When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

  “Cain was our only proof that could link Preston to the murders of Hap and Samuel Casey,” Frank whispered. “And there are no witnesses that Preston knew Cain now or twenty years ago. The butler never met him and Preston’s housekeeper has left the country.”

  “But, Carl, your men have photos of Cain entering and leaving Preston’s house,” Jake reminded him.

  “True, but no photos with Cain and Preston together. Preston can always say Cain was casing the place out.”

  Jake handed the letter back to Carl. “At least Hap’s affidavit proves he was going to confront Preston.”

  Folding the letter back into the envelope, Carl said, “My men did find the pin in Preston’s safe. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints in the house. Maybe we can find Cain’s prints on the bomb in Sam’s Jeep. My money says Cain killed the officer last night but he wore gloves so only Sam’s prints were on the gun.”

  “Take a look at this.” Frank handed Jake a copy of the press release. “Looks like Tim’s programming worked like a charm.”

  Jake smiled when he saw Hap’s and Samuel Casey’s reports. “I’m sure Preston thinks the press is looking at embarrassing photos of Meacham.”

  Something Preston said rewarded him with thunderous applause. He held up his hands to silence the crowd, some of who stood up to cheer. Preston had just announced that he planned to run for governor.

  “Mr. Hilliard, Mr. Hilliard.” A wiry reporter with a resonant voice started to speak.

  “Questions, later, if you don’t mind,” Preston pleaded.

  “But what about the press release we received this morning?” another voice asked.

  Preston had prepared a quick speech regarding the unfortunate incident involving Governor Meacham but another reporter cut him off before he had a chance to speak.

  A smartly dressed woman from Channel Seven News stood up. “What about these allegations concerning Korea?”

  Preston blinked. Korea? “What?” he stammered. “What are you talking about?”

  Six reporters tried speaking at once. Ivan Lambert was handed several sheets of paper. He teetered over to the podium and handed them to Preston. Expecting to see the pictures he had sent on Meacham, he was horrified to see a written affidavit by Hap Wilson and Samuel Casey.

  “What on earth? This is preposterous!” Preston’s face twisted into an expression of startled horror. The flood gate of questioning opened up.

  “Is there any truth?”

  “Did you murder those boys?”

  “How many did you kill?”

  “Did you have anything to do with Hap Wilson’s death?”

  “What about Samuel Casey?”

  They fired questions at him from all directions. The murmur from the audience grew louder as shock and realization settled in. Those that had been standing for the round of applause, sat back down.

  Preston held up his hands and yelled, “ENOUGH.” A hush fell over the crowd. “This is an election year. For someone to circulate this kind of blasphemy is an outrage.” He pounded the podium sending pages of his speech floating to the floor. “I am a decorated hero. How can anyone believe accusations surfacing now about something allegedly happening over forty years ago. My fellow veterans ...” He stretched his opened arms toward them. “How can anyone believe the ramblings of a war deserter?”

  “What about one of your men who you ordered to participate in the killings?” Carl shouted as he walked down the aisle toward the stage. Heads, cameras, and microphones turned his way. He held up Parker Smith’s envelope saying, “Carl Underer, FBI Director.”

  Cameras started flashing. Gasps and comments could be heard as he passed the rows of spectators.

  “Name, names, Mr. Director,” Preston challenged. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “I have a signed confession from Parker Smith.” A portable microphone was shoved into Carl’s hand as he read Smith’s account of Mushima Valley and how the true heroes had been Hap and his unit and how they had been needlessly eliminated.

  Preston laughed. “Parker Smith had been delusional since he was released from the Army on a physical disability. What we had seen in that valley had a traumatic effect on him. On all of us. And if he did sign anything, someone put him up to it. No.” Preston waved a finger back and forth as though scolding him. “You are going to have to do better than that.”

  “All right. How about an eyewitness?” Carl turned toward the back of the auditorium. Heads swiveled again. Cameramen jockeyed for unobstructed views. “Do you remember a young house boy named Ling Toy?”

  Lincoln walked proudly down the ramp. His eyes glared at Preston. Soft murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Lincoln looked into the faces of the veterans he passed. Shock replaced the skepticism Preston had tried to plant in their minds. Disgust and revulsion replaced the admiration.

  Preston’s world was disintegrating before his eyes. He moved away from the podium, his exit blocked by two FBI agents.

  PROLOGUE

  Jake watched Abby and Sam from behind a glass door. The nurse had told him he could go in but he wasn’t sure he could handle the rejection again, that vacant stare in Sam’s eyes of complete lack of recognition.

  After spending two days being evaluated by department shrinks and private psychiatrists, Sam had been officially suspended by Captain Murphy pending her testimony on the death of Stu Richards. She had not uttered a word since Jake found her in his apartment.

  Alex frowned as he observed Abby with Sam. He played with his hat, running the brim through his fingers as if it were a coil of rope. “Abby should have never brought Sam home years ago. They should have stayed on the reservation. That’s where she belongs.”

  Jake wasn’t in the mood to go another round with Alex. Alex must have had a glimmer of regret because he clamped a hand on Jake’s shoulder and added, “The doctor says she is already getting better.” Alex turned and mumbled something about going to get the car.

