by E. Groat
“Which schools, Mother?”
“Oh, he gave to all of them, but mostly the poorly funded public schools in the worst part of town. Your father wrote monthly checks to one in particular, forever funding its athletics and scholarship funds for the brightest students. As I recall, we attended a function in the school gymnasium honoring him. They treated him like a king. The school never lacked for equipment, biology or chemistry needs; he gave them anything they needed. The school plays looked like Broadway revues. The children loved him, which is ironic now, knowing what we know about him. As for his home life, he treated his mother like royalty, with every respect and kindness. How is she, Josh? Have you talked to her since the funeral? I rather liked her.”
“I have,” he replied. “She seemed like a gracious woman.”
“I know she was thrilled when Beckman finally married. He did rather late in life, you know,”
“Yes, I know. He also treated his wife like garbage. Mother, do you recall the name of the school?”
“No, no I don’t, but I do know it was in the heart of the city.”
As they continued to stroll, Rachel spoke of dinner parties they attended with Beckman, purely for business. “His past connections with Germany and his oversea contacts brought great wealth to his firm. Your father always believed him to still be a Nazi at heart. He was rather a health zealot, nuts-and-berries kind of thing, rarely smoked or drank, worked out...”
Rachel continued, but Josh seemed uninterested now. He had honed in on her comments about Beckman and his love for the schools, and was unable to dismiss them. That ominous thread of connection was still there, like a spider spinning a web in no particular direction, hanging precariously at the end. Knowing that just as sure as there was a beginning to this web, there would be an end. A natural fulfillment, culminating in the predestined victim’s capture. Josh knew the web was encircling the now-dead Beckman. Only in Hell would Beckman feel retribution, but Josh felt driven to uncover the truth about the bodies. The circle would be complete and the truth would be known, if indeed it was the truth.
Somehow, Josh was certain that Beckman was responsible for these children’s deaths. He had to find out. Harry would have some answers.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Rachel tugged at his sleeve, as they aimlessly walked around the beautifully landscaped grounds.
“Yes I have, Mother, every word. You don’t know how much you have helped me. Listen, say goodbye to the boys for me. I’ll probably be back next weekend. Maybe you’ll have your famous cheesecake for me?” Josh kissed her and quickly walked to his car.
When Josh left, Rachel went inside and turned on the news. She was just in time to hear the local newsman announce, “A grizzly discovery downtown, with unknown graves unearthed at the site of the old James Buchanan School...”
Now she remembered the name of the school where Beckman was honored.
Chapter 29
“I’ll only be gone a week, maybe two at the most,” Garth murmured as he hugged Zoe close to him. The call from Riza came late at night, two days after the discovery of the graves at the job site. A well had blown up close to his capital city, igniting two others. Riza was in fear of an explosive situation getting worse. He wanted Garth to oversee the capping of the wells and give direction to his own engineers.
“It’s been awhile since you’ve been involved in one of these,” Zoe cautioned, “but I’m sure you’re going to do what you have to do.” She knew all too well that it was impossible to buck Garth’s stubborn streak once his mind was set.
“Norm will be able to hold down the fort for the next two weeks, and the work schedule is all laid out. Thank God the police did not close down the site.”
“I nearly dropped my teeth when Harris called yesterday morning. He’s been true to his word. I know he had to speed up the investigation with the police commissioner. Cops packed up their tools of the trade and moved on, giving us a clear playing field.”
“Norm knows what to do,” Garth said. “Any emergencies or decisions concerning the office that ol’ Potter can’t handle, you can take care of. I’m only a phone call away. I’m glad this all got cleared up before Riza called. I know I couldn’t have concentrated as well, knowing this was all back here hanging fire.”
Zoe knew she was beaten, and that any feeble protest she made would just make it more difficult on him. She had been down this road several times before with her father, and now with Garth. She learned long ago from her mother that worry for her father only compromised his ability to do his best at the job that needed to be done. Zoe’s mother was a wise and strong woman, supportive in every way, traits Zoe was determined to emulate. Her mother did not believe in whining. Because she died young, when Zoe was only twelve, there wasn’t time to really appreciate the character of her mother.
Still, Zoe was reminded many times over the years by her father. His refusal to marry again cemented her notion that, to her father, her mother was irreplaceable. He buried himself in his work, but never so much that he did not have time for Zoe. They had a warm and loving relationship, sprinkled generously with stories of her mother. And now, when Gath spoke of these far-off commitments and oil fires, she found herself reminded of her mother’s strength and fiery resolve.
“You go, be careful, and get back,” she said. “Norm and I will do just fine taking care of things back here. It’s obvious I’m no competition for an oil fire.”
She chucked and pulled herself down low in the covers. He dove down after her in playful abandonment. Lovemaking was always extra sweet before he left on a trip.
She dropped him at the airport early the next morning, and found Riza’s private Learjet waiting as planned.
Before boarding, Garth called Josh, “Take care of my girl. I’ll see you in about two weeks. Anything happens, we have everything in order.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” Josh reassured him. “Have a good trip, and I’ll see you when you get back.”
