“I ... yes, I agree.” Murphy was practically salivating over the phone.
“It will take someone who is tactical, efficient, who really gets the job done. And, of course, being my home town, I will have a great deal of input.”
The speaker phone was silent, except for Murphy’s breathing which bordered on panting. Cain smiled at Preston’s skillful art of manipulation.
“The only problem I foresee is the sergeant on the case. Casey may not let it die.”
Preston straightened up, stared at the phone as he repeated, “Casey?”
“Yes, Sam Casey.”
“Sam? Wasn’t he a reporter?”
“That was her father. But it may as well be her old man. She’s just as tenacious.”
Now it was Preston’s turn to be silent and breathe heavily. He regained his composure quickly, saying, “A good organizer, an excellent candidate for police commissioner, would find a way to control his people.”
Preston ended his call, leaned back in his high-backed chair, and studied the brown contents in his glass. His left hand squeezed tightly. The names Samuel Casey and Harvey Wilson pounded in his head. His temples throbbed, his jaw tightened.
The glass burst in his hand, scattering shards and spraying whiskey on his desk and the front of his blue silk shirt. He looked at the blood running down his hand.
Cain seemed unaffected, as if the scene were a frequent occurrence. Preston casually started to pull the glass shards from his hand as he told Cain, “I think it’s time to put together a plan.”
Chapter 25
“Beer?” Frank handed a can to Jake without even waiting for a reply. They sat around the table on the patio. Moths flitted through the still air. The sky was the darkest blue, one shade before total darkness. Candles glowed on tall bamboo rods standing guard at the corners of the patio.
“We didn’t really expect the major general to be alive anyway. He would have been what? Seventy-six?” Jake took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled. “There must be a subordinate who’s still breathing.”
“I’ve left half a dozen messages. I’ll have to see how many return calls I get tomorrow.” Frank raised his head, listening for something, then shrugged. “Why don’t we just question Preston?”
“I don’t want to tip my hand. I’d rather get more information first,” Jake replied.
“I agree,” Sam said. She picked up her cellular phone and dialed. She smiled when she heard the familiar voice. “Hi, Tim. I need a favor. Have a pencil handy?” She waited a few seconds, then continued. “The dates are 1950 to 1953. Yes, the Korean War. I need information on a place called Mushima Valley. I’m interested specifically in a Private Harvey Wilson and anyone who might have been close to him. Yes, just send the information through to my printer. Thanks, Hon.”
Sam hung up smiling.
“What pipeline do you have?” Jake asked suspiciously.
“A high school computer genius. He’s been quite helpful to me in the past.”
“And exactly where does he plan on getting all this information?” Jake dropped the butt of his cigarette into his empty beer can.
“He’s going to tap into the Pentagon files.”
Frank turned and spit a mouthful of beer onto Abby’s pot of pink geraniums. He coughed and sputtered in between his howls of laughter.
Jake glared. “You are encouraging this kid to break the law?”
“And I suppose you’ve never done whatever it takes to solve a case?”
“Shhhh,” Frank held his hand up and cocked an ear toward the darkened yard. “Do you hear that?”
Only if one listened closely could the chants and rattles be heard from the deck. The rhythmic singing blended into the sounds of the night.
The drum beats stopped and seemed to signal the animal kingdom to be silent. The sounds began to diminish — the owls, frogs in the pond, insects, until the silence became uncomfortably eerie.
“Do you hear that?” Frank whispered.
Jake strained to hear. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Right. Everything stopped.” As quietly as the drum had stopped, it started up again. “There they go again.” Frank walked out to the edge of the patio. “Now do you hear it?”
It was vague at first but then intensified. The longer Jake listened the stronger it became.
“You’re right. It sounds like a drum beat.” Jake joined Frank at the edge of the patio.
Sam remained calm, sipping her wine.
“What are they doing out there, Sam?” Jake asked.
“It’s a sweat lodge,” Sam explained.
“A what?” Frank asked.
“Inipi, a purification ritual. Someone back home must be sick so they are cleansing their bodies and praying for a speedy recovery.”
“They wouldn’t be smoking anything illegal out there, would they? Like peyote?” Jake asked.
“It’s going to go on all night, get used to it. We have more important things to think about.”
The drum beat was replaced with a defined series of rattles.
“What’s that?” Frank’s eyes widened. What may have started out as only two rattles was magnified to an entire orchestra.
“They are calling upon the spirits to intercede,” Sam explained. “The spirits are responding by adding their rattles to the ritual.”
“Jake, do you believe this shit?” Frank whispered. Jake didn’t respond, just stared out at the darkened yard.
As if a storm front had whipped around the corner, the umbrella on the patio table shook back and forth wildly. The pattern of the wind could be traced from across the patio through the lilac bushes toward the sweat lodge. In the distance, the flag of the sovereign nations could be seen flying high on a lighted pole near Alex’s house. It whipped around furiously under the illumination of the moon, even though the umbrella had stopped vibrating and the lilac bushes became still.
They listened as tree branches whipped with as much fury as the flag. Wind moved through the acreage like nature holding a hand blower over the landscape, shifting it from side to side.
