by S. D. Tooley
He guessed Abby to be about nineteen or twenty in most of Sam’s infant pictures. Sam’s olive complexion seemed a sharp contrast to Melinda’s milk glass skin. Sam’s cheekbones were well defined even at such a tender age. There was a secrecy that seemed to pass between Sam and Abby that only the camera caught. If he were a betting man, he’d say that Melinda Casey was NOT Sam’s mother.
What Jake found strange was that there were no pictures of Sam after 1977. That, Jake remembered, was when Samuel and Melinda Casey had died in the car accident.
“I thought I smelled coffee.” Abby poured herself a cup. She checked his bandage. “How is it feeling this morning?”
“Better, much better, thanks.” Just like in the pictures Jake found himself drawn to Abby’s features. She hadn’t changed much from the pictures in the album other than adding a few pounds and smile creases around her eyes. Time had not been unkind to Abby. Jake smiled at her.
“What?” Abby gathered her skirt around her legs before taking a seat.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Sam’s mother?”
“I guess I assumed Sam had told you.”
Jake shook his head then told her how he looked through some photo albums last night. “But, Melinda was his wife, right?”
“Yes. It really isn’t too complicated. Samuel and Melinda picked me up just outside Chamberlain, South Dakota. I was hitchhiking. Going
… anywhere.” She took a sip of her coffee. “They helped me through some rough times. They brought me back here to live. I insisted on working for my keep. I cooked, did laundry, helped Melinda mail out invitations to a variety of social events.”
The picture Jake was formulating in his mind of Abby and Sam’s father having a torrid love affair just didn’t fit the woman sitting in front of him whose integrity seemed above reproach. Luckily, he didn’t have to ask the question.
“When Melinda discovered she couldn’t have children,” Abby continued, “I agreed to be a surrogate mother. It was the least I could do to thank them.”
“It must have been difficult for you, having Sam call another woman Mommy.”
“There was a bond between Sam and me that no one could come between. When she was old enough to understand, I didn’t have to tell her. She just knew.”
Jake thought back to Hap’s body, how Sam had touched it, touched the pin. How the words lightning strike seemed to have popped into her head. Jake always dealt in logic. And what Sam supposedly did was not logical to him. She seemed to know things that defied logic.
The sprinklers bordering the patio turned on, spraying a fine mist over the geraniums, irises, and lilies. Abby gazed lovingly at nature’s pastel colors, as if seeing them for the first time.
“Tell me something, Abby.” He told her about Hap Wilson and some of the revelations Sam had come up with. “How does she do this little mind-reading act of hers?”
“Sam has a unique gift. Ever since she was small she seemed to be able to sense things about certain people or places. It was confusing for her to interpret at first. We spent several years on the reservation after Mr. and Mrs. Casey passed away. My grandmother was a powerful medicine woman and taught Sam how to interpret these feelings.”
“What kind of feelings?”
“She can sense the aura left in a room or surrounding a body that can tell her things about a killer or the victim.” Abby flashed a smile filled with pride and affection. “My grandmother used to say that the victim either had to be cold to the touch or cold-hearted in order for Sam’s powers to work.”
Jake eyed her strangely. “And you believe this?”
Abby’s dark eyes danced. There was a secret world behind those eyes of hers, a secret world that only Sam and Alex seemed to have a key to.
“There are many unexplained things in life, Jacob. We can’t see electrical currents, but we know they work. We can’t see radio waves or even gravity, but we have no doubt they are there.”
“That’s true,” Jake agreed, “but, unfortunately, our judicial system requires solid evidence and logical conclusions. And these little visions Sam has just don’t fall anywhere in line with those requirements.”
A comfortable silence surrounded them. A large bee droned over to a cluster of day lilies near the patio. A gathering of finches splashed in the birdbath near the Florida room. Jake could feel Abby’s eyes on him, studying him, probing. Probing what?
“One thing you have to understand about Sam, she hasn’t had it easy. I don’t want to make excuses for her.”
