When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

“Abby and Alex just left,” Jake said. He opened the refrigerator and checked the contents.

  Sam cocked her head slightly, looked up at Jake’s wet hair and his clean knit shirt that smelled of Abby’s fabric softener. “This isn’t a goddam hotel, Mitchell. You’re getting your clothes washed, your bandages changed ...”

  Jake slammed the refrigerator door shut, knocking some of the magnets off the front panel. “I’m outta here.”

  He slid the screen door open just as Sam said, “Wait.” She opened the jewelry box and mumbled, “I need your help.”

  Jake jerked his head around. “Excuse me?”

  Sam took a deep breath despising the fact that she had to repeat herself knowing full well he had heard her the first time. “I said I need your help.” She looked at him and tried to stop the tears that were welling up. She whispered, “Please.” Jake closed the screen door and walked over to Sam. “I found this in my father’s jewelry box.” She held up a gold pin in the shape of a lightning bolt.

  Chapter 45

  “And you never looked in your father’s jewelry box before?” Jake asked.

  “I had no reason to. Everything has been packed away since his death.”

  “Damn.” He held the pin between his fingers. “It’s definitely the same. But he was too young to have been in the Korean War.”

  “Hap had one, Preston, Abbott, and now my father. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We can’t think on an empty stomach.” Jake set the bowls of leftovers on the counter and they loaded their plates.

  Sam picked at her food as Jake fingered the heavy silver bracelets and leather bands. He found a matching men’s necklace. Her gaze swept over his muscular arms and the magnificent way he filled his blue Henley knit shirt. The room was filled with the subtle scent of his woodsy aftershave. She felt a warmth spreading rapidly through her body.

  He held up a silver arrowhead on a leather cord. “Beautiful jewelry.”

  “Abby used to bring back jewelry from the reservation. That’s how she met Alex. These are some of his earlier pieces.”

  “Tell me more about Alex.”

  “Alex Red Cloud. He’s a fantastic jewelry maker, herbologist, animal doctor, does great rain dances ...”

  Jake arched one eyebrow. “Rain dances?”

  “He came here about ten years ago. Said that in a vision the spirits told him he had been chosen to protect wicasa wakan.”

  “What’s that?” Jake retrieved two liqueur glasses from the cabinet.

  “It’s a holy man or medicine man, someone who speaks with the Wakinyan Oyate and heyoka, the Thunder-Beings and spirits. Abby is a wicasa wakan.”

  “Medicine woman?” Jake almost dropped the glasses on the counter. “Abby is a medicine woman?”

  Amused by his reaction, Sam added, “Any powers I have that you try to dismiss logically were inherited not just from my grandmother, but also from my mother. Watch your thoughts around her, Jake.” She smiled coyly. “She can see into your soul.”

  Jake seemed to be deep in thought, worry lines creasing his forehead. He snapped out of it, poured two glasses of Tia Maria liqueur and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  She followed him into the study. They stood in front of the plexiboard.

  “Who added this?”

  “Guess I forgot to tell you.” Jake told her about his conference call with Elvis and Phong Lee.

  “And you didn’t include me?”

  “It happened too quickly. Then you were shooting off your mouth at Murphy. I left several messages that you conveniently ignored.”

  Sam walked up to the plexiboard, drew another line down from Hap’s name, and wrote Preston’s and Abbott’s names. She drew a small lightning bolt by the three names.

  Jake took the marker from her and wrote Samuel Casey’s name near the date that Hap had died. He drew a lightning bolt by Samuel’s name.

  Sam pointed at the empty space between 1951 and 1977. “We still have to fill a pretty large gap.”

  “DMV hasn’t been of any help,” Jake said. “Records weren’t computerized back in 1951. We’re kind of at a standstill.”

  He sat down on the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Tim find out anything about Preston’s computer?”

  “Preston’s using some kind of fail-safe code. Tim found the first password — BYRON. But the program is set up so if you don’t get the second password on the first try, something is executed. Tim’s not sure what it is that is activated but he doesn’t want to take any chances.” Sam sat down next to Jake, resting her feet on the table by his.

