by Joseph Lewis
When they arrived he said to them, “Not sure what happened, and I pretty much don’t care. He was found with one of the boys. When he’s admitted to the hospital, I want him as far away from that boy as possible. Do you understand?”
A burley, barrel-chested black man with a mustache asked, “A cop?”
“A pervert cop,” Jamie answered.
“Found him with one of those boys?” he asked.
“I had to shove my gun in his face and yank him off the boy by the hair.”
“The hair on his head, I hope,” the medic asked.
Pete, Jamie and Cochrane laughed.
The medic looked at the cop on the floor and said, “I guess he got what he deserved, huh?”
“That’s what we’re thinking, but we don’t know how it happened,” Cochrane said.
“Huh. Interesting.” The black man dropped his equipment on the floor next to the man and said, “Huh.”
Pete left the room and from a distance watched three medics and Skip Dahlke lift Brett onto the gurney, wrap him in a blanket and then secure him with straps. An IV was started as was oxygen. He looked so small, vulnerable. His eyes were shut, and his expression was a grimace.
“Is that Brett?”
Pete turned around and saw Tim and Patrick standing next to him.
“Yeah, but it’s not as bad as it looks.”
The boys continued to watch in silence.
“He was hit in the shoulder, but I think he’ll be okay.”
At least Pete hoped he would be. They moved forward to speak to their friend. Pete took a gentle hold of Tim’s arm to prevent him, but Tim shook it off and limped to the side of the gurney, followed by Patrick.
The medics stepped back and watched while Tim smoothed Brett’s hair and wiped some tears off Brett’s cheeks. He wasn’t conscious, but Tim bent down, whispered something and then kissed his forehead. He backed away and the medics wheeled him down the hall.
Jamie ruffled Tim’s hair and asked both boys, “You guys okay?”
Neither of them answered but watched the medics and Brett in silence. With Patrick helping Tim, both boys turned and went back to the room to be with the rest of the boys.
Jamie walked over to Skip and said, “You should go with him.”
Skip looked up and down the hallway at the agents scurrying around, knowing it had been combed over by him thoroughly and that whatever they’d find wouldn’t amount to anything. He had his black duffle bag containing the evidence and videotape he had gathered earlier.
“He shouldn’t be by himself,” Skip said softly watching the gurney pause before going through the doorway, “but what about the sick boy . . . Johnny? Mike and Tim are in bad shape too. What about Fitz?”
“We’ll take care of the boys, and Fitz already left. You go with Brett and stay with him, okay?”
Skip handed the duffle bag to Jamie and turned to leave, but Jamie called after him, “You did really well today.”
Skip stopped briefly, and he looked like he had wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He dropped his chin to his chest, and he walked quickly to catch up with Brett. Stephen stuck his head out of a doorway and motioned for Jamie to come to over. Jamie did, and Stephen introduced a blond boy.
“This is Ian.”
Jamie smiled and nodded at him.
“Um . . . can you find us . . . all of us . . . clothes? We don’t want to leave like this,” Ian said indicating his nakedness.
Jamie had actually gotten used to it by now, watching Brett run around all morning.
“Oh, yeah . . . you bet.”
He looked around for Pete, but he was talking to Cochrane. He grabbed an agent who had happened to walk past them.
“I have thirteen kids who need clothes. Shorts, shirts, maybe flip-flops. Can you rustle something up?”
The agent glanced into the room and saw the boys huddled together, staring back at him.
“Yeah . . . probably.” He checked his watch and said, “Problem is, it’s too early for anything to be open.”
Two more teams of paramedics came through the door, pushing three gurneys.
A short, skinny, bald medic with a mustache walked up to the agent and Jamie and said, “A guy . . . Skip something, said three gurneys were needed to transport three kids . . . um, Mike, Tim and Johnny.”
Jamie had an idea.
“How many hospital gowns can you get your hands on?”
The short guy looked into the room and said, “How many you need?”
