When the Dead Speak

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The dishwasher hummed silently. Sam sat at the kitchen table deep in thought. The kitchen was large and airy with terra cotta tiled floors and light oak cabinets.

Sam's mother, Abby Two Eagles, stood at the island counter in a long skirt and colorful blouse, her dark hair hanging in a long braid down her back. Abby poured hot water into two cups, placed a cup of tea in front of Sam, then gently stroked her daughter's hair.

"Something is bothering you."

Sam blew at the steam wafting up from the cup. "It's nothing. I'm just stinging from my transfer to the hell hole on the lake."

"Hmmm. Nothing more?"

Abby kissed the top of Sam's head and with her Indian Country Today newspaper from South Dakota tucked under one arm, went upstairs to bed.

Sam placed the pictures on the table in front of her. Tim Miesner, the town geek, had dropped them off earlier. With an I.Q. of one-eighty-five, Tim's interests were mainly in computers and the latest technology rather than in sports and girls. Developing Sam's film and inventing listening devices immune to scramblers were more exciting than a homecoming dance.

The letters Preston had in his safe were interesting but vague. Some from other state reps offering support for various bills in exchange for his endorsement of road projects, social reform. All cleverly worded so as not to sound suspicious.

She had given Tim the printout of Preston's menu screen but ordered him to study for his finals first. What intrigued her most, what she regretted not taking a picture of, was the pin Preston had in his safe, the one that was a possible match to the one found on a body that had spent its last twenty-one years holding up an overpass on the Bishop Ford Freeway.

The pictures were all starting to blend together. She pressed her fingertips to her head and massaged her temples. Maybe in the morning things might make sense.

She shoved the photos to one side, grabbed her cup of tea, and walked out onto the patio. The landscaping lights flooded the darkened yard with a warm white glow.

She pulled on a sweatshirt over her thin shirt to ward off the damp chill brought earlier by a moving storm front. Uneasiness crept into the back of her throat. Jake had not asked questions, nothing to indicate he knew beyond a doubt that she was at Preston's Saturday night. Maybe he didn't recognize her or maybe he just wasn't sure.

But a nagging voice told her he was a panther, lurking in the bushes, waiting for the right time. She again cursed herself for not being more patient. It was too late now. There wasn't anything she could do to change what had happened.

She finished her tea and turned toward the patio door. That's when the chill washed over her body. Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs by the house.

"Not a bad bungalow on a cop's salary," the voice said. The figure climbed the two stairs, out of the dark. It was Jake.

Her eyes followed him, watched him as he studied the two-story house, the balcony that ran the length of the house, the expansive flagstone patio. He had a menacing look about him, the same look he had at Preston's. No smile, thick eyebrows, a ruddy complexion that looked as if he were on the wrong side of the bars.

And there was something else. He seemed somewhat regimental, almost too disciplined in the way his eyes deciphered the size of the house, the grounds, even Sam's every move.

When he was done surveying what little he could see in the landscaping lights, Sam asked, "Take a wrong turn, Detective?"

Jake gave a half-hearted smile. "Thought I did. For a moment I thought I was back at Preston's mansion. The damn driveway is just as long as his."