by S. D. Tooley
Jake ran around the barricades toward the Jeep, but the heat from the explosion was too intense. Frank caught up with him and pulled on his arm. “Jake, it’s too late.”
A blue door lay fifty feet from the flaming wreckage. There was so much smoke, it was difficult to tell how much of the Jeep was still intact. Grief-stricken, Jake turned away and leaned against the side of a brick storefront. He felt Frank’s hand on his shoulder. His senses were numb. Reality wasn’t quite setting in. He felt something flutter under his shirt and realized it was Sam’s medicine bundle, the one thing that was to protect her from harm. In his anguish, he slammed his fist into the building.
Refusing Frank’s suggestion that he have his hand X-rayed, Jake slipped around the back of a two-story renovated courthouse where he found a shaky fire escape leading up to the roof. His gnarled right hand hung limp, sending searing stabs of pain up his right arm. He didn’t even wince. The pain was nothing compared to the grief.
He couldn’t handle the press right now much less listen to eyewitnesses recount details about the explosion and the victim caught inside. Reaching the four-foot ledge, Jake stopped and peered down. He saw Russo directing Civil Defense cars around the wooden horses and Frank writing down names of eyewitnesses. Clusters of curious bystanders pressed against the barricades
Slowly Jake turned, sliding his body down the brick wall until he was crouched in a catcher’s position. Holding his left hand out to catch some of the ashes, he remembered Sam’s smooth skin, the feel of her body under his. How synchronized were their movements, as though in a previous life they had been lovers and knew every curve of each other’s body.
The last time Jake cried he was ten years old. His earliest recollection of his father’s fury was at age three when he had dumped a glass of milk on the floor. His father had picked him up by the back of his corduroy bib overalls and held him over the mess making him wipe it up with a paper towel.
His father never showed affection, never played ball, never took him to Cub Scouts like other kids’ dads. All he knew was how to hit. His mother told him it was the liquor that made his father mean, that made him want to strike out. He doesn’t mean it, Dear. He really does love you, she would say.
At age ten, Jake decided he wouldn’t give Evan Mitchell the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Evan Mitchell, who played poker with the boys in the back room of the Frolick Club, who played Santa for the kids at Mercy Hospital. There were two sides to Evan Mitchell. Gradually, the drinking cost him his friends, his job. It reduced his two-hundred-pound bulk to one hundred and sixty. But Ann Mitchell stuck by her man.
She would comfort Jake after his beatings. She would argue with Evan not to hit the boy. Then Evan would hit her. Jake tried to protect her, tried to fight him off. He realized too late how weak his mother really was. Too weak to stand up for herself much less her son. Jake hated her for that weakness.
When he was fifteen, Jake suddenly sprouted up and filled out. It seemed to happen overnight, something Evan hadn’t counted on. When Evan smashed a hammer against Jake’s head and split his forehead open, Jake hauled off and punched him, sending his father flying down the back stairs of their rented town house. Rather than tending to Jake’s bleeding skull, Ann ran down the stairs and cradled her husband’s head in her lap.
Jake didn’t cry at his father’s funeral one year later. Nor did he cry when his mother passed away three years after that. He hadn’t thought about his childhood since his mother’s funeral, as though burying the last of his parents also buried his past.
Each year of his life from age ten on, Jake added another brick to the wall around him until it was so high even he couldn’t see over it. He vowed that nothing would ever get through that emotional barrier. Until Sam. Now he could feel that wall building up again, brick by brick. He had opened up, only to feel pain.
Jake stared at the ashes accumulating in his palm. He closed his fingers around those ashes as if they were the last remnants of Sam he would ever touch. Pressing his fist to his forehead, he wept.
Chapter 82
Jake stood on the bottom step of the patio. The sun was shining brightly, too brightly. He expected the skies to be crying, mourning his loss.