Jake shifted his gaze to Abby, her smiling eyes, the genuine love in her voice whenever she mentioned Sam’s name.
“She withdrew after Mr. and Mrs. Casey died. She didn’t talk much and children can be cruel. Then when the visions started, kids thought she was a freak. Adults understood she had a powerful gift. Until…”
Jake arched one eyebrow.
“There was a murder on the reservation,” Abby explained. “A young boy. The authorities thought he had played with matches and accidentally set himself on fire. But Sam walked through the rubble of the boy’s house. She saw what had happened to him, somehow knew who did it.”
“I would think everyone would be thankful that the truth came out.”
“Yes, but tell that to the young men who were afraid to even talk to Sam for fear she could read their every thought. Tell that to the adults who suddenly realized she might be able to discover secrets about them.”
Jake pondered Abby’s comments as he studied the remnants of coffee in the bottom of his cup. His face must have displayed his unswayed skepticism because Abby asked, “You still doubt Sam’s ability?”
“Well, you have to admit,” Jake added, “it isn’t something I run into every day. And I can almost see people taking two steps back whenever she walks into a room.”
“Grandmother told Sam that people are more receptive to healing powers. But other powers should not be advertised. Unfortunately, Sam chose a line of work where she can use her powers. I guess I should be glad she is callused enough to survive the opposition she encounters.” After a few moments she added, “Sam also tends to take lightly the danger she puts herself in. Promise me you’ll keep an eye on her.”
For the first time since he met her, Abby’s eyes showed genuine fear. He touched her hand and said, “Of course.” Jake leaned over to place his cup on the patio table. His shirtless torso was tan and muscular. He felt Abby’s hand on his back, a back he rarely exposed. When he heard her gasp, he stood up, felt his face flush. He thought he saw tears edge their way to the corners of her eyes. He departed abruptly explaining, “I should get dressed.”
Abby watched Jake leave. She leaned back against the table shaking her head in shock. Raised welts, old scars, had criss-crossed Jake’s back starting at the shoulder blades and disappearing below the belt line.
When she placed her hand on one of his scars she saw a vision of a boy, no more than six, shielding a woman, his mother perhaps, who was cowering in a corner. A leather strap cut across the boy’s back, literally ripping his shirt off.
The visions had come quick, split frames like watching a slide projector. The one that came into clear focus was the boy tied to a bed on his stomach, naked, his back and rear cut and bleeding profusely and then the strap slapping across the back once more, sending blood spraying onto the walls and sheet.
She knew more than ever that she made the right decision to use the sweat lodge. Jake had built an emotional wall around himself and now Abby knew that only the spirits would be able to penetrate that wall. Only they would be able to help him open his heart.
Chapter 35
Jake watched Frank through the glass partition in Sam’s office. Frank was on the phone with the Dallas VA Hospital.
“I thought Abby had told you she was my mother,” Sam said.
“She thought you had told me. All this time I thought she was your housekeeper.” Jake watched Frank hang up the phone and lean back in his chair shaking his head.
“This doesn’t look good,” Jake observed.
Frank walked in and closed the door. “George Abbott, one of Preston’s fellow Army buddies, conveniently passed away last night.”
“Complications from surgery?” Sam asked.
“The doctor thinks there was a problem with his insulin. The nurse on duty said he received his proper dosage at six o’clock. But he seemed to have a suspicious amount in his system. I talked to the Dallas P.D. Told them Abbott was an integral part of our investigation and we would like them to treat it as a homicide.”
“That’s just great. Someone is picking off our witnesses one by one. First Leonard Ames dies in a car accident in 1976. Who’s next?” Sam asked. Janet buzzed Sam on the intercom. Benny was on the phone. She pressed the speaker button. “I hope it’s good news, Benny.” Benny informed them that Captain Murphy would be issuing a press release to the Chasen Heights Post Tribune informing them the Hap Wilson case was closed. Murphy’s memo to Benny requested that Benny report the preliminary tests were inconclusive on the cause of death but that drugs had not been ruled out.
