Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  He could chalk the physical symptoms off to anxiety, but how do you account for the memories? They were not like dream-memories at all. More like he had been there, saw everything as it happened. Planes by the hundreds dropping bombs. Men being blown apart, debris falling like rain. Nothing he’d read or studied about Pearl Harbor came close to the reality of being there.

  But he hadn’t been there; it was a dream. Get it through your head—it was just a dream.

  The fear was beginning to return. His hands were trembling. Sweat had formed on his brow. He picked up his pace as though he could get away.

  Think of something else. How about Rachel?

  But getting mixed up with her could be a serious mistake. He was on the rebound. He needed time. It would be a major distraction from his book. On the other hand, she was really beautiful. And she was interested. More than just interested, she was nursing a girlhood crush, which wasn’t necessarily a plus. How could Jack live up to whatever lofty image she’d created of him since his days in Ramstein? Especially the way he felt now.

  He suddenly felt a chill running through him. Somewhere along the way he’d stopped and sat on a large boulder. The icy rock had seeped through his jeans. He got up and headed back for the bridge, soon passing the remnant of a mud and stone dam, obviously built by children. He remembered building dams just like it in a creek four blocks from his childhood home. Funny the way kids think. Let’s build a dam, as though they could stop the water from getting through. Still, some part of their imagination had urged them to try.

  Jack was one of those kids who always had to try, and his mom always said he had a strong imagination. It was that imagination that had drawn him into the arena of history and, he believed, the reason why he connected so well with others when explaining it. When he studied history, it was so much more than facts and dates of battles or big events. Jack could actually imagine himself living back then, going through the very experiences he read about.

  He stopped walking. Was that it? Was that why The Dream happened? Was there some deep desire in his heart to go back in time and see Pearl Harbor for himself, and it just broke through last night?

  But that didn’t make sense. Pearl Harbor had always fascinated him, but so had every other major event of World War II. Last night he thought about Pearl more than usual because he’d read that old article Thornton had given him, and earlier that day he had lectured on it.

  But pick any other day, and Jack might be reading about and teaching some other significant military event. That’s what he did for a living. And he’d never had a dream like that before.

  As he rounded the curve, the bridge came into view. He closed the gap to fifty yards and noticed the jogger was still there, still leaning on the railing looking down in his direction. When the man noticed Jack looking up at him, he looked away then started walking.

  Jack reached the bridge and looked up the hillside, eyeballing the footholds he’d need to grab. Looking downstream, he sighed. He hadn’t really sorted anything out on this walk. Had the river lost its magic? Or were his problems now just far too complex?

  # # #

  Nigel Avery hurried off the bridge before this guy Turner made his way back up to the street. He had parked on a road off to the side about a block ahead, in the opposite direction Turner’s car was parked. He couldn’t get there fast enough to ditch this disguise. He knew it was cold out but he was burning up with this thing on.

  Just as he figured, this looked to be just another boring dead-end. He had hoped maybe Turner was meeting up with someone in a secret rendezvous. Who takes a walk by a creek in weather like this? But it looked like Turner was just out there by himself the whole time.

  Probably one of those wound-too-tight philosophical types, Avery thought, trying to find himself or solve some big riddle of life.

  Another waste of time was all it was.

  14

  Patrolman Hank Jensen walked past the water cooler toward Sgt. Joe Boyd’s desk. Boyd could feel him coming, though his face was buried in a proposal. He had asked Hank to block for him awhile so he could get through this thing.

  “Say, Joe.”

  Boyd didn’t react.

  “Yo, Joe. Sorry to interrupt you, but I got to on this.” Boyd swiveled in the chair, but his head stayed focused on the desk. “It’s the dead kid’s father on line two,” Hank said.

  “What?” He looked up.

  “Ralph Riesner, Senior. Remember they were vacationing in Florida? He finally got the message from the neighbors to call in. You know, the dead kid with the scary face. His dad’s on line two.”

  “Oh, Geez.”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks, right?” Hank said smiling.

  “Tell him I’ll pick it right up. I gotta dig out his file here. Does he know yet?”

  “He knows something’s up. Seems a little on edge. But I don’t think he knows.”

  Boyd let out a deep sigh. Should he use the can first? He waited a moment to let the rumbling settle, took a sip of his coffee. Cold as ice. “Thanks, Hank. I’ll take care of it.”

  He had been dreading this call all weekend. He knew why. The problem was he cared too much. Death didn’t seem to bother him before he and Kate had kids. Now he looked at everything like a father. How do you tell another father his boy is dead? “Sorry, sir, but we regret to inform you that your son is dead. How? He died in his sleep. We need you to come down to the morgue at your earliest convenience.” You just say something like that and hang up. You don’t sit around let the family cry all over you. Boyd looked at the blinking light on his phone. Okay, here goes. “Hello, Mr. Riesner?”

  “Yes.” His voice already sounded shaky.

  “This is Sergeant Joe Boyd, from the Culpepper PD. Has anyone told you why we called?”

  “Well, no. My wife and I are still in Florida. She was worried a bit about our dog back home, so she called our next-door neighbor. They’ve been watching him for us. They said you’ve been trying to reach us since Saturday but wouldn’t say why.”

