S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Hap — she had met Hap when she was younger. She had been the one tracing the pin at her father’s desk. Hap had been at her father’s office. Sam stopped pacing. No, Hap had been here, in her father’s house.

She rushed down the stairs by the kitchen. The basement ran the entire length of the house with a ten-foot high ceiling. It was as tidy as the upstairs, decorated with the furnishings discarded from the redecorating Abby had done several years before. The patterned linoleum floor was dotted with a variety of area rugs.

Sam dodged the pool table and bookcase, stopping at the far end of the basement where a large mahogany desk sat. She heard a door upstairs close, then Jake’s voice.

“DOWN HERE!” Sam yelled. When she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she said, “Help me move this.”

He stared at the four-foot by six-foot red mahogany desk. “It’s built like a Sherman tank.”

“It was my father’s. I remember now. Hap came over to the house, not the office. Maybe he left some notes.”

She pulled out the heavy wooden chair and sat down. Almost immediately the drawings of lightning bolts flashed before her eyes. She smiled and said, “I knew it. I knew there was something right under my nose.”

“Don’t you think Abby would have found whatever your father might have left?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sam pushed the chair away from the desk and started opening drawers.

“What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. Something, anything.”

“Let’s see if we can move it away from the wall.” Jake grabbed one end while Sam grabbed the other. It wouldn’t budge. “Like I said, it’s built like a tank.” He looked around the room. “Do you have a flashlight down here?”

She disappeared into a closet under the stairs and came back with a flashlight. He flashed it behind and under the desk.

“Nothing,” Jake said. They proceeded to take out the drawers and turn each of them over. Taped to the underside of the bottom right-hand drawer was a small, brown envelope.

Once upstairs, seated at the dining room table, Sam still couldn’t bring herself to open it. “Here.” She handed the envelope to Jake. “You do it.” Jake ripped the envelope open and spilled the contents on the table. A long, silver key clinked against the tabletop. “What is it?” Sam picked up the key and clenched it in her hand. Nothing. No visions, no sounds or scents.

Jake took it from her and looked at the number. “I think it’s a safety deposit key, Sam.” He checked his watch. “Banks are closed. I’ll check into getting a court order.”

Frank called to fill them in on his visit with Parker Smith in Elkhart. The nurse had informed him of the name Parker had written — Noland. Noland was Parker’s attorney.

After Jake hung up with Frank, he said, “I’m going to stop by the Chasen Heights Post Tribune office.”

“I’ll call the family attorney,” Sam offered.

Instead, Jake headed over to the Suisse Hotel to brainstorm with Carl.

Ling Toy busied himself tying together makeshift cots to carry the wounded. But he never took his eyes off of the white soldiers. Hap and his friends were covered in dirt and dried blood. But the white soldiers had clean, sleeveless tee shirts, and looked as if they were catching a few rays while waiting to be picked up.

The shade from the scrub pines didn’t hide the arrogance in P.K.’s face. George lowered his tall frame onto a felled tree trunk, pulled out his knife, and slowly ran it across the back of his hand. Smitty’s bony fingers played with the dog tags around his neck. Len’s brooding, dark eyes peered out from under hooded brows. They eyed Hap and his unit like hyenas waiting for the weaker one to drop.

Hap tossed his cigarette butt aside, grabbed his stomach, and told Booker, “I gotta go find me some bushes.”

P.K. yelled at Ling Toy, “What are you looking at?” Ling Toy turned away quickly. He tried not to hear what they were talking about. All he knew was that Base had instructed Booker, Hap, Bubba, and Shadow to bring the injured in. But the white sergeant, P.K., wanted them to take a look at what was over the hill.

Rays from the setting sun bounced off the weapons drawn by the white soldiers. Gunfire rang out.

Lincoln Thomas woke with a start.

“Whoa, didn’t mean to startle you,” Sergeant Scofield said. “Here’s your tea.” Too nervous to eat, Lincoln had skipped breakfast this morning. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“You okay?” Scofield asked.

“I am fine. Do you know when Detective Mitchell will return?”

“Sorry. He hasn’t answered his beeper yet.”

“And Sergeant Casey? Are you sure I can’t have her phone number or home address?”

Ed shook his head no. “If you can’t wait, I can have them call you.”

“I will wait.”

Lincoln unbuttoned his suit coat and, from his seat in the visitor’s area, watched as detectives filled out reports at their desks, and others went from phone call to phone call. The desk sergeant himself was either logging in information or on the phone.

Lincoln moved an ashtray over to the table on the other side of the waiting room. The coffee table was littered with half-empty coffee cups and outdated newspapers. He picked up the coffee cups and emptied them in a nearby trash can. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them in one pile so he would have room to lay his paper down to read.

Voices pierced through the commotion in the outer office. Two figures emerged from the elevator. Hoping that they might be the detectives, Lincoln stood up.

He didn’t know the well-dressed man the desk sergeant referred to as Captain. But the man with the captain, Lincoln would know in the dark. Even if he hadn’t seen the cold eyes and arrogant smile, he would know the voice. It was loud, demanding, laced in cynicism. It was him. The man he hated. The man known as P.K.

Lincoln hid his face behind his newspaper and waited for the two men to disappear behind a door at the far end of the room.

Without a word to Ed Scofield, Lincoln left his cup of tea and newspaper and fled down the stairs.

Sam stood in front of one of the tall windows in the sitting room watching for Jake to return from the bank. He had discovered that the Chasen Heights Post Tribune had been paying on Samuel Casey’s safety deposit box. It had been a little-known hideaway for their traveling reporters years ago that, somehow, slipped through the cracks in the Bookkeeping Department.

Abby stood in the living room watching her daughter. “Samantha, please come into the kitchen and eat your breakfast.”

“Where is Jake? Why hasn’t he called?” Sam reluctantly walked to the kitchen. She snatched a piece of crisp bacon as Abby pushed her onto a stool at the counter.

“The banks aren’t open.” Abby set a plate of toast on the counter.

“He had to get a subpoena but it shouldn’t have taken that long.”

Sam glanced out into the backyard. Alex was kneeling in the lawn repairing a sprinkler hose. Just as she was ready to turn away from the window, her eyes caught sight of something. “Is that a dog in our yard?”

Abby peered out of the windowbox over the sink, spatula in hand. “Yes, Dear, that’s a dog.”

Sam looked sharply at her mother. “That’s not funny.”

“That’s Poco,” Abby explained, smiling. “Jacob bought her for Alex.”

“He did WHAT?”

“Alex has been admiring that dog for three weeks. He said she was going to be put to sleep. So Jacob bought her as a thank you gift for Alex fixing the cut on his head. That was very thoughtful of him, don’t you think?” Abby didn’t wait for Sam to reply. “She’s very well-behaved, Dear. And she’s going to be with Alex, not here.”