  “What about the CIA files?” Jake’s arm found its way across the back of the couch behind her.

  “He struck out there, too. So he focused on flight logs but he didn’t find anyone by the name of Cain. Cain probably used an alias.” She could feel the heat radiating from Jake’s arm and tried to focus on the plexiboard in front of her. “Tim will find a way to circumvent that password.”

  Sam pulled her father’s pin from her pocket and studied it. “It’s funny. When I first touched Hap’s and Preston’s pins, I got the distinct feeling that I had seen them before. Then, when I touched my father’s, I saw the shapes again — drawn, sketched, traced, childlike drawings.” She looked over at Jake, his chiseled features, his strong jaw line. She caught him staring at her legs and wondered if her cutoffs were too short.

  She took a sip of the flavorful liqueur, then another. She felt warmth in the back of her throat. But what felt even better was Jake’s protective arm. It felt good, too good. The phone rang. The portable unit was sitting on the end table. She had to reach over Jake to pick it up. His breath felt warm on her neck. The track lighting seemed to dim. The smell of burning logs permeated the air yet the fireplace wasn’t on. Soft music played in the background, but the music had been turned off after dinner. It was becoming unusually warm in the room.

  Jake picked up the phone and handed it to her.

  “Hello?” Sam could hear someone breathing on the other end. “Hello, Casey residence.” Then there was a dial tone. Sam looked at the phone and shrugged, setting it down on the coffee table.

  Jake took the pin from her. “Maybe Frank’s suggestion might pay off, to talk to the grandfather of one of Claudia’s pupils. He served in Korea.” Frank’s wife, Claudia, was a part-time teacher. Frank had offered to pay the grandfather a visit. “Did you talk to Chief Connelley?” Jake asked.

  “Yes. He thinks I should take a much-needed vacation. He keeps harping on how everything I do reflects on him and he’d like Abby to tuck me away on the reservation til things blow over.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Jake said under his breath as he set the pin on the coffee table. He moved his arm away from Sam and straightened up.

  Sam checked her watch. “Where could Abby be? It’s almost midnight.”

  “Maybe they went to a show. I’ll wait for her if you want to go on up to bed.”

  “Maybe I will.” She gave the board one last inspection.

  “I think you are avoiding one crucial point.”

  She swung her gaze back to him. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t you find it a little curious that Hap Wilson’s death and your father’s accident happened around the same time?”

  Chapter 46

  After Sam went up to bed and Jake called Carl to tell him of their latest finding, Jake filled the whirlpool, stripped out of his clothes, and climbed in. Only the verdigris patina sconces on the wall were turned on, giving the gym a tranquil mood.

  The whirlpool was in the far corner, bordered on two sides by five feet of tiled wall. Above the tiles, jalousie windows were cranked open for ventilation.

  The low hum of the jets propelled tiny fingers of pressure over his tired body. He leaned back against one of the jets and let the force work its magic on his lower back.

  The more he tried to clear his head, the more the plexiboard puzzle cluttered it. But then he found his tho
ughts drifting to Sam. He could picture every flawless detail of her face, her eyes that were the color of an azure sea, the mass of curly hair he wanted to plunge his hands into.

  He spent his life drifting from one woman to the next. It was safer that way, emotionally. Valerie had been the last. Jake met her two years ago when he responded to a call for a drive-by shooting in an upscale complex. In interviewing the neighbors, he knocked on the door of Valerie Tweed, a high school English teacher, twenty-six years old, short blond hair. She came compact, five-foot-three inches, with an hourglass figure. Except for the times that she corrected Jake’s grammar (occupational hazard, she had explained), Jake felt they had a good relationship.

  Valerie had a pouty mouth, kind of a young Joey Heatherton. Unfortunately, when she opened it she sounded more like a truck driver. Jake thought it was cute in the beginning. But it wore thin real quick.

