S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Slowly he opened his eyes. Through the mist snaking up from the whirlpool he saw Sam. She was walking through the doorway, nude. A leather cord necklace dangling feathers and beads lay against her chest. Another ring of feathers rested around her hip hanging just low enough to cover strategic areas. Her hair hung loose, the natural curl framing her face. Lips were parted slightly, inviting, and her eyes had a sultry gaze which was riveted on him.

Soon the music faded, replaced instead by the pulsating beat of a drum, a drum similar to what he had heard in Sam’s backyard.

There was something too dreamlike about this. But his eyes were open. He knew he didn’t have THAT much to drink.

As Sam moved her body to the drum beat, Jake felt her eyes burning a hole, drawing him into her. He wanted to move his arm, just a finger, something to prove to himself he was awake. But his arms refused to budge. He tried to speak but his mouth failed him, too. The brown tips of the white feathers touched softly against her breasts. For a strange moment, Jake felt as though they were his fingertips that touched her.

Then she started to drift, not walk, but float toward him, into the whirlpool. Or was it through the whirlpool? She stood close enough for him to reach up and touch those dangling feathers.

He forced himself to move, forced his hands to push himself off the concrete seat. He slid under the water and came up gasping, the bandage on his forehead soaked.

He winced as he swiped his hands across his forehead and face to clear the water from his eyes. Looking around the gym, he saw that he was alone. The door was closed. All the traces of the hallucination were gone — the drum beat, feathers and semi-nude body — but the lust was overpowering. He stumbled to the shower and let the ice cold water pour over his body. It took ten minutes for him to regain his sanity.

He pulled on his jeans and went out onto the patio. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. The night air felt clammy. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Flashes of lightning brightened the skies. He didn’t try to rationalize what had just happened.

He flicked the cigarette butt into the azalea bushes on the opposite side of the brick patio wall and went back inside. As he made his way to the study, something caught his eye. It was lying outside the door to the gym. Stooping down, he picked up the object. It was a white feather with a dark brown tip.

Jake rubbed his eyes, downed two aspirins, and waited for Janet to close the door to Sam’s office. Sleep had been anything but restful. The scene from the whirlpool had played havoc with his sleep. To avoid Sam, he had met Frank for breakfast.

Janet put through the call from Sheila Ames, the daughter of Leonard Ames who had served with Preston in Korea, and died in an accident in 1976. Once Jake introduced himself, he explained the Hap Wilson case and how her father might have met him in Korea.

“I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I’ve been out of town. But, Korea. Detective, that was so long ago and Daddy died more than twenty years ago.” Her voice had a slight southern accent and was unusually high-pitched, as if she were a fragile, petite woman.

“Did you have a chance to look at the photo I faxed you this morning?” It was a picture of Hap Wilson.

“Yes, I did. Unfortunately, his picture means nothing to me. I did go through the box of Daddy’s things in the attic as your fax had suggested.”

Jake could hear thumping in the phone as though she were tossing things back into the box.

“There are a lot of letters,” Sheila explained. “It would take me a long time to read through them again.”

“I’m more interested in the pin.” Along with Hap’s photo, Jake had faxed a picture of the lightning bolt pin.

Jake looked up. Through the glass window he saw Frank wave. Frank was on his way to South Holland to speak with Amos Washington, the Korean War veteran who was the grandfather of one of Claudia Travis’s students.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Detective. To my knowledge, Daddy never owned such a pin. It’s not in the box with his medals. He never wore jewelry so he didn’t have a jewelry box.”

Jake could hear papers rustling. “What about your mother? Would she possibly know?”

“She died five years ago. I remember her telling me that Daddy had a lot of bad dreams after the war. She couldn’t do much for him. He was despondent most of the time. She remembered him being so fun-loving before the war. She told me he was always cracking jokes. That’s what she loved about him… his sense of humor. But when he came back from the war, he didn’t bring his humor back with him. She said it got progressively worse. Especially a couple of days before he drove his car over the ravine.”

Jake hesitated, not sure he heard her correctly. “Are you saying your father committed suicide?”

“Here it is.” The rustling of papers could be heard again. “Yes,” she replied. “Didn’t you know? There weren’t any skid marks. It was a dry, December day, no ice. No sign of brake problems. His car just drove right off the cliff.”

“I’m sorry to bring up such painful…”

“It’s okay. Like I said, Detective Mitchell, it’s been a long time. Now, I found Daddy’s desk calendar. I was only in high school at the time he died,” Sheila explained. “He kept his appointments in here.”

“Did he ever see a doctor for his sleep disorder?”

“Like a shrink? No. Daddy never went to a doctor.”

“Did he have any close friends he might have confided in?”

“As I recall, my mother said he became sullen, absorbed himself in his work.” She spent several seconds locating the date in the calendar book. “Okay, Daddy died on December 23, right before Christmas. On December 22, he has the time of five-thirty in the evening circled and Columbus Park written on it.”

“Columbus Park?”

“It’s just a local park by the court house. I’m not sure of the significance of the time.”

“What about the previous days?”

“I’m checking.” After a few seconds, Sheila gasped, “Oh, my.”

“What?”

“He drew it right on the section marked December 21. It’s that shape, the shape of the pin.”

Frank found it hard to believe the spry man leading him out to the enclosed breezeway was seventy-five-years old. Amos Washington walked tall, proud. The only hints of his age were the leathery skin and bent joints in his fingers from arthritis.

Amos lived in a brick bi-level on a tree-lined street in South Holland. The four-bedroom home had to have cost at least one- hundred-and-sixty-thousand dollars, Frank guessed. Four people lived here. Zeke and Alicia Washington were at their jobs at the post office. Latoya, Amos’ fifteen-year-old granddaughter, was spending her summer vacation doing odd jobs around the house and catering to her grandfather. She was a pretty girl, with a devilish twinkle in her eye and a Janet Jackson smile.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Denzel Washington?” she asked Frank as she set down the tray of soft drinks and cookies. Her staring was making Frank uncomfortable.

“No, not recently,” Frank stammered. “I hear more Eddie Murphy and Wesley Snipes. Although I wouldn’t mind having any of their paychecks.”

“Well, you can bust me any day.”

“Latoya,” Amos cautioned. “Didn’t your mother have a little talk with you about this very subject?”

Latoya straightened up, suddenly appearing as innocent as a Sunday school choir girl. “Sorry, Sir. Guess I’ll get back to cleaning my room.”

Once she left Amos said, “Hope you don’t have any girls.”