  Great, thought Boyd. He had asked the neighbors to please not discuss the case if the parents called but hoped they would anyway, save him the trouble. He figured most people can’t sit on a thing like that.

  “Has Ralph gotten into some kind of trouble?”

  Boyd sighed. Yeah, the worst kind. “Sir, I don’t know how to tell you this. You aren’t driving are you?”

  “No, we’re at our hotel.”

  “Is your wife there with you?”

  “Standing right beside me. Please, what’s wrong? Is Ralph all right?”

  “No, he’s not Mr. Riesner. I’m very sorry, but your son passed away, looks like it happened Friday night.”

  “Oh God, no—” He began to sob. “But how? Are you certain it’s Ralph?”

  “I’m afraid so. We obtained medical records from the school, the autopsy confirmed—.”

  “Autopsy?” He was crying uncontrollably now. “There’s been an autopsy?” Boyd let Mr. Riesner have a few moments. He heard him tearfully relate what he’d said to his wife. She immediately erupted into sobs.

  Boyd sighed, and waited.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Boyd, Sgt. Boyd.”

  “Sgt. Boyd, as you can imagine, this is a terrible shock.”

  “I’m sure it is. I’m very sorry. We didn’t know how to reach you.”

  “You said Ralph passed away. How…how did he die?” He was obviously trying to regain his composure.

  “There was no evidence of foul play, Mr. Riesner. The medical examiner said he died of cardiac arrest.”

  “A heart attack? Ralph?”

  “It happened in his sleep. The ME said it happened quite suddenly.”

  “But how? He was only twenty-two years old. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m fifty, and I don’t even have high blood pressure.”

  “Apparently, he had some kind of congenital heart defect, and it kinda just snapped.
Listen, I’ll tell you what…if you give me your email address, I’ll send you a copy of the report. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get up here—”

  “Right away,” Mr. Riesner said. “We’re near Miami. We’ll take the first plane out.”

  “I’ll also email you the address, where they’re keeping your son. If you call ahead, you might be able to talk to the medical examiner in person.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hey listen, I hate having to do this. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”

  After taking down Mr. Riesner’s email address, Boyd hung up and gave Hank the assignment to email him the autopsy report and address to the morgue. With a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, he sat back down to his proposal, glad the ordeal was over, glad he hadn’t let the word cadaver slip out with the boy’s father, confident the Riesner case was now closed.

  Only one detail remained, and Boyd would have to carry it out carefully. He’d have to inform the press. The press release would have to be in all points unexceptional, mundane. Nothing to arouse suspicions. A poor lad dies in his sleep from a congenital heart defect, the grieving parents arrive today to escort his body back to Charlotte. Along those lines. If he was lucky, it would be buried in the local paper, maybe not even make it to the local TV news.

  15

  When Jack arrived back at his apartment, he set his keys and cell phone on the desk and noticed he had three voicemails. He took off his jacket and laid his gloves over the corner of the radiator to let them defrost. Then he listened to the messages.

  “Hi, Jack. Thomas here.” It was Thornton’s voice. “Just checking in, see how you made out your first night. Hope you slept well. I mean it, you don’t have to stay there. If you’re having second thoughts about it, let me know. I’ll set you up right. Sometimes we have these sentimental notions and they don’t turn out like we planned. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll assume the lecture is on for Wednesday morning. Enjoy your writing. Bye.”

  Writing. It was the last thing on Jack’s mind. The second message began.

  “Hey, Jack. Hope I got this number right. I know you told me not to call, but I’ve got a hot one in the oven.” It was Judy Butler, Jack’s agent and business manager, the exaggerated Boston accent a dead giveaway. “You watching the news at all? Something’s breaking loose in Germany. Some riots about something, not sure what. Anyway, I sent around that demo we made and I just got a call from a producer at Fox News, says she liked what she saw, could use you to give some background on a story they’re working on. What do you say? I could fly you in tonight, have you back before morning. This is the big time, Jack. I’m serious. She called me. I didn’t call her. Getting your name splashed across the airwaves couldn’t hurt your book when it comes out, either. Think of it that way, it’s not really a distraction. And with your gift of gab and those good looks, you’re a cinch to become a regular. They’ll get thousands of Tweets from young ladies all across the land with a newfound love of history. They’d have to have you back. I’ve seen it happen. Call me. The window’s open, Jack. Who knows for how long?”

  The way Jack felt now, he would probably mangle a live TV interview. Come off looking like anything but an expert. The third message played.

  “Mr. Turner…I’m sorry, Jack. Rachel Cook here. Just calling to see how you’re feeling. I’m sorry for dropping in on you like that. I really should have called first. There’s a flu going around, so you get your rest. Call me if you need anything. Well…bye.”

  Jack smiled. The smile lingered. He didn’t even know he was still smiling until he walked into the bathroom and saw his face in the mirror. Guess a girlhood crush is a pretty hard thing to break, he thought. But now what should he do?

  He picked up his phone, deciding to return only one of the calls.