“Thirteen, with slippers. These kids aren’t leaving the building without something on.”
The small guy nodded, keyed his lapel mike and said, “Two-eleven to base. I need thirteen hospital gowns and slippers now, like yesterday. Do you copy?”
There was pause on the line, and the medic was about to repeat his request, perhaps a bit more forcefully judging by his expression when a voice on the other end said, “Copy. A cruiser will transport now. Expect delivery in ten, fifteen minutes. Copy?”
“Two-eleven . . . thanks!”
The two bad guys were stuffed into body bags rather rudely and were dropped onto gurneys roughly and taken down the hallway. The cop with the nightstick still stuck in his ass was placed on his side onto a gurney and rolled down the hallway. The boys saw him and began to clap and cheer. Jamie and the agent turned to them and smiled. Butch and the red-haired guy were led away in handcuffs, and the boys cheered even louder. Pete and Agent Cochrane walked down the hallway and joined Jamie, the other agent and the teams of medics.
Pete stuck his head into the room and said, “What’s all the noise about? Maybe it’s time to get out of this place?”
The boys cheered and clapped and hugged one another. Jamie placed two fingers into his mouth and whistled, and the other agents stopped what they were doing and began to clap, whistle and cheer along with them.
The medics went in and found Johnny, Mike and Tim and prepared them for transport. Blood pressure, temps and heart rates were taken. Johnny was given oxygen and an IV of something. Tim told the medics to take care of Mike and Johnny first. The medic assured him that they would all be taken care of.
He climbed off his gurney and limped over to Johnny, bent down and whispered something to him, and then went over to Mike and did the same. Mike reached out and took hold of Tim’s arm.
“It’s okay, Mike. You’re going to ride with Johnny. You won’t be alone.”
Mike held Tim’s arm, and Tim patted his hand, and then kissed his forehead just as he did to Brett. “You’ll be okay, Mike. You’re going home.”
Mike let go, but continued to look at Tim, who smiled and waved as he was pushed down the hallway.
Pete helped him get back onto the gurney and helped him lie down and asked, “You okay, Kid?”
“I’m worried about Brett,” Tim said.
Pete and Jamie looked at one another, then at Tim.
“He’s going to be okay,” Pete said.
Tears leaked from Tim’s eyes.
“Do you want someone to ride with you?”
He didn’t answer. He stared at the ceiling, then shut his eyes and cried. Just as he was out of the room and in the hallway, he motioned to Pete, who moved quickly to his side. Pete took hold of the gurney to keep it from moving.
“Patrick is really close to Brett. If he rides with me, he’ll get to him quicker. That okay?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get him for you,” Pete said.
But before Pete left, Tim said, “And you have to tell the other guys about Brett . . . that he saved us. They need to know.”
Pete nodded and promised Tim that he would. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Just before dawn in Waukesha, Wisconsin, in the backyard of the Evans’ house, George stood facing the east in nothing but his boxers and gym shorts. Bert Lane watched from her kitchen window fascinated with what he was doing. She could hear him chanting, and she watched his gentle hand and arm mot
ions. His eyes were closed in concentration, and she assumed he was praying. What she wasn’t sure was if he was praying for his family who had been murdered or if this was a morning ritual. She was curious enough to ask him but not until he was finished. She didn’t want to interrupt or intrude in any way because there was certainly a reverence in George she had not seen in the many who went to her own church. At times, she herself included.
She tended to her bacon, turning it over, making sure it wasn’t going to end up like Joan of Ark. She had cornbread in the oven, which she knew Jon and Jeremy liked with honey, and the twins liked with butter and warm syrup. Every so often during the week, the twins would appear at her backdoor sniffing the air in an act of what she had referred to as ‘breakfast shopping’ to see if her breakfast was better than the one offered by Jeremy. Usually they ended up sitting down at the Lane table and packing it away. She was amazed at how much they could eat. Much like her son Mike had done at their age.
