The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  “Oops,” Sly said. “Hit a SAR window.”

  The mountain lion turned and rapidly loped away, leaving the Terrazzo as it headed back toward the mountains.

  Rod took his mouth off the reed. “You did it!”

  Simultaneously, the two cadets on the Terrazzo looked wildly around and then ran to one of the stairwells. Within seconds the campus was empty.

  Rod surveyed the campus; it was deserted and eerily quiet. “Where’d everybody go?”

  “Probably to the latrine to clean the crap out of their pants.” Sly turned and picked up his clubs. “Do you think they’ll be able to trace those golf balls back to me?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rod said. “I’ll type up an anonymous note and leave it at Command Post with some cash for the repairs.”

  Minutes later, the cadet buzz in the dorm spread like wildfire. A fourth classman swore he had seen a mountain lion on the Terrazzo as a storm of golf ball-sized hail bounced around him. And accompanying the hail was a weird wailing that blanketed the campus, as if a haunting wind had descended from the mountains.

  ***

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Mack the Knife”

  April 1959

  El Paso County Courthouse

  Colorado Springs, CO

  It takes two to speak the truth—one to speak, and another to hear.

  —Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

  Rod pulled his parent’s car into a dry parking spot at 215 South Tejon and turned off the engine. Yesterday’s spring snowstorm had melted and Rod didn’t want Julie or his parents to step in any puddles, so he’d parked well uphill from the front of El Paso County Courthouse; but parking uphill meant they’d have to negotiate the courthouse’s massive indoor staircase by entering the side entrance. Just like the last time he was here, except then there had been a crowd of reporters outside and he’d snuck out of the back service entrance.

  Today though, he felt elated.

  He turned to Julie. She sat in the back seat next to his mother who wore a white hat, prim green dress, and matching pumps. Julie wore a loose-fitting blue smock, white shorts, and tennis shoes; she looked freshly scrubbed, radiant. Rod said, “I can start the paperwork for the marriage license if you want to take your time going down the stairs. Once you arrive, all you’ll have to do is sign the form, and my parents can witness.”

  “I’ll go with you, lad,” Hank said. He opened the car door and rotated his body to the end of the seat. He grabbed his cane, his fedora, and pushed out of the car. “I want to see how much longer they’re putting off the trial. Maybe I can knock some bloody sense into their heads. Take your time, ladies.”

  Rod patted Julie on the knee. “The office is on the first floor, down the first stairwell after you enter the side entrance. It’s in the same location as the car registration and land titles. Be careful on those stairs.”

  Julie lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve already forgotten I have to go up and down stairs to get to my apartment? I’m just in my last trimester, not brain dead.” She turned and smiled at Rod’s mother. “Don’t worry about us, right Mary?”

  “Aye, we’ll manage.”

  Julie straightened and looked at her curiously. “Are you feeling all right? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  Mary patted her knee. “Husband and I heard from congressional liaison. We’ll talk later. This is your day, daughter.”

  Rod grinned. “Okay you two, you heard dad: take your time.” He pulled back and joined his father who had already reached the side entrance to the building. He looked around. A few cars were parked in the lot across the street, and except for a few people walking on the sidewalk, the courthouse seemed deserted. The last time he was here the place had been overflowing with reporters.

  Rod opened the massive wooden side door for his father. Black and white marble tiles covered the floor; solid white walls rose to a soaring twelve-foot ceiling. As they entered the building, their footsteps echoed down the cavern-like hall. Hank’s cane sounded like a hammer tapping on a hollow log. A slender metal pole was placed in the center of the hall, supported by a wooden base; fastened to it a sign read: “Court offices closed for lunch.”

  Hank looked at his watch. “I’ll come back after we get your license.”

  They turned for the stairwell.

  Rod said, “Let me go first, Dad.” The marble stairs didn’t have any traction and he was afraid Hank might slip with his cane.

