When the Dead Speak

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"Beer?" Frank handed a can to Jake without even waiting for a reply. They sat around the table on the patio. Moths flitted through the still air. The sky was the darkest blue, one shade before total darkness. Candles glowed on tall bamboo rods standing guard at the corners of the patio.

"We didn't really expect the major general to be alive anyway. He would have been what? Seventy-six?" Jake took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled. "There must be a subordinate who's still breathing."

"I've left half a dozen messages. I'll have to see how many return calls I get tomorrow." Frank raised his head, listening for something, then shrugged. "Why don't we just question Preston?"

"I don't want to tip my hand. I'd rather get more information first," Jake replied.

"I agree," Sam said. She picked up her cell phone and dialed. She smiled when she heard the familiar voice. "Hi, Tim. I need a favor. Have a pencil handy?" She waited a few seconds, then continued. "The dates are 1950 to 1953. Yes, the Korean War. I need information on a place called Mushima Valley. I'm interested specifically in a Private Harvey Wilson and anyone who might have been close to him. Yes, just send the information through to my printer. Thanks, Hon."

Sam hung up smiling.

"What pipeline do you have?" Jake asked suspiciously.

"A high school computer genius. He's been quite helpful to me in the past."

"And exactly where does he plan on getting all this information?" Jake dropped the butt of his cigarette into his empty beer can.

"He's going to tap into the Pentagon files."

Frank turned and spit a mouthful of beer onto Abby's pot of pink geraniums. He coughed and sputtered in between his howls of laughter.

Jake glared. "You are encouraging this kid to break the law?"

"And I suppose you've never done whatever it takes to solve a case?"

"Shhhh," Frank held his hand up and cocked an ear toward the darkened yard. "Do you hear that?"

Only if one listened closely could the chants and rattles be heard from the deck. The rhythmic singing blended into the sounds of the night.

The drum beats stopped and seemed to signal the animal kingdom to be silent. The sounds began to diminish-the owls, frogs in the pond, insects, until the silence became uncomfortably eerie.

"Do you hear that?" Frank whispered.

Jake strained to hear. "I don't hear anything."

"Right. Everything stopped." As quietly as the drum had stopped, it started up again. "There they go again." Frank walked out to the edge of the patio. "Now do you hear it?"

It was vague at first but then intensified. The longer Jake listened the stronger it became.

"You're right. It sounds like a drum beat." Jake joined Frank at the edge of the patio.

Sam remained calm, sipping her wine.

"What are they doing out there, Sam?" Jake asked.

"It's a sweat lodge," Sam explained.

"A what?" Frank asked.

"Inipi, a purification ritual. Someone back home must be sick so they are cleansing their bodies and praying for a speedy recovery."

"They wouldn't be smoking anything illegal out there, would they? Like peyote?" Jake asked.

"It's going to go on all night, get used to it. We have more important things to think about."

The drum beat was replaced with a defined series of rattles.

"What's that?" Frank's eyes widened. What may have started out as only two rattles was magnified to an entire orchestra.

"They are calling upon the spirits to intercede," Sam explained. "The spirits are responding by adding their rattles to the ritual."

"Jake, do you believe this shit?" Frank whispered. Jake didn't respond, just stared out at the darkened yard.

As if a storm front had whipped around the corner, the umbrella on the patio table shook back and forth wildly. The pattern of the wind could be traced from across the patio through the lilac bushes toward the sweat lodge. In the distance, the flag of the sovereign nations could be seen flying high on a lighted pole near Alex's house. It whipped around furiously under the illumination of the moon, even though the umbrella had stopped vibrating and the lilac bushes became still.

They listened as tree branches whipped with as much fury as the flag. Wind moved through the acreage like nature holding a hand blower over the landscape, shifting it from side to side.

As the drum joined the sound of the rattles, the flag fell limp, the wind whipped back across the patio. Frank watched as the wind tossed Sam's hair around and then Jake's. Frank, only five feet away, was untouched.

"Sammmm?" Frank's voice rose to a falsetto as he slowly retreated to the table.

Sam whispered, "You can feel their presence." Her eyes seemed spellbound, in awe at the unexplained power around them.

Jake looked around for a logical explanation for the wind tunnel. "We're probably blocked by the house back here."

"Uh," Frank gulped the last of his beer. "I think I'm going to go home. See you tomorrow."

Sam watched in amusement as Frank stumbled out of the yard. "He doesn't feel very comfortable about the thought of spirits and rituals."

"Do you blame him?"

As though purposely timed, the rattles and drum stopped and the animal kingdom came alive again.

"It isn't easy for people to understand. Sometimes it's best not to." She picked up her wine and walked inside the house. Jake looked out toward the darkness. A strong curiosity pulled at him to take a walk out there, just to watch, or maybe wait.

"Don't even think about it," Sam said from behind the screen door.

Jake looked over his shoulder at her and then back toward the direction of the sweat lodge. He reluctantly followed her into the house.

He insisted on cleaning up the kitchen and loading the dish washer all the while trying to talk Sam out of involving Tim in anything illegal. She ignored him.

She emptied the coffee grounds from the coffee maker, wiped the dining room table and counter. They worked silently, in unison, almost with surprising ease.

"Is it my imagination," Jake asked as he scraped food into the garbage disposal, "or do you people purposely leave food on your plates?"

"They are offerings to the spirits. It's customary, a part of our heritage."

He leaned against the counter and in all seriousness asked, "Don't they take cold, hard cash?"

She had to look hard to find the twinkle in his eyes. He wasn't smiling. There was no way for her to tell if he were joking. If he were, he had the driest sense of humor she had ever known, except for Alex's.

She slid onto a stool at the island counter. "Does the phrase lightning strike mean anything to you?"

Jake shook his head. "Where did you hear it?"

She explained how she had heard it when she touched Hap and the two pins. "Preston is a primary player here. He was in Mushima Valley. So was Hap. He has the same pin Hap was holding. There is a connection."

"If it IS the same pin," Jake added.

"I guess there's only one way to find out."