Turning his attention back to Zoe, Garth again assured her he was only a phone call away. Zoe hugged him warmly and watched as he boarded and took off, until the small jet became a tiny, silver spot in the distance. She went back to the office to spend the next few days with Ms. Potter. House hunting would just have to wait.
* * *
Garth lay back and relaxed for the next few hours, and only began to stir when his inner clock alerted him that his destination was close at hand. Below, he saw the vast desert. No place on Earth affected him quite the same, except the great oceans. The desert evoked an emotional roller coaster of empowerment and humility. One moment of invincibility as you gazed at it, but one moment beyond could bring you to your knees in humble supplication.
Seeing it again brought back bittersweet memories of his days there with Warren. He missed this place. This time, he felt older, much older, without the cockiness of the past. Then he saw it, a defiant black fist. Three in a row rose tall, stark, and unmistakable in the distance. He was disturbed by his assessment of the burning wells.
He was told to buckle up, and that they would be landing in a few minutes. The small plane circled, banked slightly, then came down smoothly and landed not too far from where Riza was waiting in a Jeep. This time, he was out of his flowing white robes, and dressed in basic khakis and a duckbill cap. He was still surrounded by his entourage, but was in the driver’s seat this time. When the plane hatch was opened and Garth emerged into the damnable heat, he saw Riza jump out to greet him.
“Welcome, welcome,” he roared. “Do you see?” Riza pointed in the direction of the black mantle seemingly encircling his city. “You can smell it too.”
“Come on, we’ll shut her down. My gear will be here shortly. I had Zoe get it out of storage and send it on the next commercial flight. You got enough explosives for me?”
“I think we have all you need,” Riza replied. “Anything else, just ask.”
“How about a little refresher course? It’s been several yea
rs since I’ve handled one of these babies.”
“I know, but Allah would not allow me to choose anyone but you.”
Garth looked at him and grinned. “Come on, you got any of that coffee that grows hair on your chest?”
Riza wheeled his vintage, prime-condition WWII Jeep toward the palace. Garth looked at Riza, then at the old Jeep, and then at the blazing sun.
“You sure know how to roll out the red carpet for your guest.”
“Ah yes, the Range Rover, she is in the garage. This was my father’s; you should remember it well. Warren, my father, you, and I rode in it many times.”
Indeed, he did remember. Garth enjoyed every mile of the ride back to the palace.
Riza’s residence was straight out of Scheherazade, made of gleaming white marble, with minarets and parapets. Riza proudly held onto his history. Western influence played a part only when he felt extreme discomfort due to a lack of modernization. Several houseboys dressed in immaculate white dress saw to Garth’s sparse luggage, while Riza summoned food and drink for them. He then gave Garth a short briefing of the situation, including knowledge of a few armed malcontents in the area. Garth was more than surprised.
“Here?”
“Yes, my friend. It seems we still have those among us who would like to see us swallowed up by our neighbors. We cannot have your American soldiers over here every minute to babysit us, now can we? All the wells have doubled security. I feel we have another fanatic strain of our people out there unhappy with our friendship with the United States.”
It was times like this that Garth was reminded of the distance, time, and politics between Riza and himself. They had matured over the years, but neither one had ever thought of the outward influences affecting their friendship in their two obviously different worlds.
Garth slowly became aware that his mild misgivings were growing into a nervous apprehension. The years had taken away his edge, and the knowledge of outside complications did nothing to calm his spirit. Garth was showing the signs of a lengthy trip. Understanding this, Riza acknowledged that the past two days had been exhausting for all. He suggested they would all feel more suited to face the complications of the situation after a good night’s sleep. Garth quickly agreed. As they separated, Riza suggested they both enlist the help of the powers that be.
“I know Allah will provide, my friend,” Garth said, “but in this case, I think I’ll put in a direct line my way as well.” As Garth’s head hit the pillow, the bright Arabian night embraced the comforting prayer of a man afraid. “Dear Lord, please…”
Chapter 30
Why had this thing become an obsession with him?
Josh slammed shut the book he was trying to read in bed, trying but unable to coax sleep. He’d heard from his mother earlier in the evening, and she validated what he already knew. Not ten minutes after he left that morning, she heard the news announcing the discovery of the remains at the James Buchanan School. From all indications, the remains were years old. The red bandanas were also a focus of the news report.
“Josh, that was the school I was trying to think of in our conversation this morning. Why were you interested?” his mother pressed.
Josh still wasn’t sure he should mention his suspicions to his mother. What earthly good would it do? Beckman was dead, case closed. He continued to dodge her questions, only to make her more adamant in knowing why he asked them.
“Look, Mother, I’ll let you know all about this when I sort things out myself.”
As if reading his mind, she added another tidbit to her tales about Beckman in his patronage days. “Did you know that Beckman was not much of an outdoorsman, but he sponsored outings and horseback riding for the older boy students? Girls were not included in these outings. I think it was only fourth to eighth grades. All the boys were issued denim jeans, shirts, boots, cowboy hats, and red bandanas. Your father and I were invited to a small ranch near Kingston that Beckman was thinking of purchasing. He wanted your father to see the place, and to see his boys with their riding instructor.