  Hank grunted and took his time negotiating down the steps. Just inside the stairwell a tan fire hose was folded in a glassed-in cabinet next to a large red handle that controlled the flow. Water pipes ran from the ceiling to the hose and dark wood railings were set on either side of the wide stairs.

  When they were mid-way down the stairs, the door at the top opened; someone entered the stairwell behind them and started quickly tapping down the marble steps. At first Rod thought it might be Julie and his mother, but he heard two men talking.

  Suddenly, Rod heard his father’s cane slip; it fell from his hands and clattered against the marble. Rod turned and held out a hand to steady Hank while simultaneously bending over to pick up his cane. As the men who had entered the stairway grew closer, something about their voices sounded familiar—

  “Out of the way. You’re taking up the whole staircase.” They shoved past Hank and Rod, pushing them against the wall. Still holding Hank’s cane, Rod flailed out and leaned forward to stop his fall.

  “Hey, watch it!” Rod caught his balance; his face grew hot. He’d almost tumbled down the stairs, and might have taken his father with him as well. All because someone was in a hurry. Who in their right mind would do such a stupid thing? It reminded Rod of that time years ago, when he and his father where walking up the wooden stairs at Air University, and Captain Whitney had caused his father to stumble.

  Still supporting his father, Rod looked down and his eyes flared—

  Fred and George Delante stood one step below, looking up.

  George scowled. “McCluney! Too bad you didn’t fall and break your neck. You would have saved the County trying you for murder.” He nudged his son with an elbow and Fred sniggered.

  Rod stared. He hadn’t seen his old roommate for nearly two years.

  Fred looked as though he’d put on weight, and his once short-cropped blond hair was now cut in a Greenwich Village beatnik style, combed straight down in front. He wore a bright green and yellow striped shirt and black pants, contrasting with George’s tan suit.

  Hank reached down and grabbed his cane from Rod. His voice was low. “I should have known it would be the one person in Colorado Springs without any regard for civility.”

  “You and your bastard son don’t have a clue about civility, or anything else for that matter, McCluney. Otherwise, you never would have taught that young upstart to screw over his classmate. He’s a traitor and a liar.”

  Hank pulled himself upright. “Rod’s an honorable man. But you have poisoned generations of offspring by your deceptive and unlawful actions.”

  George narrowed his eyes and stepped up to Hank. “Don’t talk to me about unlawful actions, you old cripple. You’ve been hiding behind your disability and military service for years. You skimmed money off the Academy construction project, and you lied when you implicated me. Worse yet, you killed that courageous reporter who uncovered your illegal acts. You’re a cheat, a liar, and a murderer, McCluney, and your son’s no better than you.”

  Still standing one step below Rod, Fred crossed his arms. A faint smirk played at his lips. “That’s right, old man. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

  Rod felt his breath quicken. He looked from Fred to George. Mr. Delante stepped up and moved close to Hank, until his face was just inches away from Rod’s father.

  Rod reached up and placed a hand on George’s chest. “Leave him alone. My father’s innocent, and you know it. He told me how you tried to blackmail him, all becau
se the site commission chose not to build the Academy in the south part of town.”

  Fred jumped up and shoved Rod by the shoulder. “Keep your slimy hands off my father!”

  Rod pushed him back; his vision narrowed and his whole focus shifted to Fred.

  Hank swept his cane up between Rod and Fred, who were now standing chest to chest on the step below him. “Stop it, you two.”

  Up on the second floor the door to the stairwell opened. Unaware of the altercation below them, Mary and Julie walked into the stairwell, immersed in conversation. When they saw Hank and Rod confronting the Delantes, they pulled up short and stopped next to the fire hose on the upper landing.

  “Hank!” Mary said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Keep that deadly weapon away from my boy,” George said. He reached over and swatted Hank’s cane. It flew into the air and clattered down the stairs. “Everyone knows your cane was found next to that reporter’s body.”

  Hank stared. He spoke slowly without looking at Rod. “Stand down, son.”

