When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

  Frank pulled up a chair and introduced himself. He watched for telltale reaction as he mentioned Hap Wilson’s name and Mushima Valley. There wasn’t a twitch, no flicker behind his vacant stare, no hint that Parker was understanding, much less hearing, what Frank was saying.

  A cart rolled along the corridor stopping in front of the room. Visitors talked quietly as they passed, some pushing relatives in wheelchairs.

  Frank stood up and pulled Hap’s pin out of his pocket. He held it up in front of Parker’s eyes, let the sunlight glisten off the shiny metal.

  “Have you ever seen this pin, Mr. Smith?”

  He thought he saw Parker’s right finger twitch. The monitor on the cart next to the bed showed an increase in Parker’s heart rate.

  Second’s later, Nurse Leland came running in. “Is everything okay in here?”

  Frank slipped the pin back into his pocket. “Sure. I did notice a change in his heart rate.”

  “You betcha. The damn machine lit up like a Christmas tree.” She watched the monitor. “I don’t like the way his blood pressure is rising, though. I think you better leave now. This is a little too much excitement for one day.”

  Moments after Frank left, Nurse Leland watched in awe as Parker started to cry uncontrollably. He emitted no sounds. His good arm shook, his hand clenched the side of the bed. His heart rate reached one hundred and ten. She made a frantic call to Doctor Chan, who prescribed a mild sedative.

  An hour later when Nurse Leland checked on Parker Smith, she noticed he had pulled a pen off the nightstand and scrawled a simple note on his bed sheet. It said,

  CALL NOLAND

  Chapter 58

  “Shhh, don’t say a word. Promise?”

  The long cedar-colored tail whipped across the front seat. The Irish Setter cocked its head at Jake and padded restlessly across the front seat of Jake’s Buick Riviera. Strands of copper hair clung to the burgundy and gray cloth seats.

  “Thanks,” Jake said picking up some of the hairs and flinging them out the window. “Now you’ll force me to clean my car.”

  Jake snapped the leash on the dog and led it from the car. From the trunk, Jake hefted a bag of dog food. The Irish Setter sniffed along the driveway and the walkway toward the patio.

  The sun was setting behind the tall willow trees. In the distance, Jake saw Alex kneeling in the grass fixing the brick edging around the birdbath. The dog spotted Alex at the same time and started pulling on the leash.

  “You promised to remain quiet.” Jake unsnapped the leash. The dog took off.

  “Hey, Poco.” Alex fell back on his rear as the dog jumped on him. “Where did you come from?”

  Jake dropped the twenty-five pound bag of dog food on the ground. “She’s my thank you for doctoring my head.”

  Alex looked toward the house. “Does Sam know?”

  “It will probably be a week before she even discovers the dog.”

  Alex rubbed the back of Poco’s neck as her tail whipped the air furiously. He looked up at Jake’s head, the gash that was starting to scab over.

  “It is healing nicely.” Alex looked at Poco, then Jake. Jake detected a grunt as Alex turned to leave. Alex mumbled something about “now I get to clean up all the crap in the yard. Lucky me.” But it didn’t stop Alex from reaching down to pat Poco on the head as they walked away.

  Jake smiled. Alex wasn’t exactly showering him with accolades or glowing in brotherly love. But it was a start.

  Chapter 59

  Sam paced the length of the dining room table. Time on her hands, too much time. Tim was still working on the password. Frank hadn’t called from Elkhart and it was close to seven o’clock in the evening. She had no idea where Jake was, and Hap Wilson’s body was on its way back to D.C.

  Hap — she had met Hap when she was younger. She had been the one tracing the pin at her father’s desk. Hap had been at her father’s office. Sam stopped pacing. No, Hap had been here, in her father’s house.

  She rushed down the stairs by the kitchen. The basement ran the entire length of the house with a ten-foot high ceiling. It was as tidy as the upstairs, decorated with the furnishings discarded from the redecorating Abby had done several years before. The patterned linoleum floor was dotted with a variety of area rugs.