He had sent Frank to the Suisse Hotel, saying he would meet up with them at the Jenkins Art Center. Anger and revenge had propelled Jake down those grated stairs, off the rooftop. He had thought briefly of driving over to Preston’s house and placing his Colt 9mm to the back of the politician’s head, execution style. But there was something more pressing he had to do. Someone had to tell Abby and he wanted her to hear it from him.
How damn clever Preston was. Smarter than Jake gave him credit for. In his statement to the press, Preston had shown them the picture of Cain Sam had given him. Told them she had warned him he might be Cain’s next target. Preston’s hands were lily white — in Cain’s death, Hap’s, Samuel Casey’s, and now Sam’s.
Jake stood by the patio table and thought back to the first time he had stood in this same spot. So smugly he had clung to that videotape, congratulating himself for out-maneuvering the clever Sergeant Casey.
But he was the one who had been blind-sided. When he saw her with that mass of long, spiraling hair daring to be touched, the trace of wine clinging to her lips, that defiant glare in those blue eyes, he felt that first brick fall. And in succession they fell like squares of dominos.
“Jacob.” Abby’s face brightened as she stepped out of the house. Her gaze dropped down to his swollen hand. “What happened?” Gently she cradled his injured hand. Jake winced. He wrapped his good arm around her and held her close.
“I promised you I’d watch over her,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
Abby pulled away from him. She frowned when she saw the anguish in his eyes. She turned her attention back to his hand. “You should really have this looked at, Jacob. Come, sit down.” They sat at the patio table. Abby turned away from him and looked out toward the flowering garden. A soft spray from the underground sprinkling system misted the flower beds. “I’ll have to show you Alex’s roses. They are finally opening up.”
Jake pulled her to him, kissed the back of her head. She turned toward him, placed his left hand between hers and squeezed tightly. And waited.
“There was a car bomb.” Jake could barely get the words out. All he knew was that three hours ago Sam was alive. For seven hours last night they had lived and loved for a lifetime. He wondered now if that had been Sam’s idea all along. Sensing her impending death, she wanted to experience it all.
“Sam?” Abby searched his face.
He expected her to get hysterical, be emotionally overwrought. He didn’t expect her cool detachment. She straightened up and lifted her face as though listening. Her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, she spoke in a calm, confident voice.
“When I lost my first daughter, I knew the moment I awakened that she was dead. I could feel that her spirit was no longer of this earth.” She cupped his face, stared so deeply into his soul that he almost felt her hopefulness, her certainty. “Not this time, Jacob. I can feel her spirit. My Samantha is still alive.”
Chapter 83
Preston glanced over his speech as he stood backstage at the Jenkins Art Center. Already an hour late, he moved as if he had all the time in the world. The waiting area was small but lavishly decorated with burgundy velvet upholstered chairs and solid oak flooring which was carried through to the stage.
“Mr. Hilliard.” A man in full military regalia greeted Preston at the door. Ivan Lambert was a World War II veteran. He offered a pale, veiny hand to Preston. It looked as if a strong wind could blow his frail body from here to Chicago.
“Sorry, I was up late last night giving a statement to the police.” Preston peered behind the curtains at the sea of veterans, most in uniform. The first two rows were filled with reporters and cameramen. “Nice crowd.”
“About four thousand, Sir.”
Preston looked tow
ard the exit door and saw a dark-suited man wearing sunglasses, his hair cut short. A cord snaked around the side of his neck to his left ear. A man dressed identically was positioned at the doorway to the auditorium. Preston assumed they were there for his protection.
“What the hell is going on, Preston?” Gordon Sudecky snapped. The seam of Gordon’s auburn hairpiece shifted slightly as he moved his head. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”
Preston’s raised eyebrow prompted his stout press secretary to take two steps back. “I had an attempt on my life last night,” Preston explained, “or haven’t you heard.”
Gordon stuck an arm toward the stage. “Have you seen the press release? You have to…”
Dismissing him with a wave, Preston said, “After my speech. I know it’s a terrible revelation and I’m sure the reporters have a lot of questions.”
