My nerves added to my frustration, making the rank booth hotter and harder to tolerate.
Perspiration dripped off the end of my nose as I inserted another dime.
Six dollars’ worth of dimes later, Sara still hadn’t shown up. So I drove back to the dealership, excited about the news I had to share.
The Packard was parked on the lot with a cash value written on the windshield in white paint.
Sara had been successful.
I scanned the area, and Sara wasn’t in sight. She had to be here, somewhere.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. She was supposed to meet me on the street. I jammed the pistol into the front of the waistband of my pants and covered it with my shirttail. Then I got out and walked through the parking lot of cars.
I stopped the first person I saw; obviously, a salesman since he was wearing a tie on this warm day.
I grabbed his arm, hard. “Excuse me, did you see the woman who came in here and left the red Packard?” I pointed.
“Oh yeah, pretty lady.” He tried and failed to pull his arm out of my vise-like grip.
“Where’d she go?”
“Hey, my arm!”
“Where’d she go?”
“She went out to the curb and a black Caddy pulled up behind her. Some big guy got out and helped her into the car. I figured it was her husband or kin.”
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening. Someone had taken Sara, and I was sure she hadn’t gone of her own free will. “Which way did they go?”
He pulled his arm out of my pinching grasp. “That way.” He pointed north.
Whoever took Sara had to be local. How else had they gotten here so fast. No one had followed us. I had made sure of that.
Had the dealer called them? Was the mob expecting Sara to dump the Packard? Had the mob called all the car dealers in the friggin’ country?
I sidestepped the salesman and walked into the manager’s office.
A bald, bespectacled man sat behind a large oak desk, smoking a stubby cigar and reading a newspaper. A wooden sign on his desk read ‘Robert A. Latrell, Owner’.
“Mr. Latrell?” I asked.
“At you service, sir. Here to buy a car, are you?” he asked folding his paper. “We’ve got some great-”
The barrel opening of my .45 caliber service pistol had to look awfully large across the width of his desk.
“I’m in a big hurry. The woman in the red Packard, the car you bought, who’d you call?”
“What? You’re talking gibberish.”
I cocked the pistol.
“Look I pay them protection money. They said they’d destroy my store if I didn’t call them if I saw a woman trying to sell a red Packard.”
I leaned across the desk and jabbed his nose with the business end of the 45. “Who?”
“The Viscaro brothers. They run numbers and prostitution in this town, and only God’s knows what else. Two of their goons came and took the woman after I bought her car. I know them. They’re the same ones who take my money every month.”
I eased the hammer down on the 45 and pocketed it as I turned and headed for door.
“And I gave her a fair price,” the owner yelled at my back. “I did, ask her.”
I prayed I’d have the chance to ask her, as I sprinted to the Hudson.
Chapter Ninety-Six
I had only been gone forty-five minutes; an hour tops. But the mob had Sara; the bastards had her.
It was a warm sunny day and the Columbia sidewalks flowed with pedestrians and the streets were jammed with traffic. I glanced at my watch; it was lunchtime as I headed the ol’ Hudson north through downtown.
My gut churned and burned like I’d swallowed a pound of glass shards. I tried not to speed, though I wanted to, so badly.
Maybe that’s why the thugs hadn’t killed Sara on sight; the town was busy, people everywhere.
I shook my head.
None of that mattered. Not now.
All that mattered was she was alive, and they had her.
I weaved through the traffic.
Seven or ten blocks later, I saw a black Caddy in the parking lot of a grocery store pulled up to a phone booth near the street. The rear of the car was facing me. A man and woman were in the back seat, and another man was in the booth.
The woman had long black hair like Sara. The car was a Cadillac. It had to be her, had to.
I slammed the steering wheel with my palm. I’d found her. But my excitement was immediately drowned in desperation. Two mob thugs had Sara and were parked out in the open. I had the same gnawing gut pain that I’d had before we started our night assault on the East Hill in Hagaru-ri. The enemy had the advantage.
I drove past and turned down the next street and parked.
With shaking hands, I checked to make sure I had a round chambered and slid the .45 pistol in the front of my pants. I concealed the gun with my shirttail and got out of the car.
I didn’t have a plan. There wasn’t any time. Probably the only thing keeping Sara alive was a decision of the when and where to kill her. And I assumed that decision was being solicited over the phone.
And I didn’t have a frigg’in plan.
I fast-walked back toward the main street. What was I going to do, just walk up and start shooting? My legs were numb, and I was having trouble breathing as I turned the corner toward the grocery store.
A half block ahead, the Caddy, parked in the lot, was facing me as was the man in the phone booth across the sidewalk from the car.
I put my hands in my pockets and tried to slow down like I was out to lunch.
My fingers found an old friend, my talisman, Dad’s shell. Although the inscribed shell was always on my person, I rarely noticed it. But today I rubbed it hard. And despite the fact that I didn’t believe in voodoo, the feelings returned to my legs, and my breathing though rapid, became more even and deeper.
