S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Sam walked up to the plexiboard, drew another line down from Hap’s name, and wrote Preston’s and Abbott’s names. She drew a small lightning bolt by the three names.

Jake took the marker from her and wrote Samuel Casey’s name near the date that Hap had died. He drew a lightning bolt by Samuel’s name.

Sam pointed at the empty space between 1951 and 1977. “We still have to fill a pretty large gap.”

“DMV hasn’t been of any help,” Jake said. “Records weren’t computerized back in 1951. We’re kind of at a standstill.”

He sat down on the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Tim find out anything about Preston’s computer?”

“Preston’s using some kind of fail-safe code. Tim found the first password — BYRON. But the program is set up so if you don’t get the second password on the first try, something is executed. Tim’s not sure what it is that is activated but he doesn’t want to take any chances.” Sam sat down next to Jake, resting her feet on the table by his.

“What about the CIA files?” Jake’s arm found its way across the back of the couch behind her.

“He struck out there, too. So he focused on flight logs but he didn’t find anyone by the name of Cain. Cain probably used an alias.” She could feel the heat radiating from Jake’s arm and tried to focus on the plexiboard in front of her. “Tim will find a way to circumvent that password.”

Sam pulled her father’s pin from her pocket and studied it. “It’s funny. When I first touched Hap’s and Preston’s pins, I got the distinct feeling that I had seen them before. Then, when I touched my father’s, I saw the shapes again — drawn, sketched, traced, childlike drawings.” She looked over at Jake, his chiseled features, his strong jaw line. She caught him staring at her legs and wondered if her cutoffs were too short.

She took a sip of the flavorful liqueur, then another. She felt warmth in the back of her throat. But what felt even better was Jake’s protective arm. It felt good, too good. The phone rang. The portable unit was sitting on the end table. She had to reach over Jake to pick it up. His breath felt warm on her neck. The track lighting seemed to dim. The smell of burning logs permeated the air yet the fireplace wasn’t on. Soft music played in the background, but the music had been turned off after dinner. It was becoming unusually warm in the room.

Jake picked up the phone and handed it to her.

“Hello?” Sam could hear someone breathing on the other end. “Hello, Casey residence.” Then there was a dial tone. Sam looked at the phone and shrugged, setting it down on the coffee table.

Jake took the pin from her. “Maybe Frank’s suggestion might pay off, to talk to the grandfather of one of Claudia’s pupils. He served in Korea.” Frank’s wife, Claudia, was a part-time teacher. Frank had offered to pay the grandfather a visit. “Did you talk to Chief Connelley?” Jake asked.

“Yes. He thinks I should take a much-needed vacation. He keeps harping on how everything I do reflects on him and he’d like Abby to tuck me away on the reservation til things blow over.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jake said under his breath as he set the pin on the coffee table. He moved his arm away from Sam and straightened up.

Sam checked her watch. “Where could Abby be? It’s almost midnight.”

“Maybe they went to a show. I’ll wait for her if you want to go on up to bed.”

“Maybe I will.” She gave the board one last inspection.

“I think you are avoiding one crucial point.”

She swung her gaze back to him. “What’s that?”

“Don’t you find it a little curious that Hap Wilson’s death and your father’s accident happened around the same time?”

After Sam went up to bed and Jake called Carl to tell him of their latest finding, Jake filled the whirlpool, stripped out of his clothes, and climbed in. Only the verdigris patina sconces on the wall were turned on, giving the gym a tranquil mood.

The whirlpool was in the far corner, bordered on two sides by five feet of tiled wall. Above the tiles, jalousie windows were cranked open for ventilation.

The low hum of the jets propelled tiny fingers of pressure over his tired body. He leaned back against one of the jets and let the force work its magic on his lower back.

The more he tried to clear his head, the more the plexiboard puzzle cluttered it. But then he found his thoughts drifting to Sam. He could picture every flawless detail of her face, her eyes that were the color of an azure sea, the mass of curly hair he wanted to plunge his hands into.

He spent his life drifting from one woman to the next. It was safer that way, emotionally. Valerie had been the last. Jake met her two years ago when he responded to a call for a drive-by shooting in an upscale complex. In interviewing the neighbors, he knocked on the door of Valerie Tweed, a high school English teacher, twenty-six years old, short blond hair. She came compact, five-foot-three inches, with an hourglass figure. Except for the times that she corrected Jake’s grammar (occupational hazard, she had explained), Jake felt they had a good relationship.

Valerie had a pouty mouth, kind of a young Joey Heatherton. Unfortunately, when she opened it she sounded more like a truck driver. Jake thought it was cute in the beginning. But it wore thin real quick.

He rarely called before going over (occupational hazard, he had explained). Once a month for servicing, completely understood by Valerie, or so he thought.

But last month he had knocked on Valerie’s door and interrupted a bridal shower… Valerie’s. He had the pleasure of meeting Valerie’s fiancee. Jake was livid. Not over having been dumped but that she had been sleeping with someone else while he was dating her. Risky sex these days was frightening enough to drive a person to have his entire body hermetically sealed.

Valerie set him straight in front of Jim, the geek science teacher fiancee; the white-haired grandmother who wore a blue pill box hat and sipped champagne through a straw; and all the bridesmaids and other guests.

Suddenly the pouty mouth didn’t look that cute, her compact size was too petite, her hair too short and the color too fake. She had always been far too demanding and flaunted her master’s degree every chance she had.

It took a lot to get Jake to lose his composure. But he exploded that day. “You slept with another man while you were sleeping with me?” he demanded.

“Wrong, asshole,” Valerie replied. “I was a convenient place for you to drop by any time you felt like it. You never called. We never went out except maybe to dinner once in a while. You usually drank until you passed out, then you got up from your little nap and went home. I saw you once every other month, Jake. We haven’t had sex in almost a year.”

Almost a year. The words had reverberated in his head. He slinked out of Valerie’s apartment red-faced. When he confessed the ordeal to Frank, Frank laughed and commented that it was a wonder his dick hadn’t atrophied and fallen off.

Jake had done major backpedaling in his day when it came to women. But for some reason the pedals weren’t working now. Something was sneaking up on him and he seemed powerless to stop it.

He inhaled deeply in an attempt to push Sam, Valerie, and Hap Wilson out of his head. Suddenly, his senses detected Sam’s perfume, that faint clean scent, like the morning dew. Not that sickening floral worn by some women. This was more like walking through a forest after a heavy rain. He heard the flute music in the background becoming louder and wondered if there was a control somewhere else in the house. He could swear he had turned off the CD player.