She didn’t think George would come over on his own, so she had decided that when he was finished with his morning prayers, she’d invite him over. Hopefully, she would have an opportunity to call to him before he disappeared back into the Evans’ house. And maybe later that morning, she’d get him to help her plant some flowers she had wanted to plant next to the hedge row separating the Lane yard from the Evans yard.
The sun came up, and George was silent for a short time, eyes open with an expression she couldn’t read. Then, he began chanting again with gestures a bit more animated but not any more loudly than he had done when the sun was still down. At last he finished, wiped sweat from his face and then sat down on the back step; the same step he sat on just a few hours before.
He stared off into the yard. The shadows grew smaller inch by inch, foot by foot and Bert wasn’t sure if he was watching it or just thinking. Thinking, she decided. She went to the back door, stuck her head out and softly called to him.
“George, come on over for breakfast.”
At first he didn’t acknowledge her call. Then he raised his head and turned around at the Evans’ door, and then got up and walked over.
“Ma’am?” George asked shyly.
“I have cornbread and bacon for breakfast and a lot of it, so you have to help eat it. The twins and Jeremy will be over later, I’m sure, so come on in,” she said opening the door wider.
“I don’t have my sandals or shoes, and I’m not wearing a shirt,” George said, turning a darker shade of red.
“I guess we’ll have to make an exception.” She added with a wink, “Chances are, Billy’ll be over dressed the same way.”
George came in and stood awkwardly in the entry way, not sure where he should sit or if he should even be there. He remembered how worried Jeremy was the night before, and he didn’t want to worry him again. He also didn’t want Jeremy to become angry with him. He noticed there were six places set at the table, enough for the twins, George, Jeremy, Jon and Bert, as if she had somehow expected everyone to show up. This was something his grandmother would do.
He smiled to himself, but remembering the image of his grandmother made him sad, and his smile quickly faded away as quickly as it had appeared.
“Have a seat anywhere. Jon usually sits there,” she said gesturing to the seat at the end of the table nearest the hallway. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Maybe I should let Mr. Jeremy know where I am,” George said shyly.
“A bit early for Jeremy. We’ll call him in a little bit. Come on, sit and eat.”
George sat down and waited. Bert took a bright red hot pad, went to the oven and brought out the cornbread and placed it on a trivet in the center of the table. She took a knife from a wood block and cut it into good-sized portions. There was a pitcher of water, a pitcher of juice and a plastic gallon of milk already on the table. There was butter in a dish along with a plastic squeeze bottle in the shape of a bear filled with honey.
His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“Well, you’re up early,” Jon said as he came into the kitchen.
He put a thick arm around George’s neck and rested a cheek on the top of George’s head in a hug.
“Good morning, George.”
“Good morning, Gran- . . .” he caught himself, hunted for something to say and settled for, “Sir.”
He felt himself turning crimson, even with his naturally copper-colored skin.
“I’ll take that as a wonderful complement, George, because I know how much your grandfather meant to you. Thank you very much.”
Embarrassed, George smiled at Jon, then at Bert, and waited with his hands in his lap until Jon sat down to eat.
“Pour yourself something to drink, George. No need to be shy around us,” Bert said.
Bert was loading bacon onto a plate between layers of paper towel to soak up some of the grease, and Jon was at the counter pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“What?’ Bert asked.
“In my family, we wait until our elders . . . my mother, grandfather and grandmother begin to eat before we do.”
“Oh,” Bert said. “Don’t wait for me or everything will get cold. Jon, sit your butt down and start eating. George is hungry.”
George had to smile at the two of them as they made faces at each other, then Jon turned to George and said, “She’s rude this morning, don’t you think?”
Bert snapped him in the butt with a dishtowel, and George laughed as Jon danced away after a ‘yelp’.
He sat down and said, “Do you and your family say ‘grace’?”
George looked confused, not sure what he meant.