I was walking fast. I had to get to the Caddy before the man in the phone booth finished his call. I needed the two men separated in order to have a chance.
I looked straight ahead and began humming one of Mom’s wordless songs.
As I got closer I risked a glance and could see the woman in the back seat; it was Sara. Her head moved. She was alive, thank God. A calmness slowed both my heart rate and my breathing. I knew what I had to do.
Then as my eyes scanned past the booth, a chill ripped through me. The man in the booth was hanging up the phone and watching me.
I picked up my pace and hummed louder, focusing on the passing cars.
As I passed the phone booth, though I didn’t want to risk a look, I heard the booth’s hinged door open. I took one more step beyond the rear of the Caddy, drew my pistol, and turned.
The man was stepping out of the booth, staring at me, as he reached inside his coat.
I braced, clasped the gun two-handed, aimed, and shot the man sitting in the car next to Sara in the back of his head.
As I swung my gun toward the other man, something smashed into my upper chest, trying to burn its way through me, as my back slammed onto the sidewalk.
I couldn’t breathe, but I still had a firm grip on my gun. The man from the booth took a step toward me. I aimed and fired. Three shots, two in the chest, driving him backwards, and one in the head, dropping him like a bag of meat.
All that practice at the range had . . . blackness.
Sara was there. Kneeling above me. Holding my head.
“Sara, are you okay?” I asked, my voice sounding like I was in an echo chamber.
Her mouth moved but no words came out. She pulled me up into a seated position. I screamed as a red hot iron bore through my chest. I could hear that. Then Sara tried to get me to my feet. She was too little to pull me up. I tried to help, but my muscles weren’t responding.
“Mick, for the love of God get up!” Sara said through clenched teeth as she tugged on my arms.
I got a knee under me and then stood. The searing pain made me ga
sp. The gasp made me cough. Bright red blood flew out of my mouth. I was in trouble. I wanted to go back down, back to the warm sidewalk, but Sara had a shoulder under me. Despite my reluctance, she was walking me to the Caddy.
The next thing I knew, fuzzy trees and crooked telephone poles were sliding by the window as I looked up from the back seat of a car.
Then me and everything around me slid into dark space; I floated in a black void.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
“Mr. Mackenzie,” an invasive feminine voice said. “Mr. Mackenzie, can you hear me?”
Some annoying woman was calling me from outside the tranquility that engulfed me. I didn’t want to be disturbed. I didn’t want to go back there. Pain and fear were on the other side of the darkness. I was warm and comfortable, my mind free. I wanted to stay here.
Calloused fingers touched my temple and then patted my cheek.
“Wake up, Sergeant Mackenzie,” a deep throaty male voice ordered.
I must be back at the base. Had I overslept? I never overslept. Never.
I opened one then the other eyelid, each sticking a little as if there was something binding them to my cheeks.
A bright light in the room burned my eyes, making them water. Between the moisture and the caked matter, and that damned light, I couldn’t see anything. So I closed my lids, hoping to return to the peace and quiet again.
Hands removed something off my face. Warm air caressed my face followed by a cool cloth wiping over my eyelids. And then something enclosed around my face again, something confining.
“Sergeant, open your eyes,” the male voice ordered. “We need to talk. Witnesses say you killed two men in front of Kroger’s in downtown Columbia today.”
Chapter Ninety-Eight
I blinked my eyes until everything was clear. There was a glass mask over my face, hot and moist, uncomfortable. I grabbed it and tugged. The what-seemed-to-be gas mask was strapped to my head.
A woman dressed in white, a nurse, appeared and removed my hand from the mask. “Now, now, Mr. Mackenzie. You have to leave that air-mask on. It’s helping you breathe.”
I was in a bed. My head and chest slightly elevated. There was a tube coming out of my chest. An IV in my hand. What the-I scanned the room; a hospital room. I tried to sit-up and pain knifed into my upper chest, instantly reminding me why I was here. I’d been shot.
My mind pieced the puzzle together. Sara must have brought me here. Hopefully, she’d dropped me off and left.
I prayed she was okay.
A burly man, in a drab brown suit, white shirt, and green tie, replaced the plump nurse at my bedside.
“Sergeant, can you talk?” the man asked.
I nodded.
“Did you shoot two men?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice sounding like I was in a well. My eyes going from the man to the woman, flanking my bed from each side.
“I’m Lieutenant Ferguson, of the Columbia Police Department,” the man said.
My stomach knotted.
“And I’m Nurse Simmons,” the slightly overweight mid-thirties woman said as her warm hands took my pulse. “And aren’t you that Marine who won all those medals in Korea, the one from Bluffton? My Aunt has one of those TV sets, and me and my husband, who was also a Marine, watched the news when President Truman hung that medal around your neck. I never forget a face, may forget names, but not faces.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, relieved by her topic change. “Sergeant Mick Mackenzie. And it was just a couple of medals. Two Purple Hearts and the Congressional Medal of Honor, ma’am.” I shook my head. What was I doing? I was blabbering.
Lieutenant Ferguson stood, braced, and saluted me.
