When the Dead Speak

Chapter 60

Chapter 60

Ling Toy busied himself tying together makeshift cots to carry the wounded. But he never took his eyes off of the white soldiers. Hap and his friends were covered in dirt and dried blood. But the white soldiers had clean, sleeveless tee shirts, and looked as if they were catching a few rays while waiting to be picked up.

The shade from the scrub pines didn't hide the arrogance in P.K.'s face. George lowered his tall frame onto a felled tree trunk, pulled out his knife, and slowly ran it across the back of his hand. Smitty's bony fingers played with the dog tags around his neck. Len's brooding, dark eyes peered out from under hooded brows. They eyed Hap and his unit like hyenas waiting for the weaker one to drop.

Hap tossed his cigarette butt aside, grabbed his stomach, and told Booker, "I gotta go find me some bushes."

P.K. yelled at Ling Toy, "What are you looking at?" Ling Toy turned away quickly. He tried not to hear what they were talking about. All he knew was that Base had instructed Booker, Hap, Bubba, and Shadow to bring the injured in. But the white sergeant, P.K., wanted them to take a look at what was over the hill.

Rays from the setting sun bounced off the weapons drawn by the white soldiers. Gunfire rang out.

Lincoln Thomas woke with a start.

"Whoa, didn't mean to startle you," Sergeant Scofield said. "Here's your tea." Too nervous to eat, Lincoln had skipped breakfast this morning. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"You okay?" Scofield asked.

"I am fine. Do you know when Detective Mitchell will return?"

"Sorry. He hasn't answered his beeper yet."

"And Sergeant Casey? Are you sure I can't have her phone number or home address?"

Ed shook his head no. "If you can't wait, I can have them call you."

"I will wait."

Lincoln unbuttoned his suit coat and, from his seat in the visitor's area, watched as detectives filled out reports at their desks, and others went from phone call to phone call. The desk sergeant himself was either logging in information or on the phone.

Lincoln moved an ashtray over to the table on the other side of the waiting room. The coffee table was littered with half-empty coffee cups and outdated newspapers. He picked up the coffee cups and emptied them in a nearby trash can. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them in one pile so he would have room to lay his paper down to read.

Voices pierced through the commotion in the outer office. Two figures emerged from the elevator. Hoping that they might be the detectives, Lincoln stood up.

He didn't know the well-dressed man the desk sergeant referred to as Captain. But the man with the captain, Lincoln would know in the dark. Even if he hadn't seen the cold eyes and arrogant smile, he would know the voice. It was loud, demanding, laced in cynicism. It was him. The man he hated. The man known as P.K.

Lincoln hid his face behind his newspaper and waited for the two men to disappear behind a door at the far end of the room.

Without a word to Ed Scofield, Lincoln left his cup of tea and newspaper and fled down the stairs.