  Jake lifted his right arm to give a wave, but winced. A cast ran up close to Jake’s elbow, leaving only the tip of his right thumb exposed. X-rays had revealed seven broken bones and a fractured radius. He was having a hard time getting used to this unwanted attachment to his body.

  He watched Alex cross the spacious lobby with its marble floors and ornate archways. The Sara Binyons Retreat was located about two hours south of Chicago in a small town near Terre Haute, Indiana. It was out in the country on two hundred acres of peaceful streams and wooded meadows.

  It was not a place for the criminally insane or patients with serious mental problems. Some prominent politicians and Hollywood-types were known to frequent Sara Binyons when they wanted to get away from their hectic lives.

  On a wide-screen TV in the lobby Jake could see a re-broadcast of a ceremony held earlier at Arlington National Cemetery. President Whittier had awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, Congressional Medal of Honor, and Purple Heart posthumously to Sergeant Booker J. Jones, Calvin Leeds, Shamus Lewis, and Harvey Wilson.

  The crowd of politicians, family, war veterans, and press, applauded President Whittier’s remarkable gesture. The screen showed Carl standing with his arm around a black-veiled Matilda Banks, Hap’s sister, who clutched the folded American flag.

  The broadcast cut away to the Korean War Veterans Memorial at the west end of the mall near the Lincoln Memorial. Workmen had just finished engraving the four names of the honored recipients in the granite wall. The camera panned the mural of sand-blasted images of medics, chaplains, and support troops. Near an image of the Korean peninsula were the words, Freedom is Not Free.

  The TV reporter made a closing statement, “More than fifty-four thousand Americans died in the Korean War. That number has just increased by four.”

  “It was still a wonderful gesture on the president’s part,” Abby remarked as she appeared in the doorway, a picture of tranquillity wrapped in festive cotton and a sunshine smile.

  “His arm is probably still sore from Sam twisting it.” J
ake looked past Abby’s shoulder at Sam. A stocky, red-haired nurse with a cherub face was coaxing Sam off the couch.

  Jake leaned against the door jamb finding it hard to restrain the impulse to run in there and carry Sam out of this place. The last time he had seen her hair loose and carefree, she had been lying in his bed. He looked away again.

  Abby tapped his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Nurse Petree placed her hands on Sam’s shoulders. “It’s time to go back to your room, Dear.” Mrs. Petree’s fingers touched Sam’s necklace. “Oh, my. I’m sorry, Miss Casey. Jewelry is not allowed.” She fumbled with the clasp. “Let me give this to your mother before she leaves.”

  Sam watched as the sunlight bounced off the lightning bolt pendant. The way the nurse held the necklace reminded her of another time it was held in front of her, with the pendant swinging, someone’s muscular arms reaching around her neck to fasten it. Sam inhaled the scent of a woodsy aftershave. She remembered a man’s rugged, handsome face.

  Reaching out, she grabbed the necklace from Mrs. Petree’s fingers. For a brief moment, other memories flooded back. That same man, holding her tightly in a darkened room. She could see his chiseled features, the sharp angle of his chin. Her head turned quickly toward the door.

  “Miss Casey, wait!” Mrs. Petree hurried after Sam.

  Sam rushed past the potted calla lilies resting on the sill of the tall, narrow windows lining the wide hallway. When they heard the commotion, Abby and Jake turned around. Cautiously, Sam approached Jake. Her eyes moved from his face to the pendant. Slowly, she reached up and fastened it around his neck.

  Jake gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, inhaling the smell of her hair. He could feel her body tremble but she didn’t push away. He whispered, “Just remember, I love you.”

  She didn’t pull away when he kissed her on the mouth. Her face was masked in confusion as she backed away from him. As Mrs. Petree led her back down the hallway, Sam stole several glances over her shoulder at Jake.

  Jake and Abby walked along the brick circular driveway to a sidewalk framed in low shrubs. Tall oak trees near the curb loomed overhead, shading them from the late morning sun.

  “You will move in with us, Jacob. You are family now. It will make the waiting less painful.”

  “Listen, Abby, I know it’s customary for you to choose your daughter’s husband.”

  Abby hugged him and laughed. “But Jacob, you WERE my choice.”

  Puzzled, he thought back to the strange visions he had of Sam when he was in the whirlpool, the all-consuming love that seemed to mushroom overnight.

  “You mean that my feelings for Sam aren’t real?”

  “Of course they are. But there was so much animosity between the two of you at first that I didn’t think you’d ever get to know each other. So I just had you see each other through my eyes, to see the good points. The spirits took over from there.”

  “I just wish Sam and I had been able to talk. We left a lot of things unsaid. When she remembers the last argument we had ...” Jake gave a hopeless shrug. “I don’t know if she’s going to be very happy with this arrangement.”

  “She has no choice in the matter.”

  “Everyone has a choice, Abby. Besides, she’s very headstrong.”

  “Ahh, yes.” Abby entwined her arm through his as they continued their walk to the curb. “But who do you think she got it from?”

  Abby knew fate always wins out. When she had touched Jake’s scars that day, she saw more than just his pained childhood. She saw children, all blond-haired. Some with blue eyes so bright they seemed to glow. And some with soft brown, the color of doeskin.

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