I painfully returned the salute, best I could.
“I’m humbly honored, Sergeant Mackenzie,” the lieutenant said. “I was in World War Two. Served four years in the Army mostly in Europe. Left a Captain.”
“God bless you, sir. My dad was a Marine in the Pacific.”
“With all due respect, Sergeant, will you answer my question?”
The starkness of my situation focused my mind. I took a deep breath. “I’m still a Marine, and I’ve been one long enough to know that you don’t have . . . what’s the word?”
“Jurisdiction,” the lieutenant said.
“Yeah, that’s it.” My mental fog had lifted. “Excuse me, my mind’s a little fuzzy. However, I do know if I’m going to be charged with something, I think that’s up to the Marine Corps, not the Columbia Police Department.”
The lieutenant sighed. “Yes, you’re right. But I still have to investigate a double homicide. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Have you or anyone informed the military about my so-called involvement in a . . . a double homicide?”
“No. But I will.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” I looked at the nurse gaining eye contact. “Nurse Simmons, was it?”
“Yes.”
“How long will I be in here?”
“You’ll need to talk to a doctor about that. I can tell you this. You’ve been shot. You have a collapsed lung, some chipped ribs, some tissue damage, a lot of blood loss, and a slight fever. Your body’s suffered a lot of trauma. I wouldn’t think you’ll be going anywhere soon.”
“Do you know who brought me here?”
The lieutenant sat more upright, pad and pen in hands.
“Someone dropped you at the Emergency Room door is all I know.” The nurse then checked my vitals and the lieutenant left.
Exhausted from the implications and the conversing, I laid back and closed my eyes.
I wondered if I’d ever see Sara again.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Two Days Later
Providence Hospital
Columbia, South Carolina
It had been so nice to sleep a whole night, without the ventilator or the tube protruding from my chest.
After my sponge bath and a bland hospital breakfast, the door to my room opened. A young Navy Lieutenant Commander walked in and saluted me.
“Sergeant Mackenzie, I’m Lieutenant Commander Wayne Hodges of the US JAG Corps.”
At last, the cavalry had arrived.
The officer set his brief case down and opened it, removing some papers. “I was initially sent here to both interface and intercede with the Columbia Police Force on your behalf. They’re saying they’re going to charge you with double homicide.”
I couldn’t stop the shudder that rippled through me. I could go to prison for the rest of my life or worse, be electrocuted.
“But, ah,” he glanced at some papers in his hand, “things have changed.”
I sat upright, ignoring the dagger jabbing me in the chest. “What’s changed?”
His eyes scanned a page. “Did you recently call the . . . the White House?”
Oh my God my plan had worked. He was a good man.
My mind was celebrating, and it was all I could do not to physically jump up and down; though that would have been fraught with pain. Instead I remained outwardly cool.
“Yes,” I said as if calling the White House was something I did often.
“And, Sergeant, did you actually talk to, to President Truman?”
“Yeah, I talked to Harry, so what?” I teased.
He shook his head as he folded the papers and stuffed them back into his satchel. “Both the JAG Corps and the city of Columbia’s Department of Justice have been told that you are not to be charged with any crime, at least not until the Director of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, has spoken with you.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded.
“I’m more than impressed, Sergeant,” Hodges said.
“Me too, sir, me too.”
“The call with the Director has been scheduled. It will take place at thirteen hundred hours today, Sergeant. I will return and inform you of your status before your release. Do not attempt to leave the hospital in the interim.” He put his papers into the satchel
. “Also, you have visitors. Your parents are here and a . . . a police woman.” He stepped toward the door.
How did my parents and Kate find out I was in a hospital in Columbia?
My parents and their unconditional love. I was blessed.
Kate’s presence was a surprise, but as the Lieutenant Commander had said earlier, ‘things have changed’.
Kate was waiting with my parents. That had to have been an interesting conversation.
“Thank you, sir,” I said to the retreating JAG officer. “Will you please ask them to come in?”
“Anything for a friend of Harry’s, Sergeant.”
Chapter One-Hundred
The JAG officer had barely closed the door to my hospital room, when the door burst open as my mom rushed in followed by my dad.
A comforting warmth, like a thick blanket on a cold night, enwrapped me.
“Mickey,” my mom was at my side, bent over, touching my face, and kissing my cheek before I could blink. “Are you okay? She said you’d been shot! Where? Who?” She shook her head. “May God have mercy . . . we wouldn’t have known you were here if, if . . .”
My dad clasped her arms and gently raised her upright. “Give the boy a chance to talk, honey.”
“If what?” I asked.
“If Sara hadn’t called us last night,” Dad said.
Thank God, Sara was alive. She was running for her life, and yet she was worried about me.
“I’m going to be fine; as good as new as you always say, Mom.”
Mom took my hand in hers and used her other hand to wipe a tear off her cheek.
I touched my wound. “It’s a pass-through, no major damage. I just need a little time to heal.” I kissed her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“We left before the roosters were up,” Dad said. “Who shot you?”
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