Chapter 10

                       

 

            In just six days, Rick Simon had fallen into a routine that now seemed normal to him.  He left his boat at eight each morning and drove to one of the automobile garages Carlos Escobar owned that was halfway between the marina and the Simon and Simon office.  Rick parked the Durango behind the garage in Carlos's employee parking lot, and then entered the shop via a back door carrying a Playmate insulated lunch box just like his ‘co-workers’ did.  The similarities between Rick and his co-workers stopped there.  While the men sipped coffee, grabbed doughnuts from a box in the break room, playfully hassled one another, and began getting out their tools for the start of the working day, Rick slipped out a side door where Carlos faithfully had a vehicle waiting for him.  Aside from owning repair shops and car washes, Carlos also bought older model cars and trucks, fixed them up, then resold them.  Therefore, Rick had been driving a vast array of automobiles to the Simon and Simon office since hooking up with Cord the previous Wednesday.

 

            Promptly at five o'clock each night Rick returned, following the same routine he had in the morning.   Because the side door of the garage opened onto an alley Rick had the option of entering from the main thoroughfare in front of the shop, or from a maze of other alleys behind it. Because Rick chose the option of leaving and returning via the alleys that dumped him on a side street three quarters of a mile away, he had few concerns about anyone being able to track his movements.  If someone were watching from the street as he walked to the parking lot with his so-called co-workers, that person would assume he had been inside working all day. 

 

            The men who worked for Carlos didn't question this odd activity on Rick's part.  Most of them knew he was an old friend of their boss’s and a private investigator.  They'd already guessed he was involved in some sort of job that required him to make use of a vehicle other than his own.  Some idle curiosity abounded the first few days of this routine, but like Rick, Carlos's employees had gotten used to the activity.  They called out hellos to Rick as he walked through the building each morning, and then started their work without further questions.    

 

            One of Carlos's daughters, Magdalene, was employed as the full-time secretary/receptionist/office manager at this location.  If anyone called for Rick or stopped in to see him, she was instructed to say he was out of the building for a little while on an errand.  If the person was willing to leave his or her name with Magdalene, she was to call Rick at the Simon and Simon office with the message. 

 

            For now, Rick thought this plan was working as expected.  He had yet to detect anyone following him as he left the marina each morning, and his detective's instincts told him that so far Cord Franklin didn't doubt any part of his story.  

            Since the previous Friday evening Rick had spent a lot of time mulling over what Cord had told him.  He empathized with his old friend, and could understand why Cord's experiences with Joey could easily make any man resentful and bitter toward the country he had, at one time, so proudly fought for.  But, bitter enough that it would turn him into the kind of destructive mass-murderer Creek claimed him to be?

 

            Rick asked himself that question over and over, but no easy answers were forthcoming.

 

            Because Simon and Simon was still taking on new cases, the brothers hadn't spent much time together in the past two weeks.  A.J. didn't arrive at the office until one-thirty on most afternoons.  Often times Rick was out doing legwork on whatever case they had going at the moment.  If Rick didn't need his brother's assistance, then A.J. used the afternoon hours to go through the mail, pay bills, file, input case data on the computer, update client correspondence, and meet with new clients.

 

            It was four-thirty on Tuesday afternoon when Rick walked in.  He threw a fat envelope on A.J.'s desk as he passed.  The blond man opened it seeing ten, twenty, and fifty dollar bills stuffed inside.

 

            A.J. took the cash out and counted it.  "Another case successfully completed, I see."

 

            "Yep."  Rick plopped down in his chair.  "And the best kind at that."

 

            "The best kind?"

 

            "Yeah.  The kind where our client is so grateful she gives me a kiss full on the mouth and adds an extra two hundred bucks to our pay."

 

            "Lucky boy."

 

            "You bet.  She even tried to slip me the tongue."

            "She's seventy years old for crying out loud!"

 

            "Yeah, and evidently pretty desperate for a roll in the hay."