  # # #

  Jack looked at his watch. Six-forty five. He had told Rachel he’d pick her up at seven. Plenty of time. It was just dinner, he reminded himself, not a date. To insulate himself further, when he’d called a few hours ago he decided to tell her he was just getting over a bad relationship and wasn’t up to starting something new so soon. Rachel insisted she understood.

  Turning now into her apartment complex, he knew there was more going on inside than that. He had spent way too much time in the mirror. He’d ironed his shirt and slacks, brushed his teeth for the second time. And he’d picked the River Bend restaurant for dinner. When he attended Culpepper, he couldn’t afford a place like River Bend. Salesmen took clients they wanted to impress there; husbands took their wives for big anniversaries.

  He smiled as he pulled into a parking spot near the front door of her apartment. Nice place. Way nicer than he could have afforded as Thornton’s teaching assistant. Maybe Daddy was helping. He buttoned the top button of his cashmere coat and dipped his head down against the wind. Not a good night to be out. He was glad he found a spot so close to her front door. He rang the glowing orange doorbell, then stepped back to appreciate the attractive border of Italian tile. When the door opened, Jack was stunned. Had a red dress ever looked so fine on a woman before?

  This is not a date.

  “Come in. Quick. It’s freezing.” She smiled as she reached out and yanked him in by the arm, closing the door behind him. “I’m almost ready. Give me a minute.” She turned and walked toward the hall, tugging at her ear.

  “Rachel, you look…very dressed up.”

  She flashed him a smile as she disappeared into the shadows. “And you’re not dressed up, either. Right?”

  Touché.

  He walked into the living room, big overstuffed sofa and chairs, a white brick fireplace, pillows that matched the pictures on the walls and—totally out of place—a hideous cat sprawled across a glass coffee table.

  “Jack, meet Tuffguy. Tuffguy, meet Jack,” Rachel said as she moved from the dining area into the kitchen.

  Tuffguy honored Jack by lifting his head about an inch. His expression said, “Get lost.” Rachel walked back into the living room, her purse on one arm, a black overcoat on the other. Jack reached out to scratch Tuffguy’s head, for Rachel’s sake. The cat yanked his head back like a boxer ducking a jab. “Not interested? Fine with me.” The thing looked like it had been run through a blender: one ear gone, scalp full of lumps and bald spots, a feline Quasimodo.

  “He treats me the same way,” she said. “He let me save his life about two years ago. Found him all limping and bloody by the dumpster out back. Took fifty stitches to patch him up, over six hundred dollars in vet bills.”

  “And for that he won’t even let you pet him?”

  “He’ll let me, but he gets to choose when. It’s not a pleasant experience, so I don’t mind the gaps in between.”

  “I can’t even look at him.”

  Rachel laughed. “Tuffguy understands me. I can tell him anything. So where are we going?” She put on her coat.

  “How’s River Bend sound?”

  “Nice place to get caught up,” she said. She opened the coat closet and reached for a hat. He noticed two pairs of ladies boots, clearly different sizes. “You have a roommate?”

  “How did you know?”

  He pointed to the boots with his eyes.

  “Very perceptive. Her name’s Mary. She’s out of town for a little while. She’s checking out a job offer at Purdue. Don’t know what I’ll do if she takes it. I can’t afford this place without her.”

  So Daddy wasn’t helping. Independent type. “You ready?” Jack’s hand was on the front door knob.

  “Let’s do it.” They headed out.

  Rachel seemed to like Jack’s BMW. And why shouldn’t she? The car heated up before they were two blocks down the road. Jack did his best to keep his eyes on the road. She was very distracting.

  The ride to the restaurant was pleasant. As they drove, the conversation was mostly small talk with a little catching up. Her parents had retired to the Charlotte suburbs, their homet
own before the military had moved them all around the world. Jack said he was from the suburbs of Philly. He had just started to travel, loved the chance to see places he’d only read about, hated living out of a suitcase. Germany was still the only country he’d been to outside the US, unless you counted a few weekend visits to Austria and Switzerland while stationed there. He’d been invited to speak later this year at Oxford. He couldn’t wait for that, had his agent setting up a tour of World War II sites. She was mid-sentence when they arrived, something about her older brother, the doctor, just getting married.

  A valet greeted them at the door and offered to park the car. They walked past a small crowd sipping cocktails and up to the hostess. He had made reservations and was relieved when they were seated after a few minutes.

  “I’ve always loved this place,” Rachel said, gazing out the window toward the river. A few well-dressed couples meandered about on a lower level, enclosed in a glass room. Beyond it, the boundaries of the river were just visible by the light of a three-quarter moon.

  “Have you been here often?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve never been,” she replied, “but I’ve wanted to come for a while. I’ve read articles about it in the paper, and Mary’s been here a couple of times. She said it’s wonderful.”

  The hostess led them to their table. Her eyes roamed around the table, taking in the elegant setting. She turned those eyes on him as she picked up the menu. “Do you know what’s good here?”

  “From the reviews I’ve read, everything. And it’s my treat, I insist. If you’re a vegetarian, they’ve got an incredible salad bar.” Gwen was a vegetarian, always the lecture. The look on Rachel’s face brought instant relief.