S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Jake stood by the patio table and thought back to the first time he had stood in this same spot. So smugly he had clung to that videotape, congratulating himself for out-maneuvering the clever Sergeant Casey.

But he was the one who had been blind-sided. When he saw her with that mass of long, spiraling hair daring to be touched, the trace of wine clinging to her lips, that defiant glare in those blue eyes, he felt that first brick fall. And in succession they fell like squares of dominos.

“Jacob.” Abby’s face brightened as she stepped out of the house. Her gaze dropped down to his swollen hand. “What happened?” Gently she cradled his injured hand. Jake winced. He wrapped his good arm around her and held her close.

“I promised you I’d watch over her,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

Abby pulled away from him. She frowned when she saw the anguish in his eyes. She turned her attention back to his hand. “You should really have this looked at, Jacob. Come, sit down.” They sat at the patio table. Abby turned away from him and looked out toward the flowering garden. A soft spray from the underground sprinkling system misted the flower beds. “I’ll have to show you Alex’s roses. They are finally opening up.”

Jake pulled her to him, kissed the back of her head. She turned toward him, placed his left hand between hers and squeezed tightly. And waited.

“There was a car bomb.” Jake could barely get the words out. All he knew was that three hours ago Sam was alive. For seven hours last night they had lived and loved for a lifetime. He wondered now if that had been Sam’s idea all along. Sensing her impending death, she wanted to experience it all.

“Sam?” Abby searched his face.

He expected her to get hysterical, be emotionally overwrought. He didn’t expect her cool detachment. She straightened up and lifted her face as though listening. Her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, she spoke in a calm, confident voice.

“When I lost my first daughter, I knew the moment I awakened that she was dead. I could feel that her spirit was no longer of this earth.” She cupped his face, stared so deeply into his soul that he almost felt her hopefulness, her certainty. “Not this time, Jacob. I can feel her spirit. My Samantha is still alive.”

Preston glanced over his speech as he stood backstage at the Jenkins Art Center. Already an hour late, he moved as if he had all the time in the world. The waiting area was small but lavishly decorated with burgundy velvet upholstered chairs and solid oak flooring which was carried through to the stage.

“Mr. Hilliard.” A man in full military regalia greeted Preston at the door. Ivan Lambert was a World War II veteran. He offered a pale, veiny hand to Preston. It looked as if a strong wind could blow his frail body from here to Chicago.

“Sorry, I was up late last night giving a statement to the police.” Preston peered behind the curtains at the sea of veterans, most in uniform. The first two rows were filled with reporters and cameramen. “Nice crowd.”

“About four thousand, Sir.”

Preston looked toward the exit door and saw a dark-suited man wearing sunglasses, his hair cut short. A cord snaked around the side of his neck to his left ear. A man dressed identically was positioned at the doorway to the auditorium. Preston assumed they were there for his protection.

“What the hell is going on, Preston?” Gordon Sudecky snapped. The seam of Gordon’s auburn hairpiece shifted slightly as he moved his head. “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

Preston’s raised eyebrow prompted his stout press secretary to take two steps back. “I had an attempt on my life last night,” Preston explained, “or haven’t you heard.”

Gordon stuck an arm toward the stage. “Have you seen the press release? You have to…”

Dismissing him with a wave, Preston said, “After my speech. I know it’s a terrible revelation and I’m sure the reporters have a lot of questions.”

A man in his fifties wearing fatigues rushed in from behind the curtain. “Any time you’re ready, Mr. Hilliard.”

Preston checked his hair in the mirror and straightened his navy pin-striped tie. The news about Sergeant Casey’s death had made his morning. Things couldn’t be better.

Turning back to his press secretary, Preston said, “Just go out there and tell them to make the introduction.” Preston smiled, imagining how the media must have reacted this morning when they received the photos of Governor Meacham.

Jake took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time. Abby had placed makeshift splinters and wrapped an Ace bandage around his hand. Alex thought he had at least three broken bones, possibly more. But Jake didn’t have time to go to the hospital. He had time for three aspirins.

Abby told him that after Sam witnessed her father’s death, she had run home. The police had found her in Abby’s bedroom, in a corner by the closet, her small body rolled up into a tight ball of fear and confusion, shaking so hard the police couldn’t budge her. So Abby suggested that Jake look where Sam had felt the safest. She and Alex would check the house. Jake knew if Sam would go anywhere, it would be his apartment.

The door to his apartment was unlocked. Whatever mental state Sam was in, she was still able to pick a lock. He entered slowly, the door closing softly behind him. He was stunned and exhilarated at the same time. It had been hard after seeing the wreckage to believe Abby especially after Benny’s call that on preliminary investigation they had found human remains in the Jeep.

But there she was, curled up on the couch, her back to him, still dressed in the black jumpsuit she had worn last night. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, never let her go. Abby had warned him to approach her cautiously.

Sam’s arms, wrapped tightly around her legs, shook violently. Jake saw sections of her hair singed, her jumpsuit ripped and burned. Her eyes stared vacantly, hinting that she could still be in shock… or worse. But she was alive. That’s all that mattered.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the couch next to her. “Sam?” he whispered.

Her eyes brimmed and tears fell like silent rivers. Reaching out, he carefully wiped the tears with his handkerchief, moved strands of singed hair from her soot-smudged face. He took a visible check of her clothing, arms, legs, looking for breaks, burns, blood. All he could see were a few abrasions.

“Sam? I’m here. You’re safe.” He choked back tears. Sitting in front of him was a dazed five-year-old girl inside a twenty-six-year-old woman’s body.

He held his arms out to her. “Come here, Sweetheart.” Haltingly, her blue eyes shifted toward him. Her brows curled up in confusion. She saw his arms. It took what seemed like a lifetime for her to finally reach out to him. Once she did, he gathered her up and held her close. Her arms encircled his neck, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.

He thought of the condition of her Jeep and wondered how on earth she ever got out. More importantly, whose body was it that burned beyond recognition?

“So, she’s okay?” Carl asked Jake.

“Physically. She’s with Abby now.” Jake offered his left hand to Lincoln who seemed more at ease than Jake had ever seen him.

The lobby of the Jenkins Art Center was lined in chrome and glass with a large crystal chandelier hanging over the entrance. Floral carpeting led up the stairs, through the lobby, disappearing into the entranceways to the theatre.

An aging veteran in Army fatigues exited one of those entrances, spilling Preston’s arrogant voice into the lobby.