  He rarely called before going over (occupational hazard, he had explained). Once a month for servicing, completely understood by Valerie, or so he thought.

  But last month he had knocked on Valerie’s door and interrupted a bridal shower ... Valerie’s. He had the pleasure of meeting Valerie’s fiancee. Jake was livid. Not over having been dumped but that she had been sleeping with someone else while he was dating her. Risky sex these days was frightening enough to drive a person to have his entire body hermetically sealed.

  Valerie set him straight in front of Jim, the geek science teacher fiancee; the white-haired grandmother who wore a blue pill box hat and sipped champagne through a straw; and all the bridesmaids and other guests.

  Suddenly the pouty mouth didn’t look that cute, her compact size was too petite, her hair too short and the color too fake. She had always been far too demanding and flaunted her master’s degree every chance she had.

  It took a lot to get Jake to lose his composure. But he exploded that day. “You slept with another man while you were sleeping with me?” he demanded.

  “Wrong, asshole,” Valerie replied. “I was a convenient place for you to drop by any time you felt like it. You never called. We never went out except maybe to dinner once in a while. You usually drank until you passed out, then you got up from your little nap and went home. I saw you once every other month, Jake. We haven’t had sex in almost a year.”

  Almost a year. The words had reverberated in his head. He slinked out of Valerie’s apartment red-faced. When he confessed the ordeal to Frank, Frank laughed and commented that it was a wonder his dick hadn’t atrophied and fallen off.

  Jake had done major backpedaling in his day when it came to women. But for some reason the pedals weren’t working now. Something was sneaking up on him and he seemed powerless to stop it.

  He inhaled deeply in an attempt to push Sam, Valerie, and Hap Wilson out of his head. Suddenly, his senses detected Sam’s perfume, that faint clean scent, like the morning dew. Not that sickening floral worn by some women. This was more like walking through a forest after a heavy rain. He heard the flute music in the background becoming louder and wondered if there was a control somewhere else in the house. He could swear he had turned off the CD player.

  Slowly he opened his eyes. Through the mist snaking up from the whirlpool he saw Sam. She was walking through the doorway, nude. A leather cord necklace dangling feathers and beads lay against her chest. Another ring of feathers rested around her hip hanging just low enough to cover strategic areas. Her hair hung loose, the natural curl framing her face. Lips were parted slightly, inviting, and her eyes had a sultry gaze which was riveted on him.

  Soon the music faded, replaced instead by the pulsating beat of a drum, a drum similar to what he had heard in Sam’s backyard.

  There was something too dreamlike about this. But his eyes were open. He knew he didn’t have THAT much to drink.

  As Sam moved her body to the drum beat, Jake felt her eyes burning a hole, drawing him into her. He wanted to move his arm, just a finger, something to prove to himself he was awake. But his arms refused to budge. He tried to speak but his mouth failed him, too. The brown tips of the white feathers touched softly against her breasts. For a strange moment, Jake felt as though they were his fingertips that touched her.

  Then she started to drift, not walk, but float toward him, into the whirlpool. Or was it through the whirlpool? She stood close enough for him to reach up and touch those dangling feathers.

  He forced himself to move, forced his hands to push himself off the concrete seat. He slid under the water and came up gasping, the bandage on his forehead soaked.

  He winced as he swiped his hands across his forehead and face to clear the water from his eyes. Looking around the gym, he saw that he was alone. The door was closed. All the traces of the hallucination were gone — the drum beat, feathers and semi-nude body — but the lust was overpowering. He stumbled to the shower and let the ice cold water pour over his body. It took ten minutes for him to regain his sanity.

  He pulled on his jeans and went out onto the patio. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. The night air felt clammy. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Flashes of lightning brightened the skies. He didn’t try to rationalize what had just happened.

  He flicked the cigarette butt into the azalea bushes on the opposite side of the brick patio wall and went back inside. As he made his way to the study, something caught his eye. It was lying outside the door to the gym. Stooping down, he picked up the object. It was a white feather with a dark brown tip.