As the drum joined the sound of the rattles, the flag fell limp, the wind whipped back across the patio. Frank watched as the wind tossed Sam’s hair around and then Jake’s. Frank, only five feet away, was untouched.
“Sammmm?” Frank’s voice rose to a falsetto as he backstepped his way to the table.
Sam whispered, “You can feel their presence.” Her eyes seemed spellbound, in awe at the unexplained power around them.
Jake looked around for a logical explanation for the wind tunnel. “We’re probably blocked by the house back here.”
“Uh,” Frank gulped the last of his beer. “I think I’m going to go home. See you tomorrow.”
Sam watched in amusement as Frank stumbled out of the yard. “He doesn’t feel very comfortable about the thought of spirits and rituals.”
“Do you blame him?”
As though purposely timed, the rattles and drum stopped and the animal kingdom came alive again.
“It isn’t easy for people to understand. Sometimes it’s best not to.” She picked up her wine and walked inside the house. Jake looked out toward the darkness. A strong curiosity pulled at him to take a walk out there, just to watch, or maybe wait.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sam said from behind the screen door.
Jake looked over his shoulder at her and then back toward the direction of the sweat lodge. He reluctantly followed her into the house.
He insisted on cleaning up the kitchen and loading the dish washer all the while trying to talk Sam out of involving Tim in anything illegal. She ignored him.
She emptied the coffee grounds from the coffee maker, wiped the dining room table and counter. They worked silently, in unison, almost with surprising ease.
“Is it my imagination,” Jake asked as he scraped food into the garbage disposal, “or do you people purposely leave food on your plates?”
“They are off
erings to the spirits. It’s customary, a part of our heritage.”
He leaned against the counter and in all seriousness asked, “Don’t they take cold, hard cash?”
She had to look hard to find the twinkle in his eyes. He wasn’t smiling. There was no way for her to tell if he were joking. If he were, he had the driest sense of humor she had ever known, except for Alex’s.
She slid onto a stool at the island counter. “Does the phrase lightning strike mean anything to you?”
Jake shook his head. “Where did you hear it?”
She explained how she had heard it when she touched Hap and the two pins. “Preston is a primary player here. He was in Mushima Valley. So was Hap. He has the same pin Hap was holding. There is a connection.”
“If it IS the same pin,” Jake added.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
Chapter 26
“So, you have a renegade cop,” Carl commented. He struggled with his tie as he stood in front of the mirror in his suite.
Jake watched Carl mentally gauge the knot of the tie as if making sure it was symmetrical. “Let’s just say we have a cop with an overactive curiosity and a bizarre — to use our medical examiner’s term — mystic power.” Jake explained the visions Sam had described seeing when she touched the remains of Hap Wilson, his pin, and Preston’s pin.
Swiping a brush through his hair, Carl stared at Jake’s reflection in the mirror. “You ARE kidding, I hope.”
Jake shrugged. “Benny’s sold on her. According to newspaper reports, she has solved some pretty tough cases. And you know how the media likes to blow things out of proportion.”
Turning from the mirror, Carl said, “And what’s your take on Sergeant Casey?”
Jake followed Carl to the living room. “She’s stubborn, has a hard-on about politicians, isn’t too thrilled about Captain Murphy, or me for that matter, has a housekeeper who talks to spirits, a gardener who talks to animals, and she herself hears voices that tell her who the bad guys are. Enough said?”
Carl smiled. “And you wanted to leave the Bureau to find more exciting work.” He picked up the autopsy report on Hap Wilson and sat on the couch across from Jake.
Jake handed him a packet. “You’ll find this interesting. We obtained information on Task Force Kelly. Lieutenant Colonel Joe Kelly, the creator of the Task Force, had dispatched his men to Mushima Valley on August 9, 1951. Frank is going to speak with him this morning. He’s about eighty years old. Lives with his daughter in Phoenix.”
Carl thumbed through the pages. “Jake, these are Pentagon files.”
“Let’s just say Sergeant Casey has extraordinary resources and I think our creative artist is going to make another trip to Preston’s.”
“For what purpose?” Carl asked.
“Probably take a picture of the pin. I think we all would like to have the comparison confirmed.” Jake pulled the carafe of coffee toward him and filled his cup.
“Want me to order you some breakfast?”
“No, thanks. Coffee is fine.” Jake drank half and refilled his cup. “Why don’t you make a house call to Preston’s?”
“Oh, no. I don’t even want Preston to know I’m in town. I have our St. Louis, Milwaukee, Chicago, and Springfield bureaus to visit. That will keep me busy while you do what you do best.”
Jake peered at Carl over the rim of his cup. “Ever hear of the term, lightning strike?”
Carl put his cup down a little too quickly, spilling remnants into the saucer. “Where did you hear that?”
Jake explained what Sam had heard when she touched Hap’s body and the pin. “I know it sounds like something from X-Files. And if I could find an explanation for what she sees and hears, I would be the first to tell you.” He studied Carl’s pensive look. “Carl, do you know what lightning strike means?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll check it out.”
Jake no sooner left then Carl pulled out a phone from his briefcase and dialed. When his call was answered, he said, “This is Director Underer. I need to speak with the President.”
