ‘friendly fire’ better after all. Yeah, I’ve heard the story before,” Bertie calmed down. “But, how weird is this, really, Max! I mean—to come face-to-face with the person who caused you to die! I wanted to talk to Doug about it, but he was so upset. He never went back out to the table until it was time for him to take Bernard to the bus station.”

  “Is Charles still here?” Max peered through the serving hatch. He could see table #1 clearly from his vantage point. “His table is empty.”

  Bertie looked over his shoulder. “He seemed so upset after seeing Doug—so confused—that I told him to go upstairs and rest for a bit. He said he wasn’t going to leave until he could talk to ‘that young man’ again. He’s no spring chicken, you know, and I sure didn’t want him keeling over in here, so I talked him into lying down for a while. The upstairs room is empty again now that Bernard is gone.”

  Max sighed and nodded. “You know, I’m going to miss Bernard. They were all special in their own way, but Bernard was different.”

  “He was their unofficial leader, I think,” Bertie sighed, too. “Do you think he made the right decision about returning home?”

  Max shook his head. “That’s not for me to say, Bertie.”

  Bertie placed her hands on her hips again. “I’m not asking for the gospel here, Maximus—just asking for your own general opinion. I know you have one.”

  Max laughed at Bertie’s ability to always bring the obvious to light. “Point taken, my friend. Do I think he made the right decision?” He paused for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I do. He’s been talking to his wife and kids ever since Joe left. He initially left because he just got tired of the rat race—of trying to keep up with the Jones’, as they say. He thought his wife and kids only wanted him around for the material things he could provide them with, and he got tired of feeling like he was alone in the relationship—like he was the only one putting forth any effort.”

  “Well…that’s all pretty much true, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” Max shook his head again. “Bernard was just as wrapped up in maintaining his high stature in society, that he lost sight of what was really important—his God and his family.”

  “That’s why he’s always thought that he wasn’t good enough for God to love, isn’t it?” Bertie puckered her lips. “Yep, he let his own shortcomings interfere with his relationship with our Lord.”

  “Sort of,” Max r
eplied. “I think he just forgot, for a few years, that God is a forgiving God. Bernard broke the tenth commandment—thou shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor's.”

  Bertie couldn’t resist. “Come on, Max—do you really think Bernard ever had servants, or an ox, or a bleeping donkey?”

  “Bleeping?” Max smiled.

  “Hey, I’m trying here,” Bertie grinned back. “Just kidding, I know what you mean—he wanted what he thought everyone else had.”

  “He’s back on the right track now, Bertie. He has a long way to go, but I have a feeling that when he gets home, he’s going to get a lot of love and support from his family—something he never expected.”

  “Well, I’m happy for him,” Bertie smiled. She looked over her shoulder when the angel chimes sounded. “It’s Doug!” She rushed out to meet the younger angel.

  Doug walked into the café slowly and peered over at table #1. He saw Bertie rushing toward him. He tilted his head to the right and asked, “Is he gone?”

  Bertie punched him on the shoulder before giving him a tight hug. “No, handsome, he’s not gone. He’s resting in the upstairs apartment. I don’t think he’s going to leave here until he talks to you.”

  Doug ran his long fingers through his thick, black hair. “What am I going to do, Bertie? I tried talking to Max about it before I left to take Bernard to the bus station, but he’s leaving it up to me. What do I do? I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

  Bertie punched him again before walking away to check on her customers. “You pray about it, handsome—you pray about it.” She winked at him and grinned.

  Doug smiled as he watched her walk away. “I knew that…” He waved at Max as he walked through the kitchen on his way out the back door. “I’ll be back here for a while, Max.”