He followed along a six-foot-high wrought-iron fence in which ivy had been allowed to crawl through and over. Sculptured multi-tiered gardens had been designed using perennials in increasing heights. A maze of trees blocked his view of the house.
His mind kept replaying his meeting with Carl. He wondered why Carl wouldn’t just have his Chicago office handle the investigation. He may have a soft spot for Mattie, but surely, Carl must have better things to do back in D.C.
As Jake turned the corner he noticed a small, ranch-style home which he assumed was the gate house. He didn’t stop. Not too far from the house was a timber-framed structure covered with heavy blankets.
One hundred feet beyond the structure he came to an abrupt stop. Standing before him was a thirty-foot-tall tipi. Jake touched the hide skin that had been tanned to a silky finish, then ducked his head and entered. Tall lodgepole pines supported the cone-shaped structure. There were enough tall trees around that only a pilot would be able to detect the tipi.
Hides covered all seven-hundred square feet of ground except for the center where charred remains of wood lay. Bowls and what looked like cooking pots and utensils hung by ropes nailed to the large timbers that stretched up toward the peak.
Jake slowly backed out and continued his run. His mind returned to Carl. Jake had gotten the distinct impression that Carl had seen the lightning bolt pin before. Jake saw a glimmer of recognition in Carl’s eyes. All Carl said when Jake had pressed him was, “I’ll look into it.” Then Carl asked him to keep an eye on Sam and to report back if anything new develops.
The well-manicured lawn was beginning to blend into taller rye grass. Off to the right was a vegetable garden. Past a field of what looked like hay the lawn narrowed to just a few yards wide.
Jake slowed to a walk and then stopped to take a few deep breaths. The air was filled with the sounds of nature. What lay ahead looked like it had been left to grow thick and natural. Creeping phlox meandered through the rye grass and over the rocks surrounding a sizable pond.
It was there, sitting on the rocks by the side of the pond that Jake saw him. The mahogany-skinned face was stoic and weathered. A red and white bandanna was wrapped around his forehead and tied just above his gray ponytail. The body under the blue denim shirt seemed firm and muscular. His neck and wrists were adorned with coral and turquoise jewelry.
Jake watched the Indian gently apply a salve and then wrap the foot of a squirrel while talking softly to it in a language Jake didn’t understand. In the back acres of Sam’s property Jake felt he had been thrown into another world.
The squirrel saw Jake first. It fled for the safety of the tree by the vine-covered fence. The Indian and Jake locked eyes. Neither said anything. The Indian’s eyes contained a lifetime of distrust. He gazed briefly at the coral- handled knife that lay next to him.
Jake saw the knife, too, and wondered with amusement how many other men were lured to the back acres and never made it out, their scalps left hanging out to dry in the tipi.
“Nice morning, isn’t it, Alex?” Jake remembered Abby mentioning his name the first day he met her.
Alex eyed him suspiciously but after a few seconds acknowledged his greeting with a nod. Jake quickly broke into a jog and then a run and never looked over his shoulder until he reached the patio.
Chapter 22
Sam watched as the printer spit out pages of background information on Preston Hilliard. She had skimmed through the sections about his pompous father and socialite mother, the boarding schools. Libraries went a little too in-depth about the family life.
“Aren’t you going to the office today?” Abby asked.
“I just needed to run some reports first.” She looked at the wool blankets Abby was carrying. “Are you going to the sweat lodge?”
“Yes. We will be there tonight. I made some chicken and potato salad for your dinner.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Abby paused at the doorway and added, “I made more than enough in case you want to invite anyone to dinner.”
Sam looked up from the printer but Abby had left. She shrugged off the comment and returned her attention to her computer. She scrolled through newspaper articles going back to Preston’s original campaign for state representative. She printed every article she saw about him, even the pictures of him kissing babies and attending church socials although he admitted that he had no particular religious affiliation.
His campaign promises had been all rhetoric — housing for the homeless, jobs in the form of bringing large corporations to Illinois, revenue in the form of casinos.
One paragraph caught her attention. It was Preston’s military record citing his various awards — Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Cross, and a Congressional Medal of Honor. He had been a member of the U.S. 8th Infantry Division and had served two years in the Korean War.
She scrolled to the beginning of the article. It had appeared in the April 26, 1977, issue of the Chasen Heights Post Tribune. The reporter’s name was Samuel Casey.
Sam walked into her office to find Jake nestled comfortably in her chair, legs propped up on her desk, telephone to his ear. He was doing a superb job of trying her patience.
“What would you suggest? You must have some Internet pen pals in South Korea.” Jake waved a hand at an attractive brunette seated at a desk just outside Mick’s office. Janet, the department secretary, appeared seconds later with a cup of coffee.
Sam watched Janet’s rolling gait as the stiletto heels carried her diminutive frame back out to her desk. Sam leaned on her desk and glared at Jake, whose eyes were glued to Janet’s legs.
“I’ll have a couple photos of Hap Wilson shipped overnight to you,” Jake spoke into the phone. “His sister has some pictures of him in his uniform.” Jake looked up at Sam and raised his coffee cup as if offering her some.
Her eyes glazed over his peach-colored knit shirt that hugged his chest. She looked away quickly, opened her tote bag and pulled out a thermos and a foil-wrapped package.
“Good, Elvis. Anything you can do, the Sixth would be entirely in your debt. Thanks.” Jake hung up, pulled his legs off the desk, and ripped off a piece of Sam’s fry bread.
“By all means, help yourself.”
“You’re late.” Jake motioned through the window to Frank, then moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“I didn’t know you were the keeper of the time clock.” She looked at the phone and as an afterthought asked, “Elvis?”
“Hangor Pannabuth,” Jake replied. “He’s a homicide detective at the Second Precinct, which is in the heart of Little Korea. He has relatives in the police department in Seoul and in Korean communities across the U.S. He’s a big fan of Elvis.” He handed Sam several photos. “He’s going to put Hap Wilson’s picture in the Korean Today newspaper.”
“Where did you get these?” The pictures showed a handsome black youth, a wide smile that displayed even white teeth.
“Mattie, Hap’s sister. The D.C. police sent the pictures by courier.” Jake shoved the photos into a brown envelope.
Frank appeared in the doorway. “Ummmm, I can smell that fry bread all the way out there.” He ripped off a piece and shoved it in his mouth. Inspecting Jake’s hair he said, “Nice haircut.”
Jake patted the back of his head. “Abby does a nice job.” Sam jerked her gaze to Jake’s hair, opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Frank who handed her a list.
“Here’s a copy of the depositions from the men who were in Hap’s division. These were taken over forty years ago when they were questioned after Hap went AWOL,” Frank explained.
“More than half of them are marked as deceased,” Sam pointed out.