“He can’t do that.” Sam looked up at Jake. “Can he do that?”
“He’s doing it,” Frank chimed in.
“I’ve already received the toxicology report, Sam.” Benny’s voice blared through the speaker phone. “It’s all negative. Basically, what Murphy says is correct. Cause of death is inconclusive.”
“But you and I both know Hap was murdered. How could he possibly want you to infer in your report that drugs might have played a part?” Sam argued.
“He’s closing the case is what he’s doing, and my hand is being held to the fire to sign off on it.”
“Can’t you stall him?” Frank asked.
Jake leaned on the desk, close to the phone. “How much longer can you hold the body?”
“As long as necessary.”
Sam ended her call with Benny and started pacing. The more she paced, the angrier she became. “It had to be Preston. He’s pressuring Murphy to close the case. Murphy is such a sonafabitch. He should be fired.” She picked up the phone and dialed Chief Connelley. “Do you know where he went, Mary?” Sam sat down at her keyboard and pounded out a note to Connelley on the computer. “That’s okay. I’m sending him a message. Do me a favor and read it to him when he calls in and have him call me ASAP.”
“What do you want your memo to accomplish other than pissing off Murphy because you went over his head?” Jake asked.
“That’s good for starters.” She pressed the ENTER key. “I don’t care what he says, I’m not giving up on this case. You two can do what you want.” She watched as the two men exchanged eye contact. Years of working together made Jake and Frank think like one. Sam never had the experience of knowing or even appreciating how that felt. “You think I’m crazy?”
“Other than ancient depositions, Sam, we’ve got nothing to work on,” Frank confessed. “The depositions revealed nothing other than that Hap was a respected, honest soldier. No proof that he might have deserted. But no proof that he hadn’t.”
“Elvis hasn’t come up with any responses to the ads he placed in the Korean newspapers,” Jake added. “Our backs are against the wall here and we’re coming up empty-handed. That, added to the lack of a relevant cause of death…” Jake let his comment trail off.
Sam held her hands up in surrender. “All right. Okay. Enough already.” She peered through the window toward Murphy’s office. He wasn’t in. She studied the two detectives. There was something in their eyes. Chief Connelley had told her she had it. And maybe that was what she was seeing. When she looked at their eyes she saw the hunger, the desire to get at the truth. Unrelentless.
She smiled slowly and said, “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe either one of you can walk away from Hap without knowing the truth.”
Chapter 36
A normal day for Lincoln Thomas was twelve hours. From seven in the morning until seven at night. He always brought his lunch and ate at his desk.
Some evenings were filled with meetings with local organizations and new business owners who were building hotels or convention centers and might need the assistance of Thomas Associates.
Lincoln had picked his American name from two presidents — Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson. It wasn’t that he lacked pride in his given name. After the war, he had stowed away on a ship to Seattle. He had been afraid he would be hunted down.
He could still hear them yelling, “You can’t hide. We’ll find you. And when we do, we’ll cut your tongue out.” He had run as fast and as far as he could that day. Never returned to the Base Commander.
The thought of them having a nationwide hunt for Ling Toy was his worst fear. So he had changed his name, found someone in the Korean underground to give him fake I.D. s, and hid himself deep in the Seattle Korean community.
He slept in a storage room above a bakery at night, helped with the baking between three and seven in the morning, then went to school. Melee, the bakery owner, was the biggest Korean woman he had ever seen. The Korean War had made her a widow. No children but enough friends and connections to help her open her own business in the States.
She never asked Lincoln about his nightmares, but would stay by him until he went back to sleep. She had a great business sense and within three years opened a small restaurant next door to her bakery.
Lincoln had been with her for seven years. He had no idea she had no living relatives. So it took him by complete surprise that she had willed him her businesses.