 

            "I hope you didn't oblige her."

            Rick shot his brother a dirty look.  "A.J., I don't plan on rollin' in the hay with a seventy year old broad until I'm seventy."

 

            "Glad to hear it."  A.J. counted the cash a second time.  He entered the figure on a bank deposit slip he retrieved from his top desk drawer then slid both it and the money back in the envelope.  "You're still planning to meet Cord for lunch tomorrow?"

 

            "As far as I know.  He hasn't called me to cancel or anything."  Rick looked through the mail addressed to him that A.J. had left on his desk.  "How'd your day with Joey go?"

 

            "Great.  He's very intelligent. It's a shame no one other than his late mother has recognized that."

 

            "Cord seems to think the kid's done all right what with the tutoring his mom gave him."

            "Rick, the kid has done more than all right.  And that's part of the problem. He's not a kid.  Though his father doesn't seem able to acknowledge that fact."

 

            Rick looked up from the mail. "Hey, give the guy a break.  He's been through hell with Joey.  He was forced to file bankruptcy twice, and his wife was found murdered along a highway.  He hasn't had an easy life, ya' know."

 

            "You're right, he hasn't.  But have any of us?  None of us goes through life without our share of tragedies, Rick."

            "Don't go gettin' philosophical with me. You know what I mean.  I think it's pretty shitty that Agent Orange caused Joey’s disabilities. They assured us that spray wouldn't hurt us, A.J.  They assured us it wouldn't hurt us, and now that they've found out it did the government has buried its head in the sand in an effort to ignore us.  They hope we'll bottle up all the pain and hurt and go away quietly, just like they wanted us to do twenty-five years ago when we came home. "

 

            "I'm not going to debate with you whether or not Cord Franklin got a bum deal, because I think he did.  More importantly, so did his son.  But at the moment, those facts have little to do with this case.  I had a rather curious conversation with Joe today."

            "What kinda conversation?"

 

            "The kind where Joe warned me about his father."

 

            "Warned you?"  Rick scowled with disbelief.  "Warned you how?"

 

            "It was when we were discussing the possibility of Joe attending some college classes.  He told me his father would never entertain such a notion.  I offered to speak to Cord for him.  That's when he instructed me to stay away from his father.  He told me it was best if I didn't get to know his dad too well.  He said his father wasn't a nice man."

 

            "Doncha think you might be readin' just a little too much into this? Maybe Joey and Cord had a fight or something this morning.  Maybe the kid was still ticked off at his old man when said that to you."

 

            "Rick, I just got done telling you he's not a kid.  He's a grown man.  I don't think those statements were made out of spite or anger.  I believe they were what he intended them to be, words of caution."

 

            When Rick made no reply, A.J. told him of the other piece of information he'd gleaned at the end of his tutoring session.

 

            "When I was getting ready to leave a message came over Joey's computer for Cord via e-mail.  His mailbox address is Uncle Sam.  I mentioned it to Casey on my way out.  She said she'll let Pellman know."

            "Oooooo, big deal, James Bond.  A lot of people use e-mail addresses that would make little sense to the rest of us."

 

            "I realize that.  I simply find it interesting that a man who has reason to blame our government for his son's disabilities would use Uncle Sam as his e-mail address.  I doubt that moniker is out of loyalty to his country."

 

            "Jesus Christ, A.J.!  Do you have the noose fitted for Cord's neck or what?  At this point we have absolutely no facts to back up the FBI's suspicions.  Until we do, I don't plan on looking for the one-armed-man and coded messages around every corner.  Or around every e-mail for that matter."

 

            "Look, it's not my intention to judge Cord until all the evidence is in.  You know me better than that.  I'm simply telling you about some occurrences today that I found odd."

 

            "Okay, fine," Rick spat.  "You found them odd.  Thanks for letting me know."

 

            A.J. took a deep breath before speaking again.

 

            "Rick, if this case has already gotten under your skin to this degree, then maybe we should--"

 

            Rick's fist slammed down on his desktop.  "It hasn't gotten under my skin!"