  Sam dodged the pool table and bookcase, stopping at the far end of the basement where a large mahogany desk sat. She heard a door upstairs close, then Jake’s voice.

  “DOWN HERE!” Sam yelled. When she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she said, “Help me move this.”

  He stared at the four-foot by six-foot red mahogany desk. “It’s built like a Sherman tank.”

  “It was my father’s. I remember now. Hap came over to the house, not the office. Maybe he left some notes.”

  She pulled out the heavy wooden chair and sat down. Almost immediately the drawings of lightning bolts flashed before her eyes. She smiled and said, “I knew it. I knew there was something right under my nose.”

  “Don’t you think Abby would have found whatever your father might have left?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Sam pushed the chair away from the desk and started opening drawers.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something, anything.”

  “Let’s see if we can move it away from the wall.” Jake grabbed one end while Sam grabbed the other. It wouldn’t budge. “Like I said, it’s built like a tank.” He looked around the room. “Do you have a flashlight down here?”

  She disappeared into a closet under the stairs and came back with a flashlight. He flashed it behind and under the desk.

  “Nothing,” Jake said. They proceeded to take out the drawers and turn each of them over. Taped to the underside of the bottom right-hand drawer was a small, brown envelope.

  Once upstairs, seated at the dining room table, Sam still couldn’t bring herself to open it. “Here.” She handed the envelope to Jake. “You do it.” Jake ripped the envelope open and spilled the contents on the table. A long, silver key clinked against the tabletop. “What is it?” Sam picked up the key and clenched it in her hand. Nothing. No visions, no sounds or scents.

  Jake took it from her and looked at the number. “I think it’s a safety deposit key, Sam.” He checked his watch. “Banks are closed. I’ll check into getting a court order.”

  Frank called to fill them in on his visit with Parker Smith in Elkhart. The nurse had informed him of the name Parker had written — Noland. Noland was Parker’s attorney.

  After Jake hung up with Frank, he said, “I’m going to stop by the Chasen Heights Post Tribune office.”

  “I’ll call the family attorney,” Sam offered.

  Instead, Jake headed over to the Suisse Hotel to brainstorm with Carl.

  Chapter 60

  Ling Toy busied himself tying together makeshift cots to carry the wounded. But he never took his eyes off of the white soldiers. Hap and his friends were covered in dirt and dried blood. But the white soldiers had clean, sleeveless tee shirts, and looked as if they were catching a few rays while waiting to be picked up.

  The shade from the scrub pines didn’t hide the arrogance in P.K.’s face. George lowered his tall frame onto a felled tree trunk, pulled out his knife, and slowly ran it across the back of his hand. Smitty’s bony fingers played with the dog tags around his neck. Len’s brooding, dark eyes peered out from under hooded brows. They eyed Hap and his unit like hyenas waiting for the weaker one to drop.

  Hap tossed his cigarette butt aside, grabbed his stomach, and told Booker, “I gotta go find me some bushes.”

  P.K. yelled at Ling Toy, “What are you looking at?” Ling Toy turned away quickly. He tried not to hear what they were talking about. All he knew was that Base had instructed Booker, Hap, Bubba, and Shadow to bring the injured in. But the white sergeant, P.K., wanted them to take a look at what was over the hill.

  Rays from the setting sun bounced off the weapons drawn by the white soldiers. Gunfire rang
out.

  Lincoln Thomas woke with a start.

  “Whoa, didn’t mean to startle you,” Sergeant Scofield said. “Here’s your tea.” Too nervous to eat, Lincoln had skipped breakfast this morning. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “You okay?” Scofield asked.

  “I am fine. Do you know when Detective Mitchell will return?”

  “Sorry. He hasn’t answered his beeper yet.”

  “And Sergeant Casey? Are you sure I can’t have her phone number or home address?”

  Ed shook his head no. “If you can’t wait, I can have them call you.”

  “I will wait.”

  Lincoln unbuttoned his suit coat and, from his seat in the visitor’s area, watched as detectives filled out reports at their desks, and others went from phone call to phone call. The desk sergeant himself was either logging in information or on the phone.