“George already said his prayers this morning,” Bert said placing the plate piled with bacon on the table. “That’s what you were doing, right?”
“Yes,” George said simply, offering no further explanation.
“I watched, and I thought it was beautiful,” Bert said. “Do you do that each morning?”
“Yes.”
“I noticed you faced the east.”
George nodded.
“Toward the rising sun.”
She nodded.
“With all the trees, it must be different for you here than in Arizona,” Jon said.
George knew they were curious, and he didn’t mind. So he explained that each morning ever since he was little, he and his grandfather would ride on horseback up the nearest mesa that overlooked a valley with a winding creek that seldom had water in it. They would face the east and pray to father sun, honoring him.
His grandfather was a singer, which to the Navaho was similar to a priest or minister to the biligaana; someone who wasn’t Navaho, except among his ‘Azee’tsoh dine’e, which translated to The Big Medicine People Clan, and their neighbors, his grandfather had the reputation of being more similar to an archbishop or cardinal in the Roman Catholic religion. He knew this because many of his people converted to this faith, something neither he nor his family had done. But his grandfather was that important. Slowly, George learned the songs and had hoped to one day become a singer like his grandfather.
Bert exchanged a look with Jon as George reached for a piece of cornbread and then the bottle of honey. He squeezed a good amount on it, loaded up his fork and took a bite.
“How long will it take you to be a singer?” Jon asked.
George thought about that and didn’t answer right away. Trouble was, George didn’t know, especially now. He knew of other singers in his clan, but none well enough for him to ask to teach him. Maybe this was as far as he was going to get, and maybe he’d never become a singer like his grandfather.
“I don’t know.”
As he reached for bacon, Bert asked, “George, is there going to be a funeral for your family?”
George turned red, and explained that the Navajo didn’t have funerals. In fact, they seldom if ever talked about the dead, family members or not. There was too much superstition, especially among the elders. Because the elders didn’t talk
about the deceased, the young didn’t either.
“But,” Bert said, “if they were important to you as they must be, it seems only fitting there should be some sort of memorial.”
George looked at her, smiled and said, “I was thinking about that, but I don’t know how I’ll do it. Someone needs to say prayers for them.”
He shrugged and ate some bacon.
“Have you thought about where you will live now?” Jon asked.
“I have a cousin . . . Leonard. He’s in the Tribal Police. He’s not married, and he lives by himself in a trailer near a creek.”
He didn’t say that with any enthusiasm. In fact, it was more resignation than enthusiasm.
“Do you think he could help organize your memorial?”
George shook his head.
“He’s superstitious.”
“Hmmn . . . maybe Bert and I can go to Arizona with you. We’ll help,” Jon said. “It would be a nice vacation for us. We’ll ask Jeremy and the twins to come along. You can show us where you used to live and sort of be a tour guide . . . if you want to, that is.”
Tears filled his eyes. These people were so kind. They didn’t even know him, but were willing to help him anyway. He was very grateful, and a big lump rose in his throat. He could hardly talk and couldn’t swallow. He took a drink of ice water. Thankfully, there was a rap at the backdoor and Randy walked in.
“There you are,” he said punching George in the arm. “Dad was wondering where you were and figured you’d be over here.”
He sat down next to George without waiting to be invited and loaded up his plate with cornbread and bacon.
“We better eat before Billy comes over or there won’t be any left,” Randy said with a laugh.
George smiled at Randy, then at Bert and Jon, nodding a silent thank you to them.
Billy came running to the door, fumbled with the handle and said, “You guys started without me?”
And just as Bert had suggested, Billy was dressed just as George was: bare feet and no shirt.
“How far behind is Jeremy?” Bert asked.
“Right here,” he said walking through the door. “Mornin’ guys!”
He and Billy sat opposite George and Randy, and finally Bert sat down, and the six of them ate breakfast with talk of Billy’s baseball, flowers to be planted, and the humid weather. More than anything else, there was laughter. A lot of laughter.