 

            The blond man didn't so much as blink at his brother's temper.  "When you start pounding on your desk like that then I'm forced to disagree.  I realize Cord is an old friend of yours.  I respect that.  If you've decided being put in the position of betraying his trust is not something you want to be a part of, then I'll call Creek and tell him we're backing out of the job."

 

            "You just don't understand, do you?"

            "Don't understand what?"

 

            "What it's like for guys like Cord and me.  What it's like to be let down by your country."

 

            "Rick, don't start with this--"

 

            Rick jumped to his feet, his chair flying out behind him.  He rounded his desk, pointing a finger.  "Don't you tell me what to start and what not to start!  You don't understand, you've never understood, and you never will understand!"

 

             A.J.'s quiet reply was in sharp contrast to Rick's enraged shouts.  "And just how long do you intend to go on punishing me for that?"

            Rick's fury came out in a guttural growl.  He turned on his heel and stomped out the door, slamming it behind him.

 

            The blond detective sat alone in the silent office for another hour.  He wondered if taking this case had been such a good idea after all.  They weren't even to the heart of it yet, and already he and his brother were at each other's throats.  

 

            At five-thirty A.J. stood to go home.  He locked the filing cabinets and turned off the computer.  He paused by his desk and picked up the phone, dialing his home number.  When Lauren answered he smiled.   Her voice alone caused the tense knots in his shoulders and neck to melt away.

 

            "Hey, babe.  What are you doing?"

 

            "Hi, sweetie.  I just walked in.  Where are you?"

            "Still at the office, but I'm ready to call it a day.  How about if I treat my beautiful wife to dinner out this evening?"

 

            Shane and Tanner were with their father that week, leaving the night wide open for A.J. and Lauren.

 

            "I couldn't think of anything I'd enjoy more.  I'll take a hot shower and be ready when you get here."

 

            "Sounds good.  See you in thirty minutes or so.  Love you."

 

            "Love you, too, A.J.  Bye."

 

            A.J. shut off the lights and locked the door on his way out.  He was too preoccupied with thoughts of his brother to notice the person who stood across the street watching him get into his Camaro. 

 

___________________________

                       

 

            Rick was glad to have the Simon and Simon office to himself the next morning.  For reasons he couldn't explain, he was in no mood to encounter his brother.           

            At eleven thirty the detective locked the office and drove to the Escobar garage where his Durango was parked.  He left the little Mazda pickup provided by Carlos that day next to the alley door, walked through the garage, and hopped in his Dodge.  He headed to Mama Maria's where he picked up the order he'd called in prior to leaving Simon and Simon.  With the warm food on the seat beside him, Rick made his way to Cord's gun shop. By the time Rick put money in the parking meter and retrieved the brown paper bag stuffed with Styrofoam containers the entire interior of the Durango smelled like an Italian restaurant.

 

            The shop was devoid of customers when Rick entered.  Cord stood at one of the display cases studying a gun catalog he had spread open on top of the glass. He smiled when he looked up and saw who had just walked in the door.

 

            "Hi, Sarge.  Glad you could make it."

 

            "Me, too."  Rick shut the door with the heel of his right boot.  "I've been looking forward to this all week." 

 

            Cord led the way to his office.  "Hope you don't mind eating here.  I don't close at lunchtime.  I usually just bring a sandwich from home and wolf it down between customers.  Every so often I'll leave long enough to grab something from the McDonald's down the street, but even at that I bring it back here to eat."

 

            "Eatin' in your office is fine with me." Rick set the bag on Cord's desk.  He began emptying it of plastic silverware, paper napkins, and Styrofoam containers.  "I generally eat at the garage with the other guys, so gettin' outta there for a little while today is a treat.  Hope you like Italian."

            "Are you kidding?  I love Italian."  Cord bent over the small refrigerator he kept on the wall behind his chair.  "Wanna beer?"