A man in his fifties wearing fatigues rushed in from behind the curtain. “Any time you’re ready, Mr. Hilliard.”
Preston checked his hair in the mirror and straightened his navy pin-striped tie. The news about Sergeant Casey’s death had made his morning. Things couldn’t be better.
Turning back to his press secretary, Preston said, “Just go out there and tell them to make the introduction.” Preston smiled, imagining how the media must have reacted this morning when they received the photos of Governor Meacham.
Chapter 84
Jake took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time. Abby had placed makeshift splinters and wrapped an Ace bandage around his hand. Alex thought he had at least three broken bones, possibly more. But Jake didn’t have time to go to the hospital. He had time for three aspirins.
Abby told him that after Sam witnessed her father’s death, she had run home. The police had found her in Abby’s bedroom, in a corner by the closet, her small body rolled up into a tight ball of fear and confusion, shaking so hard the police couldn’t budge her. So Abby suggested that Jake look where Sam had felt the safest. She and Alex would check the house. Jake knew if Sam would go anywhere, it would be his apartment.
The door to his apartment was unlocked. Whatever mental state Sam was in, she was still able to pick a lock. He entered slowly, the door closing softly behind him. He was stunned and exhilarated at the same time. It had been hard after seeing the wreckage to believe Abby especially after Benny’s call that on preliminary investigation they had found human remains in the Jeep.
But there she was, curled up on the couch, her back to him, still dressed in the black jumpsuit she had worn last night. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, never let her go. Abby had warned him to approach her cautiously.
Sam’s arms, wrapped tightly around her legs, shook violently. Jake saw sections of her hair singed, her jumpsuit ripped and burned. Her eyes stared vacantly, hinting that she could still be in shock… or worse. But she was alive. That’s all that mattered.
Slowly, he lowered himself onto the couch next to her. “Sam?” he whispered.
Her eyes brimmed and tears fell like silent rivers. Reaching out, he carefully wiped the tears with his handkerchief, moved strands of singed hair from her soot-smudged face. He took a visible check of her clothing, arms, legs, looking for breaks, burns, blood. All he could see were a few abrasions.
“Sam? I’m here. You’re safe.” He choked back tears. Sitting in front of him was a dazed five-year-old girl inside a twenty-six-year-old woman’s body.
He held his arms out to her. “Come here, Sweetheart.” Haltingly, her blue eyes shifted toward him. Her brows curled up in confusion. She saw his arms. It took what seemed like a lifetime for her to finally reach out to him. Once she did, he gathered her up and held her close. Her arms encircled his neck, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.
He thought of the condition of her Jeep and wondered how on earth she ever got out. More importantly, whose body was it that burned beyond recognition?
Chapter 85
“So, she’s okay?” Carl asked Jake.
“Physically. She’s with Abby now.” Jake offered his left hand to Lincoln who seemed more at ease than Jake had ever seen him.
The lobby of the Jenkins Art Center was lined in chrome and glass with a large crystal chandelier hanging over the entrance. Floral carpeting led up the stairs, through the lobby, disappearing into the entranceways to the theatre.
An aging veteran in Army fatigues exited one of those entrances, spilling Preston’s arrogant voice into the lobby.
“She wasn’t able to tell you what happened last night?” Frank asked.
Jake shook his head. “She hasn’t spoken at all.”
Frank eyed Jake’s swollen hand. “You should have gone to the hospital.”
Jake winced as he tucked his arm back inside the makeshift sling. “There’s time for that. I could have broken every bone in my body and it wouldn’t have kept me from this moment.” He showed them a fax Chief Connelley had sent to Sam’s house last night. Jake pointed to the bottom of the page. “Look at the initials.” He explained the supervisor’s initials on Samuel Casey’s accident investigation. “Connelley was the supervisor who closed the case. It was under Connelley’s authority that no further examination was made of the evidence gathered from the scene of Samuel Casey’s accident. Connelley was Casey’s closest friend. And six months after Casey’s death, Don Connelley was promoted to chief of police.”