  George raised his chin, and although he looked directly at Hank, he spoke in a loud voice as he directed his words up the stairs. “Still stepping in to save your little bastard, McCluney? Then why don’t you tell him the truth—how you killed that man, and about your affair with that prostitute.” He turned to Rod. “Fred says you even saw your father’s whore. Your old man pretends to be so honorable, yet can’t keep his dick in his pants when he’s away from your mother.”

  “Keep Mary out of this,” Hank said in a low voice. His hand shook; his fingers were white as he gripped the railing.

  George looked from Hank to Rod, a smile widening on his face. “Ever wonder why your old man goes to Washington without your mother, Rod? Did he tell you he has sex with that whore every chance he can? Or how the police found your father’s cane by Rafelli’s body, proving your old man’s a murderer? Along with his shotgun and boot prints in that ravine?”

  Rod’s ears pounded and he felt his vision constrict. He felt short of breath as George taunted his father about what he’d suspected all along: that Hank was seeing another woman, that prostitute. And worse, that his father really did commit that murder. He heard Hank shout something, but the throbbing in his ears made the words incomprehensible.

  Without thinking he stepped up and drew his arm back, wanting to silence the man, stop the insults, stop the innuendos, the affronts and abuses. He started to swing, then felt Fred’s fist smash against the side of his face.

  His head jerked. He felt his feet slip and he crashed backwards against the wall. He flailed his arms and tried to keep from falling, but his side hit the railing and his head whipped against the wall.

  “Lad!” Hank said. He reached to help Rod, but missed.

  Rod saw Hank turn, then leap out on his good leg; he tackled George and wrapped his arms around him. The two tumbled down the wide stairs and rolled to the lower step.

  Rod pushed himself up when he heard Fred yell out with a roar. Fred threw himself at Rod and started pummeling him with his fists, the blows coming one after another in an unending staccato. Rod turned from side to side, fending off the blows as Fred fought with his head down, pounding away in a frenzy.

  Rod grunted as he felt Fred’s fists hit his side, his stomach, his chest. He wrapped his arms around Fred and pulled him close, then tried to rotate around to pin him down in a wrestler’s move. He heard Julie at the top of the stairs, her screams mixed incomprehensibly with Hank’s and George’s shouting.

  Rod held onto Fred as hard as he could but felt himself weakening. He felt his grip loosen as Fred twisted back and forth, trying to get free—

  A jet of water hit him in the face. The spray came so suddenly and with such force that he had difficulty breathing; he couldn’t see from the cascade of water.

  He released Fred and rolled to the side, slipping to the next lower step as Fred pushed off his legs; Hank and George yelled hoarsely for the water to stop.

  The water sluiced through the air, hitting him, then Fred, then George and Hank, pushing the men apart until they were at opposite sides of the wide stairway.

  Rod’s hands slipped against the cold marble, but using his legs he managed scoot to a sitting position.

  His mother stood just a few steps above them, holding the hose with both hands. She swung the nozzle back and forth and stood with her feet spread wide, gaining purchase on the marble steps by leaning back against the wall. Her green dress was soaking wet, yet she stood firm as she trained the spray from man to man.

  “Mary, enough!” Hank coughed. He leaned on an elbow and turned his head as he held up a hand to shield his face from the onslaught.

  Mary turned to Julie, who was standing by the fire hose cabinet on the upper landing. “Turn off the water, lass!”

  Julie turned the red handle, rotating it clockwise until the water subsided and ebbed to a dribble. An eerie silence fell over the stairwell, contrasting with the chaotic yelling and splashing just seconds before.

  Still holding the now-flaccid hose, Mary drew herself up. “Stop your fighting! Keep away from each other. One word from me and this water goes on again, understand?” She looked from Hank to Rod, then George and Fred.

  Rod nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

  George scowled as Fred looked at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

  When she received a stiff nod from Hank, Mary seemed to relax, but her words were sharp. “You men should be ashamed of yourself. What do you think you’ll accomplish? You’ve been going at each other for years.”