“Your father told him he was crazy, that he was carrying this foundation thing too far and it was becoming a financial drain. Beckman’s charitable habits were not working out in the books. I recall seeing all the boys on horseback, riding around the corral, all dressed in the same cowboy uniform. Eventually, Beckman did not buy the place, through your father’s persistence in telling him it was a bad deal.
“I do recall that day vividly; the ride back with your father was not a pleasant one. How your father despised Beckman. More than once he threatened to quit, but I knew he never would because of our freedom, and the debt he thought he owed Beckman.”
Josh realized now that his mother’s mind was working along the same lines as his own. Impatient with her prodding, he lovingly told her he would let her know if anything else came up concerning these coincidences, and that he would be up next week.
After talking to her, Josh grew even more restless, unable to convince himself that this was nothing. And even if it was something, what would it mean now? Who would suffer from this knowledge, and why was he anointed to unravel this mystery? He had enough on his plate, and the pure joy of just having Beckman gone should be satisfaction enough. Plus, it was all circumstantial. There was no proof, just that gnawing suspicion.
Josh knew Beckman killed those children, just as sure as he watched the video, and he knew why Lech had killed him. Execute was more accurate, but the boys were no longer an issue. Their freedom and future were secure. In a grim way, they were lucky. The scars would take time to heal, but they would heal.
What about the other, long-dead children? Parents, some of them surely alive, would like to know about their missing children. Would it bring them peace? Josh did not know. He only knew he could not let go.
As if on cue, the phone rang. It was Harry’s strong, slow, affirming voice that indicated to Josh that he might have something.
“See you tomorrow morning, kid. Eight a.m. sharp.” Harry seldom told him anything over the phone. For a tough guy, Harry had his own brand of sentiment. Knowing this was personal for Josh and not just about money, Harry worked day and night with contacts from the police department and the newspaper archives until he came up with something on these decades-old murders.
Harry knew it meant a lot to Josh and — knowing him better than Josh ever understood — Harry wanted to help figure this all out. For Josh, and also for those parents who never knew what happened to their children. Nobody knew better than Harry what it was like to have a monkey on their back that would not go away. He hoped the answers he came up with would help.
Harry’s reassurance and the lateness of the hour were finally beginning to bring Josh sleep. All the thoughts of Beckman and the children began to drift away. A small voice, as if in a dream, sent Josh to sleep with a thought of a friend far away. He knew he must remember to call Garth the next morning.
* * *
As usual, Josh arrived early. By seven, he had checked the number where Garth could be reached. He marveled at the fact that he had a minister’s personal contact number at his disposal. Sometimes he felt he was living a dream. Garth had introduced him to Riza in the spring, and in that encounter he had given offhand advice that Riza found useful. As if by divine command, he assumed the role of advisor to the minster. Josh had to be living in a movie script. Did it get any better than this? A foreign, stiff voice answered, and Josh asked for Garth.
“Well, are you enjoying sunny Kuwait?” he asked.
“Yeah sure,” Garth replied. “I’m nursing my 110-degree tan.”
“Are things going well for you over there?”
“Today I found out what I’m up against. Tomorrow I pick the crew, then the party begins. You taking care of my girl?”
“Yeah. If you don’t get your butt back here, she won’t be your girl.”
“Fat chance. She always looked at attorneys with a jaded eye. That one’s all mine. Besides I’m better looking than
you.”
Friendly banter aside, Josh asked a favor of Garth, requesting that the crew set aside anything they found at the digging site near the Buchanan School.
“What do you mean? They haven’t found any more bodies, Josh, but they always uncover things — old bottles, cans, jugs. Why?”
“I’m not sure why. Clues, I guess. Anything that might concern those remains.”
“Well sure, but why are you interested in this?”
“I’ll tell you someday.”
“Look, tell Norm what you want. I can’t cut into time, I’ve got deadlines. Tell him to pull a couple of guys out to retrieve anything that looks interesting to you, but keep an eye on the clock. Look, I’m going to get my beauty sleep; I’ve got a big day tomorrow. See you in about a week.”
Josh was relieved he had Garth’s blessing. The crews might find something. If not, he would at least know he had done all he could. The forensic teams of New York’s finest would probably have done better, but Josh hadn’t made the connection when they were on site. Besides, Garth did not need the headaches. He was glad the mayor had backed off.
Still on shaky ground with his suspicions, he had yet to reveal his thoughts to anyone. He knew his mother was beginning to draw the same conclusions about Beckman, but today he was going to unload this excess baggage. As Harry walked through the door, Josh proposed a question.
“Harry do you believe in retribution? Dead or alive?”
Harry, nonplussed at such a profound question at such an early hour, answered him quickly and boldly as he poured himself his cup of joe. “Sure do, kid. You pay now, you pay later, but we all pay. Be it God or man the collector.”
“Harry, you do have a unique way of clearing out all the cobwebs. Come on, we’re taking a ride over to the site. I’ve got some thoughts I want to run past you.”
“Sure thing, kid. You tell me your dreams, I’ll tell you mine.”
They talked as they manipulated themselves through the crowded streets. Josh never liked talking business in cabs.