Frank shook his head in disbelief. “So Connelley was pressured by Preston to drop the investigation.”
“That would be my guess,” Jake replied. “Preston has probably been holding it over his head all this time. Since Benny confirmed that the body in the Jeep was Chief Connelley, all the answers we need went up in smoke. The only one who might have heard Connelley’s explanation is Sam.”
Frank asked, “So how does Murphy figure in all this? Are his hands lily white?”
“Far as we can tell,” Carl explained, “he’s only guilty of keeping a local politician apprised of community matters. Murphy had no idea Hilliard was involved in anything other than politics as usual, one hand washing the other sort of thing. Contrary to our hopes, he passed a polygraph.” Carl pressed his hand to his ear piece. “We better get in there.”
They gathered in the back of the auditorium — Carl, Jake, Frank, and Lincoln Thomas. A sea of uniforms from all branches of the armed forces sat in silence and with some admiration for the speaker as he told of his war experiences and his efforts to pass bills for increased health care and disability benefits for veterans. The press was moving around distractingly in the first two rows. Preston talked over their heads, addressing only the audience, gazing up at those in the balcony, across the long rows on the main level.
Carl handed Jake an envelope.
“What’s this?”
Several heads turned toward them. One matronly woman in dress blues placed a finger to her lips and gave them an annoyed “shhhhhhhh.”
They found a small secluded alcove by the door where they could whisper. “David Noland, Parker Smith’s attorney, sent this by courier,” Carl said. “It was Parker’s instructions that it not be opened until after his death. This is the nail in Preston’s coffin.”
Jake unfolded the letter and while Frank held a small flashlight, read the confession signed by Parker Smith admitting his involvement in the 1951 killings in Mushima Valley, and accusing Preston of not only ordering the executions but also personally shooting one of the victims twice in the back of the head.
“What about Hap and Sam’s father?” Jake asked.
“Cain was our only proof that could link Preston to the murders of Hap and Samuel Casey,” Frank whispered. “And there are no witnesses that Preston knew Cain now or twenty years ago. The butler never met him and Preston’s housekeeper has left the country.”
“But, Carl, your men have photos of Cain entering and leaving Preston’s house,” Jake reminded him.
“True, but no photos with Cain and Preston together. Preston can always say Cain was casing th
e place out.”
Jake handed the letter back to Carl. “At least Hap’s affidavit proves he was going to confront Preston.”
Folding the letter back into the envelope, Carl said, “My men did find the pin in Preston’s safe. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints in the house. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints on the bomb in Sam’s Jeep. My money says Cain killed the officer last night but he wore gloves so only Sam’s prints were on the gun.”
“Take a look at this.” Frank handed Jake a copy of the press release. “Looks like Tim’s programming worked like a charm.”
Jake smiled when he saw Hap’s and Samuel Casey’s reports. “I’m sure Preston thinks the press is looking at embarrassing photos of Meacham.”
Something Preston said rewarded him with thunderous applause. He held up his hands to silence the crowd, some of who stood up to cheer. Preston had just announced that he planned to run for governor.
“Mr. Hilliard, Mr. Hilliard.” A wiry reporter with a resonant voice started to speak.
“Questions, later, if you don’t mind,” Preston pleaded.
“But what about the press release we received this morning?” another voice asked.
Preston had prepared a quick speech regarding the unfortunate incident involving Governor Meacham but another reporter cut him off before he had a chance to speak.
A smartly dressed woman from Channel Seven News stood up. “What about these allegations concerning Korea?”
Preston blinked. Korea? “What?” he stammered. “What are you talking about?”
Six reporters tried speaking at once. Ivan Lambert was handed several sheets of paper. He teetered over to the podium and handed them to Preston. Expecting to see the pictures he had sent on Meacham, he was horrified to see a written affidavit by Hap Wilson and Samuel Casey.