Chapter 27
“I really don’t feel comfortable having my father discuss the subject, Officer Travis.”
Frank listened as Joy Engle, Joe Kelly’s daughter, explained by phone her father’s fragile condition. Frank could hear kids talking in the background and Joy telling them to go outside by the pool.
“But you did explain to your father why I was calling? The case we’re working on?”
“Yes, and I know he agreed to talk to you. It’s just that his health is not ...”
“Joy, give me the phone, Dear.”
Frank could hear another voice, then muffled voices as the mouthpiece of the phone was covered. Seconds later, a man’s voice came on the line.
“Officer Travis?”
“Please, call me Frank, Lieutenant Colonel Kelly.”
“Only if you call me Joe.”
“All right, Joe.” Frank explained the case and how they were trying to piece together Hap’s whereabouts since Mushima Valley. “What can you tell me about Mushima Valley?”
Joe sucked in a deep breath. “A night doesn’t go by that I don’t think of those boys.”
Contrary to his daughter’s concerns, Joe sounded sturdy, youthful, as if he still did fifty push-ups every morning. His voice was deep, confident, with just a slight hint of the emphysema that racked his lungs.
“I dispatched my men to Hill Fifty-Six at sixteen-hundred-hours. We knew the North Koreans had a massive front organizing north of Hill Fifty-Six but we weren’t sure of their strength. Our orders were to wait for the Marines and the air power. And, if necessary, delay the advance of the North Koreans.”
“How many men comprised your task force?”
“Forty-five of the best men in the Army. They were like the Navy Seals and Green Berets combined. But the columns of civilians our planes saw hours before were a smoke screen. We lost communication sometime during the night. Didn’t know what to think except the worst. Ended up a battalion of North Koreans and Chinese was waiting in the brush at the top of Hill Fifty-Six. They mowed down my men like they were sitting ducks.” Joe’s breathing sounded labored. “Damn, what a waste of good lives.” His voice broke. Frank could hear Joy in the background saying, “Daddy, you don’t have to do this.”
“How did Hap Wilson’s unit, the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division, get involved?”
“Montgomery, that’s Major General Stanton Montgomery, offered to send a detail out to check on my men.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No, just some of Montgomery’s black boys.” Joe coughed, wheezed. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.
“Black?” Frank’s voice and diction usually did not give away his African American heritage. And right now, Frank wasn’t about ready to tell him.
“Yes. The Twenty-fifth was a black unit.”
“I thought the infantry was integrated. If I remember my history class, it was banned in 1947 or `48.”
Frank swiveled in his chair to survey some of his fellow workers. Andy Branard and Maury Jackson, the newest recruits, one Caucasian, one African-American, were high-fiving each other, laughing. There was mutual respect in their eyes. Sergeant Ron Dorsey, due for retirement in a couple months, sat two desks away, complete disdain written all over his face as he watched the young detectives. They came from two different generations. Sometimes you hope things have changed.
“In principle only. There was too much in-fighting. Many commanding officers would rather separate the troops and have peace than try to follow the executive order and have fights and disorder among the ranks. Besides,” Joe went through a ten-second coughing spasm before continuing, “what D.C. ordered and what actually happened thousands of miles away, hell, it was two different worlds. I had a couple of blacks in my task force. Never had a problem with my men. We had bigger fish to tackle.” Joe heaved a sigh. “My men. Damn.”
�
�Have you ever talked to the men who made it out?”
“I met with each of them at the hospital. All four had been unconscious when they were pulled out of there.
“So they don’t remember anything about the rescue.”
“Just what they were told ... that four men from the Eighth pulled them out and drove them back to base. Those boys were decorated heroes.” Joe coughed and wheezed again. Frank could hear Joy mumbling something.
“Just one last question, Joe. What does the term lightning strike mean?”
“That’s when the North Koreans conducted a full assault, threw the whole damn shit load at us. It was quick and deadly. I guess you could say that’s what my boys got.”
Chapter 28
“I received my medical examiner’s preliminary toxicology report,” Murphy whispered into his phone. “It’s negative. Did you hear me, Preston? Negative on the drug or alcohol theory.”
“I have confidence in you, Dennis. Get your people in line. I have a major announcement that I can’t talk about right now. I don’t need a full-blown story about the death of some black deserter to overshadow my campaign. I’ve had a flawless record when it comes to introducing laws to keep down the crime in Chasen Heights. This would diminish everything I have worked for. It would certainly look bad for you and anyone in law enforcement. How could I even entertain the thought of your promotion in the necessary circles if this unfortunate occurrence tarnishes our efforts?”
Murphy shook his head. Preston was good. No wonder he was in a high-ranking elected office and Murphy was just a patsy, doing Preston’s bidding.
“I can’t ask my medical examiner to falsify his report.”
“You don’t. You order him.”
Murphy listened to the dial tone, then dropped the phone in its cradle, as if it were as repellent as Preston. He walked over to the glass partition and scanned the outer office. He watched Frank and Jake walk into Casey’s office.
He pursed his lips, walked back to his desk and buzzed Janet.
When the Dead Speak Page 8