  Lincoln moved an ashtray over to the table on the other side of the waiting room. The coffee table was littered with half-empty coffee cups and outdated newspapers. He picked up the coffee cups and emptied them in a nearby trash can. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them in one pile so he would have room to lay his paper down to read.

  Voices pierced through the commotion in the outer office. Two figures emerged from the elevator. Hoping that they might be the detectives, Lincoln stood up.

  He didn’t know the well-dressed man the desk sergeant referred to as Captain. But the man with the captain, Lincoln would know in the dark. Even if he hadn’t seen the cold eyes and arrogant smile, he would know the voice. It was loud, demanding, laced in cynicism. It was him. The man he hated. The man known as P.K.

  Lincoln hid his face behind his newspaper and waited for the two men to disappear behind a door at the far end of the room.

  Without a word to Ed Scofield, Lincoln left his cup of tea and newspaper and fled down the stairs.

  Chapter 61

  Sam stood in front of one of the tall windows in the sitting room watching for Jake to return from the bank. He had discovered that the Chasen Heights Post Tribune had been paying on Samuel Casey’s safety deposit box. It had been a little-known hideaway for their traveling reporters years ago that, somehow, slipped through the cracks in the Bookkeeping Department.

  Abby stood in the living room watching her daughter. “Samantha, please come into the kitchen and eat your breakfast.”

  “Where is Jake? Why hasn’t he called?” Sam reluctantly walked to the kitchen. She snatched a piece of crisp bacon as Abby pushed her onto a stool at the counter.

  “The banks aren’t open.” Abby set a plate of toast on the counter.

  “He had to get a subpoena but it shouldn’t have taken that long.”

  Sam glanced out into the backyard. Alex was kneeling in the lawn repairing a sprinkler hose. Just as she was ready to turn away from the window, her eyes caught sight of something. “Is that a dog in our yard?”

  Abby peered out of the windowbox over the sink, spatula in hand. “Yes, Dear, that’s a dog.”

  Sam looked sharply at her mother. “That’s not funny.”

  “That’s Poco,” Abby explained, smiling. “Jacob bought her for Alex.”

  “He did WHAT?”

  “Alex has been admiring that dog for three weeks. He said she was going to be put to sleep. So Jacob bought her as a thank you gift for Alex fixing the cut on his head. That was very thoughtful of him, don’t you think?” Abby didn’t wait for Sam to reply. “She’s very well-behaved, Dear. And she’s going to be with Alex, not here.”

  “You’re fawning, Mom.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Fawning. You are fawning over Jake. All this time I keep waiting for the shoe to drop, expecting him to plop that videotape of me on Uncle Don’s desk.” Her hands moved in animation. Abby leaned against the sink, her arms folded in front of her as she watched her daughter rant. “But why does he have to? He has you cooking his meals, washing his clothes. He uses my house like a hotel with complete room service.”

  “I’m sorry, Samantha. I thought this was my house, too.”

  Closing her eyes, Sam bit back her irritation. She rubbed her temples, realizing how she must have sounded. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She forced a smile. “I just ... somewhere along the line I lost control. And it all started with that damn trip to Preston’s.”

  “Yes, you do have a knack for complicating things.”

  “Sam?”

  Sam turned toward the patio where Tim was standing, his face pressed close to the screen.

  “Come in, please. I hope YOU have good news.”

  “Good and bad, I guess you could say.” Tim gave a nod toward Abby.

  “I found the second password,” Tim explained. “It’s GUVNER.”

  “That’s the bad news?”

  “No. The bad news is the program can only be accessed at the main terminal.”

  “Preston’s? We have to go back to Preston’s?” Sam’s face twisted into a look of disbelief and sheer agony.

  Sam walked him to the driveway where he had parked his bike. “Oh, by the way,” Tim said as he climbed onto his bike. “I followed the dark sedan. The two men went to the Suisse Hotel. Suite 1411.”