After a few years, Lincoln sold the businesses and headed south to California, to San Francisco. He had admired pictures of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge when he had seen the colorful postcards at the command post. Now he would see them for himself.
Lincoln knew he had been blessed finding Melee. She had always told him that if each person returned a favor given to him, the whole world would be a lot happier.
“Mr. Thomas, this is the last of them.” Sherita, a young black high school student who worked after school at Thomas Associates, placed a stack of newspapers on his desk.
“Thank you, Sherita.”
Raymond, his son-in-law, passed Sherita in the doorway. Raymond was tall by Korean standards, at least six feet.
“Do you need help, Lincoln? Are you looking for something in particular?” Raymond flipped through some of the papers. “ Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times. How was Sherita able to find all these back issues?” Raymond’s slicked-back hair revealed a distinct widows peak.
“The hotel across the street usually keeps their leftovers. Saves them for the school paper drives.” Lincoln carried the papers to an oblong conference table. “I believe there is a conference in Chicago I wanted to go to. I thought the paper might have an ad.”
“I’ll help you.”
Lincoln placed his hand on the stack of papers, saying a little too quickly, “That’s okay. Really. I need a diversion right now.” He checked his watch. “Why don’t you meet with Mr. Hensen? And maybe you and Nina can plan on attending the museum reception tonight.” Raymond gave a puzzled look as he retreated. There was rarely a benefit or meeting that Lincoln missed.
Lincoln remembered the article in his Korean paper stating Hap Wilson’s body had been found in Chasen Heights, a suburb south of Chicago. Since none of the hotels or stores sold newspapers from Chasen Heights, he decided there had to be something in the papers in the largest city closest to the suburb.
With a pair of scissors he cut out all the articles pertaining to the body found in concrete. He read about the investigation and circled the names of the detectives.
Then he went through each of the papers a second time to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He was surprised to read that the police were closing the case since there was no evidence of foul play. He was also surprised that the article intimated that Hap was possibly a deserter. Lincoln sat back and rubbed his eyes. Where had Hap been all those years since the war? He thought for sure he ha
d been killed with all the rest. Briefly, Lincoln closed his eyes and thought back to that hot August day in 1951.
“ Do you think they’ll make it, Sergeant?” Hap Wilson asked Booker, a muscular black man with a shaved head and eyes that naturally bulged.
Ling Toy looked up at the two men as his hands bandaged the shattered remains of a soldier’s leg. Ling Toy understood English better than he spoke it. The injured numbered eight and they were all unconscious.
Ling Toy shook his head in despair. “Need doctor.” He looked past Hap and Booker, beyond Bubba’s bulky frame hovering over the combat radio and Shadow who was studying the picture of his wife and baby, down the tree-lined dirt road which led to the killing field where they had found the ambush victims.
“ Yeah, we’re going to get them a doctor,” Booker said clapping a hand on Ling Toy’s back. “Just try to keep them alive until we can get them back to Base.”
Hap crumpled an empty cigarette package and patted his pockets. His hand touched damp fabric. They were all covered with dirt, sweat, and the blood of war. Booker shook out two cigarettes from his pack and held them out to Hap.
“ Thanks, Sarge.” Hap broke out in a broad smile. His trembling hands had trouble striking a match so Booker lit one for him.
Ling Toy marveled at the camaraderie of the black men and the loyalty of the Americans to their cause. But he still couldn’t understand why there were separate units for blacks and whites.
Hap took a long drag off his cigarette and winced.
“ Still got those cramps?” Booker lowered his muscular frame onto a flat rock next to Hap.
Hap nodded. “Feels like someone’s puttin’ my intestines through a wringer.”
“ Bad river.” Ling Toy stood up, his clothes hanging loosely over his frail body.
Booker sucked long and deep off his cigarette, savoring one of the few luxuries of combat. “That’s what you guys get for bathin’ in that river two days ago. I told you there’s enough stuff floating in these rivers to make you sick for a month. Even a guy your size, Hap.”
