S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“You’re fawning, Mom.”

“I’m what?”

“Fawning. You are fawning over Jake. All this time I keep waiting for the shoe to drop, expecting him to plop that videotape of me on Uncle Don’s desk.” Her hands moved in animation. Abby leaned against the sink, her arms folded in front of her as she watched her daughter rant. “But why does he have to? He has you cooking his meals, washing his clothes. He uses my house like a hotel with complete room service.”

“I’m sorry, Samantha. I thought this was my house, too.”

Closing her eyes, Sam bit back her irritation. She rubbed her temples, realizing how she must have sounded. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She forced a smile. “I just… somewhere along the line I lost control. And it all started with that damn trip to Preston’s.”

“Yes, you do have a knack for complicating things.”

“Sam?”

Sam turned toward the patio where Tim was standing, his face pressed close to the screen.

“Come in, please. I hope YOU have good news.”

“Good and bad, I guess you could say.” Tim gave a nod toward Abby.

“I found the second password,” Tim explained. “It’s GUVNER.”

“That’s the bad news?”

“No. The bad news is the program can only be accessed at the main terminal.”

“Preston’s? We have to go back to Preston’s?” Sam’s face twisted into a look of disbelief and sheer agony.

Sam walked him to the driveway where he had parked his bike. “Oh, by the way,” Tim said as he climbed onto his bike. “I followed the dark sedan. The two men went to the Suisse Hotel. Suite 1411.”

Jake drove up the driveway, resenting the fact that he had lied to Sam. He and Carl had obtained the contents of the safety deposit box last night. The bank president had personally driven over to open the doors.

Carl had made a copy of Hap’s affidavit and even kept the last two pages. “Sergeant Casey doesn’t need to see those two pages,” Carl had said.

It was then that Jake knew Carl had seen the affidavit before. Carl hadn’t even read what was in the safety deposit box. He had gone right to the last two pages.

Carl finally admitted it. “President Whitter received this report by courier from Samuel Casey AFTER Samuel Casey’s death. He must have suspected that his life was in danger and wanted to make sure a copy got into the right hands. The President faxed me copies of it after I arrived in Chasen Heights. I’m as sick about this as you are, Jake.”

Jake couldn’t believe those bodies had been out there all this time, and no one had checked out the story. The families had been led to believe that their sons were deserters.

The coup de grace was, they had found the bodies, all three of Hap’s friends. Question was: Did they die in battle? Or were they murdered?

Jake turned the ignition off, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Carl had to work on President Whittier. An election seemed to be more important to the President. Carl’s parting words were for Jake to make sure Sam didn’t find out the truth.

Through the bay window Jake watched Alex tossing a ball to Poco. The sun was blinding, the air humid. The forecast said it would hit ninety degrees by noon.

Abby was cutting flowers in a rainbow of colors and placing them in a basket. She handled the flowers as gently as if they were made of fine porcelain china. The flowers, trees, plants, and animals, they are all the children of nature, he could almost hear her say.

Behind him, sitting at the dining room table, was Sam. Her head was lowered, eyes intense, dissecting every word on the pages found in her father’s safety deposit box. Jake wished she wouldn’t wear shorts. Her legs were too distracting. And he knew if he stared into her penetrating eyes, she would be able to read the guilt that was stamped all over his face.

Or maybe subconsciously he believed what Abby had told him. About why some people on the reservation avoided Sam for fear she could read their minds. Lucky for him Abby said Sam was only good with dead bodies. Jake smiled weakly. He was almost sounding as though he believed it. Abby saw him in the window and waved.

What was it Sam had said? Abby was a medicine woman and could see into his soul. The weak smile started to fade. Abby knew. If he believed Abby had the power, then he’d have to believe that Abby knew about him and Carl and the FBI. Of course, Abby did say they couldn’t pick what they knew and when. The question he now pondered was, if she did know, why hadn’t she told Sam?

Sam started with the signed affidavit by Hap Wilson describing what had happened that August day in 1951. He described the horrors they had found, how they had pulled out the only survivors of the killing field. It had been Hap, the three other black soldiers, and a young Korean boy named Ling Toy, not Preston Hilliard and his men, who had rescued the survivors.

“Listen to what Hap wrote,” Sam said.

P.K. said he was taking over command and ordered us to go up the hill to see what the Koreans were up to. Sergeant Booker argued that our orders were to retreat. I was in the bushes about fifty feet away. But I could hear them real good. P.K. called us bug outs. It’s a term used when a troop is abandoning its position because it is outnumbered or out-powered. When whitey speaks, it’s synonymous with tactical maneuver or repositioning. But whenever it’s used in relation to blacks, it’s implied as cowardice. This was a Base-ordered retreat. And I was hell-bent on seeing that that was how it was reported.

Sam read the rest in silence. “My, god. They just shot them as they walked away. And Preston handed out the lightning bolt pins as if they had won Oscars.”

“I know, Sam. I read it.”

“Hap was shot running for his life. They left him for dead floating in a filthy river. Did you read what lightning strike meant? How Preston called it out before they killed them?”

“Hap doesn’t mention Preston Hilliard by name, Sam. Only as P.K.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to prove that P.K. is Preston, should it?”

“Preston Kellogg Hilliard was in Mushima Valley. What I’m afraid of is Preston will say it’s Hap’s word against his.”

“Then how are we going to prove it?” She turned back to the rest of the pages. “I can’t believe Hap had to hide out in Korea, then change his identity, and move to Hawaii. He spent his life in hiding. He didn’t even want to chance contacting his family.”

She returned to her father’s notes, which described when Hap saw Preston for the first time since Mushima Valley. Hap HAD tracked Leonard Ames down through the article on the Blalock trial. He had told Ames he would go to the media and tell them the truth. Hap had even managed to steal Ames’ two lightning bolt pins. Obviously, Mushima Valley wasn’t the first place Ames had earned his medal of dishonor. Hap hadn’t felt one ounce of remorse when he read about Ames’ suicide.

It was on his way to Chicago to look up Parker Smith that Hap had seen the picture of Preston Hilliard, victorious from his first election to office. On the same front page, Hap had read a series segment on the exposure of corruption in the Cook County courts. It involved six high court judges and four high profile attorneys from the states attorney’s office. The reporter was Samuel Casey. Hap was impressed by Casey’s honesty and tenacity. So he had sought him out, told him what had happened and asked for his help in exposing Preston Hilliard, Parker Smith, George Abbott and Leonard Ames.

“Hap wanted to confront Preston,” Sam pointed out as she turned over the last sheet. “According to my father’s notes, he made two copies. My father must have had the original and a copy on him when he died.” Sam looked up at Jake who was watching Abby in the backyard. “Jake?”