  Mary pointed the still-dribbling hose at George and Fred. “You two—move off these stairs and get on with your business. Now.”

  George took his time as he pushed up from the steps. His clothes and hair were soaked; both he and Fred looked as if they had jumped fully clothed into a swimming pool. He brushed water from himself; he jerked his head at Fred. “Get up, boy.”

  Fred pushed up and kept his eyes locked on Rod. His beatnik haircut was plastered to his head and revealed a premature bald spot.

  George took a few steps down the stairs; turning, he stopped and glared at Hank, then raised his chin to Mary. “I’d ask your murdering husband about his Washington whore if I were you, missy. Listen to what type of story he concocts. Then you decide if I’m as bad as you think I am.”

  Mary was quiet for a long time. Her eyes appeared to flash, as if a tripwire had been crossed. “I know exactly what type of man you are, Mr. Delante. I not only believe husband, but why do you think Congress started investigating you?”

  “Because your husband lied under oath, that’s why!”

  Mary raised the hose. Above her on the marble landing, Julie turned to start the water once again, but Hank held up a hand and motioned for Julie to wait.

  Mary said, “You are wrong, Mr. Delante. My husband had nothing to do with your subpoena. Congress obtained their evidence from Barbie Mitchell.”

  Delante took a step back. “She’s … she’s nothing but a whore.”

  “Yes, she is a prostitute,” Mary said, “and you hired her to blackmail Hank, but he didn’t fall for it. I’ve known about this for ten years—but unlike you, my husband is an honorable man and chose not to use that evidence against you.”

  Rod straightened. That woman he saw with his father at the Hays-Adams hotel in Washington ten years ago was there because of George Delante? It really was a setup! Hank had told the truth that day he confronted his father at the Academy site; and all this time he’d thought Hank had been cheating on his mother, living a double life.

  He felt his anger grow that George Delante would do something so despicable; Delante had known all the time what he had done to Rod’s father! And to think that he had even bought him dinner in San Francisco, that night he’d met Barbara! He turned to glare at Fred. Did he know about this as well?

  George slowly shook his head and laughed, but it lacked force. “Nice try, Mrs. McCluney, but if Congress had any real evidence, the
n why did they drop my investigation? It sounds like Barbie Mitchell took someone for a ride, missy!” He looked at Hank with a triumphant grin.

  Rod turned to his mother; she closed her eyes and slowly moved her head back and forth.

  Hank turned to George and spoke with a quiet voice. “Mrs. McCluney is too much of a lady to tell you that it was she who obtained that evidence from Miss Mitchell; a former federal prosecutor taped her admission. It’s over, Delante. The evidence is overwhelming and you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  George took a step backward. His eyes darted from Hank to Mary; he moistened his lips. “That whore is lying. You’re lying! Otherwise … otherwise why would Congress drop the case?”

  “Because they’ve handed it over to a grand jury,” Hank said. “In fact, we learned today that a federal indictment will be levied against you, felony charges to defraud the government.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I’m sure they’d also want to know what you said about the alleged evidence that was found around my house; especially since Rafelli’s murder hasn’t come to trial. The court records are sealed, Delante. No one has access to them. Yet, you have detailed knowledge about evidence that only the police would know, or the DA’s office, so some may suspect you had a hand in planting it.”

  George’s face turned red. He took several deep breaths and looked from Mary to Hank. He started to tremble as he jabbed the air with a finger. “You’d better watch your back, McCluney. You won’t have your little woman to rescue you next time.”

  Rod straightened. Watch your back. He’d heard those words before.…

  “There won’t be a next time,” Mary said. She brought up the hose. “On your way.”

  George sputtered, then looked as if he were going to retort, but instead turned and tapped down the stairs. Fred followed, splashing in puddles of water.

  Mary kept the hose pointed at the two as they left. Only when the door at the bottom of the stairwell slammed did she lower the hose. Her shoulders slumped.