  Chapter 62

  Jake drove up the driveway, resenting the fact that he had lied to Sam. He and Carl had obtained the contents of the safety deposit box last night. The bank president had personally driven over to open the doors.

  Carl had made a copy of Hap’s affidavit and even kept the last two pages. “Sergeant Casey doesn’t need to see those two pages,” Carl had said.

  It was then that Jake knew Carl had seen the affidavit before. Carl hadn’t even read what was in the safety deposit box. He had gone right to the last two pages.

  Carl finally admitted it. “President Whitter received this report by courier from Samuel Casey AFTER Samuel Casey’s death. He must have suspected that his life was in danger and wanted to make sure a copy got into the right hands. The President faxed me copies of it after I arrived in Chasen Heights. I’m as sick about this as you are, Jake.”

  Jake couldn’t believe those bodies had been out there all this time, and no one had checked out the story. The families had been led to believe that their sons were deserters.

  The coup de grace was, they had found the bodies, all three of Hap’s friends. Question was: Did they die in battle? Or were they murdered?

  Jake turned the ignition off, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Carl had to work on President Whittier. An election seemed to be more important to the President. Carl’s parting words were for Jake to make sure Sam didn’t find out the truth.

  Chapter 63

  Through the bay window Jake watched Alex tossing a ball to Poco. The sun was blinding, the air humid. The forecast said it would hit ninety degrees by noon.

  Abby was cutting flowers in a rainbow of colors and placing them in a basket. She handled the flowers as gently as if they were made of fine porcelain china. The flowers, trees, plants, and animals, they are all the children of nature, he could almost hear her say.

  Behind him, sitting at the dining room table, was Sam. Her head was lowered, eyes intense, dissecting every word on the pages found in her father’s safety deposit box. Jake wished she wouldn’t wear shorts. Her legs were too distracting. And he knew if he stared into her penetrating eyes, she would be able to read the guilt that was stamped all over his face.

  Or maybe subconsciously he believed what Abby had told him. About why some people on the reservation avoided Sam for fear she could read their minds. Lucky for him Abby said Sam was only good with dead bodies. Jake smiled weakly. He was almost sounding as though he believed it. Abby saw him in the window and waved.

  What was it Sam had said? Abby was a medicine woman and could see into his soul. The weak smile started to fade. Abby knew. If he believed Abby had the power, then he’d have to believe that Abby knew about him and Carl and the FBI. Of course, Abby did say they couldn’t
pick what they knew and when. The question he now pondered was, if she did know, why hadn’t she told Sam?

  Sam started with the signed affidavit by Hap Wilson describing what had happened that August day in 1951. He described the horrors they had found, how they had pulled out the only survivors of the killing field. It had been Hap, the three other black soldiers, and a young Korean boy named Ling Toy, not Preston Hilliard and his men, who had rescued the survivors.

  “Listen to what Hap wrote,” Sam said.

  P.K. said he was taking over command and ordered us to go up the hill to see what the Koreans were up to. Sergeant Booker argued that our orders were to retreat. I was in the bushes about fifty feet away. But I could hear them real good. P.K. called us bug outs. It’s a term used when a troop is abandoning its position because it is outnumbered or out-powered. When whitey speaks, it’s synonymous with tactical maneuver or repositioning. But whenever it’s used in relation to blacks, it’s implied as cowardice. This was a Base-ordered retreat. And I was hell-bent on seeing that that was how it was reported.

  Sam read the rest in silence. “My, god. They just shot them as they walked away. And Preston handed out the lightning bolt pins as if they had won Oscars.”

  “I know, Sam. I read it.”

  “Hap was shot running for his life. They left him for dead floating in a filthy river. Did you read what lightning strike meant? How Preston called it out before they killed them?”

  “Hap doesn’t mention Preston Hilliard by name, Sam. Only as P.K.”

  “It shouldn’t be hard to prove that P.K. is Preston, should it?”

  “Preston Kellogg Hilliard was in Mushima Valley. What I’m afraid of is Preston will say it’s Hap’s word against his.”