  Chapter 47

  Jake rubbed his eyes, downed two aspirins, and waited for Janet to close the door to Sam’s office. Sleep had been anything but restful. The scene from the whirlpool had played havoc with his sleep. To avoid Sam, he had met Frank for breakfast.

  Janet put through the call from Sheila Ames, the daughter of Leonard Ames who had served with Preston in Korea, and died in an accident in 1976. Once Jake introduced himself, he explained the Hap Wilson case and how her father might have met him in Korea.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I’ve been out of town. But, Korea. Detective, that was so long ago and Daddy died more than twenty years ago.” Her voice had a slight southern accent and was unusually high-pitched, as if she were a fragile, petite woman.

  “Did you have a chance to look at the photo I faxed you this morning?” It was a picture of Hap Wilson.

  “Yes, I did. Unfortunately, his picture means nothing to me. I did go through the box of Daddy’s things in the attic as your fax had suggested.”

  Jake could hear thumping in the phone as though she were tossing things back into the box.

  “There are a lot of letters,” Sheila explained. “It would take me a long time to read through them again.”

  “I’m more interested in the pin.” Along with Hap’s photo, Jake had faxed a picture of the lightning bolt pin.

  Jake looked up. Through the glass window he saw Frank wave. Frank was on his way to South Holland to speak with Amos Washington, the Korean War veteran who was the grandfather of one of Claudia Travis’s students.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Detective. To my knowledge, Daddy never owned such a pin. It’s not in the box with his medals. He never wore jewelry so he didn’t have a jewelry box.”

  Jake could hear papers rustling. “What about your mother? Would she possibly know?”

  “She died five years ago. I remember her telling me that Daddy had a lot of bad dreams after the war. She couldn’t do much for him. He was despondent most of the time. She remembered him being so fun-loving before the war. She told me he was always cracking jokes. That’s what she loved about him ... his sense of humor. But when he came back from the war, he didn’t bring his humor back with him. She said it got progressively worse. Especially a couple of days before he drove his car over the ravine.”

  Jake hesitated, not sure he heard her correctly. “Are you saying your father committed suicide?”

  “Here it is.” The rustling of papers could be heard again. “Yes,” she replied. “Di
dn’t you know? There weren’t any skid marks. It was a dry, December day, no ice. No sign of brake problems. His car just drove right off the cliff.”

  “I’m sorry to bring up such painful ...”

  “It’s okay. Like I said, Detective Mitchell, it’s been a long time. Now, I found Daddy’s desk calendar. I was only in high school at the time he died,” Sheila explained. “He kept his appointments in here.”

  “Did he ever see a doctor for his sleep disorder?”

  “Like a shrink? No. Daddy never went to a doctor.”

  “Did he have any close friends he might have confided in?”

  “As I recall, my mother said he became sullen, absorbed himself in his work.” She spent several seconds locating the date in the calendar book. “Okay, Daddy died on December 23, right before Christmas. On December 22, he has the time of five-thirty in the evening circled and Columbus Park written on it.”

  “Columbus Park?”

  “It’s just a local park by the court house. I’m not sure of the significance of the time.”

  “What about the previous days?”

  “I’m checking.” After a few seconds, Sheila gasped, “Oh, my.”

  “What?”

  “He drew it right on the section marked December 21. It’s that shape, the shape of the pin.”

  Chapter 48

  Frank found it hard to believe the spry man leading him out to the enclosed breezeway was seventy-five-years old. Amos Washington walked tall, proud. The only hints of his age were the leathery skin and bent joints in his fingers from arthritis.

  Amos lived in a brick bi-level on a tree-lined street in South Holland. The four-bedroom home had to have cost at least one- hundred-and-sixty-thousand dollars, Frank guessed. Four people lived here. Zeke and Alicia Washington were at their jobs at the post office. Latoya, Amos’ fifteen-year-old granddaughter, was spending her summer vacation doing odd jobs around the house and catering to her grandfather. She was a pretty girl, with a devilish twinkle in her eye and a Janet Jackson smile.