“So, you’re really going to go through with this,” Alex said. He and Abby sat in the shadows on the patio enjoying a glass of iced tea.
Alex’s dark eyes were framed in sharp, angular features. His strong body had been toned by judo, a sport he had learned years ago during his two years in the Army. Enlisting had saved him a trip to reform school for siphoning gasoline.
“It is tradition. As Sam’s mother it is only right that I choose her husband.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief. “She should marry Lakota. Besides, I have watched them, listened to them when I’ve worked around the yard. They hate each other. You can see it in their eyes,” he argued.
“I know I saw him in my vision. Besides, when they are together, all I see are sparks. They are attracted to each other.”
“Sparks,” Alex muttered. “They are sparks generated by a lot of friction.”
Abby raised her hand to silence him. “We will let the spirits decide. You must prepare the sweat lodge. We need large rocks, they hold more heat. And sage. It is important we have a lot of sage.”
“I have plenty of sage.”
They heard the slamming of car doors from the side drive by the garage followed by loud voices. They watched as Jake trailed Sam up the steps and across the patio.
“Act with your head this time, dammit,” Jake yelled. “I don’t know how you ever made sergeant. It sure couldn’t have been from common sense.”
Sam slid the screen open and rushed inside with Jake close behind. “All I want to do is take another look at the pin. Is that so wrong?”
“He has a surveillance camera,” Jake added as he slammed the screen shut behind him.
“I can get around it.”
Once inside, the arguing continued, although the voices seemed more muffled. Alex shifted his gaze from the house to Abby and said in a dry, humorless voice, “I think we need more sage.”
Chapter 19
By the next morning, the identification of the body in concrete had made the front page of every major newspaper, and the one living relative had been notified.
“Are you sure I can’t get you any coffee?” Carl Underer asked.
The elderly woman lifted her eyeglasses to wipe her eyes. She looked well preserved for her seventy years.
She smiled through her tears. “He was such a bright boy, Harvey was. And always smiling.” Her face lit up as she spoke of her brother. “That’s why we nicknamed him Happy, Hap for short.” Her bottom lip trembled, the tears fell freely.
Carl walked around his desk and wrapped a consoling arm around Matilda Banks’ shoulder. She patted his hand as though he were the one who needed consoling. Mattie had worked for the FBI for thirty years in their Housekeeping Department. She had outlived her husband. Her one and only child, a daughter, had died of leukemia at the age of two. Other than memories, all she had left of Hap was in the shoe box sitting in her lap.
Carl propped himself against the edge of his desk next to Mattie. The morning sun sliced through the blinds, spraying lines of striped sunlight across Mattie’s face.
“Do you need help with the funeral arrangements? I’m not sure when they will release the body.”
She shook her head no. “I would never ask you for anything, Mr. Underer. I know you are a busy man. But…” She started to cry again. The shoe box fell off her lap spilling its contents on the dark blue carpeting.
Carl picked up the letters, all with the same handwriting, all with an APO return address. Mattie motioned with her hand for him to keep them.
“I want you to read them,” Mattie said. “I never believed the Army when they said he deserted. The Army was his life.” Her eyes pleaded, her hand gripped his wrist. Holding back sobs, she cried, “Would you help me? Find out what happened to my brother.”
The files from storage sat on the FBI security director’s desk. Carl pulled off his horn-rimmed glasses, ran his hand through his thinning gray hair, and rubbed his eyes.
Chasen Heights was a long way from D.C. But if his memory served him correctly — he found the file he was looking for and picked up the phone. When his assistant answered, Carl said, “Book me on a late afternoon flight to Chicago. Reserve a car at the airport and a hotel suite in Chasen Heights.”
Carl hung up the phone and opened the file folder. The name on the folder read Jake Mitchell.
Chapter 20
“You read all these letters?” Jake asked Carl as he fanned through the envelopes on the conference table.
“On the flight over.” Carl poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Jake.
The suite on the top floor of the Suisse Hotel had a wall of glass overlooking Lake Michigan. Decorated in contemporary European with fine lines and tiny flowers in the furniture, drapes, and wallpaper, the suite screamed expensive from every fiber.
“Hope I didn’t pull you from that nice warm bed of yours.” Carl grabbed reports from his briefcase and slid them across the table.
“Midnight?” Jake laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I got to bed by midnight.” He leaned back and studied his former boss. Professional and detail-oriented were two words that had described Carl when Jake first met him twelve years ago and the words still fit. Every category of backup material had its own folder labeled in bold lettering. Jake noticed the folders were even alphabetized in Carl’s briefcase.
“Do you have any connections in the Pentagon to get us Hap’s military records?” Jake asked.
Carl smiled. “Did better than that. I have all the original depositions from the guys in the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division including the commanding officers.”
“You’ve saved me a lot of footwork. Thanks.” Jake studied the list of names. “Was this your war?”
“Please,” Carl laughed, “I’m not that old. But I’ve read a lot about it and I had an uncle who was right on the front line.”
Jake took a sip of coffee and winced. “It’s a little too late for coffee. Do you have anything that foams?” He walked over to the bar and retrieved a beer. “What did your uncle say?” Jake returned to the conference table.
“Well, it wasn’t a pretty sight,” Carl replied. “According to what I remember Uncle Paul saying, approximately eight or nine thousand POWs or MIAs are still unaccounted for. Over thirty-four thousand men were reported missing the first week of the war, and that was from the Republic of Korea Army. Our troops were poorly trained and physically unfit. They threw these troops in so quick they didn’t even have time to unclog their machine guns or set their sights.”
“Sounds more like a suicide mission,” Jake said. He gestured toward the stack of letters. “What was the gist of Hap Wilson’s letters?”
Setting his horn-rimmed glasses on the table, Carl said, “When he talks about the Army it’s like listening to a kid talk about football. He mentions nicknames of some of the guys in his unit. Basically, he was proud, patriotic, for god and country, that sort of thing.” He studied the coffee ring in his cup and told Jake about the bond between Mattie and her brother.
“That lady,” Carl continued, “would dust my pictures and framed awards. She thought cleaning the office of the FBI security director was the most important job in the world. She would have coffee ready, leave home baked goodies on a paper plate. Everyone loved her.”
“Confirmed bachelors bring out maternal instincts in many women.” Jake thought about Abby and smiled.
“Tell me about Sergeant Casey,” Carl said.
Jake took another long swallow of beer. “She has a great Indian lady for a housekeeper and cook. And Sam’s hell-bent on proving that State Representative Preston Hilliard had something to do with Hap Wilson’s death.”