 

            "Sounds great."

 

            By the time Cord had the beer bottles open Rick had their meals spread out on the desktop.  The detective placed his hat and car keys on top of a filing cabinet. He claimed the same chair he'd sat in a week earlier, while Cord sat down behind his desk.  Like the last time Rick had been here, the room was in fastidious order.  Not a single piece of paper was lying around, nor could a speck of dust be found.  The floor in here and out in the show room gleamed from a fresh mopping and waxing.  Rick didn't recall Cord being this neat back in their younger days when they'd shared living space at the house on Pirate's Key.

 

            Rick reached for a slice of warm garlic bread and then forked up some round loops of tortellini smothered in deep red marinara sauce.  "You sure keep things spic and span around here."

 

            Cord nodded his head, though whether it was in response to Rick's remark or in appreciation of the food, the detective wasn't sure.  "Mmmm...this is good."  The man used a napkin to dab at the sauce clinging to the corners of his mouth.  "I like things neat and orderly."

 

            "I don't recall you likin’ things so neat and orderly back when we were in Nam.  Remember that time General Ames came to inspect the troops?  You about drove Lieutenant Fischer nuts with your antics."

 

            Cord laughed.  "I thought he was gonna piss his pants when I showed up for the General's inspection without my shirt, and with my boots untied and on the wrong feet."

            "It was just a good thing you were in the back row in a company of two hundred men.  Honest to God if they hadn't needed you so badly to fight Charlie I swear Fischer woulda' had you court martialed."

 

            "As it was, he made me clean latrines for a week.  Geez, I hated that man.  I thought he was such a hard ass."

 

            "He was."

 

            "Not really."

            "Whatta ya' mean, not really? You just got done saying you hated him."

            "I did, thirty years ago.  But you wouldn't believe how much of what he taught us I apply in my life today."  Cord waved a hand at their surroundings.  "The discipline I learned in the Corps helped me achieve the dream of owning my own business.  Let me tell you, Sarge, this is the life. For years I punched a time clock every day and worked until my knuckles were scraped raw by metal. I'd come home at night with an aching back from bending over cars for twelve hours, and I still have problems with my knees."

 

            "Your knees?"

 

            "From standing on concrete all those years.  And for what?  To make some fat cat at Ford's corporate headquarters rich.   Some lard ass who never stood on a factory floor in one hundred and twenty degree heat in his life.  Some blow hard who didn't know what it was like to work sixty hour weeks just to watch all the money you'd earned go to pay your kid's doctor bills.  Then just when you're about to get your twenty years in on the job that will allow you to retire at any time after that with a full pension, they conveniently decide to lay you off."

            "That happened to you?"

 

            "Yeah.  Just a few months before Patty was killed.  It happened to a lot of guys that year.  We weren't stupid.  We knew the score.  The American car industry was suffering.  Used to be Americans would only buy American.  That's why for years the big three, Chrysler, Ford, and GM, made tons of money.  So much money that the top executives were taking home in excess of a million dollars a piece just as their annual bonus. 

 

            "But some time during the 1980s the tide began to shift.  I guess our fellow countrymen were fed up with paying the price a new American built automobile cost, when they could pay half that price for a little Toyota shit box made by the Japs.  So those white-collar sonuvabitches who employed me decided I was too expensive to keep on their payroll.   It was easier to get rid of me and those like me, then replace us with eighteen year old spics who would work for half our wages."  Cord thrust his fork tines into a meatball.  "There I was.  Forty-five years old with a wife and two kids to support, one whose medical expenses alone took every extra penny that came into our house, and I had no job.  No job, and no fucking prospect for one.  I went on more interviews, said "Yes, sir," and "No, ma'am," to punks half my age, and never even got one call back.  If it hadn't been for Patty I don't know what I would have done.  She worked so hard to keep my spirits up.  Told me she knew something good was right around the corner for me."  Cord looked around the office.  "And it was.  Only she had to die for it happen."

 

            "This business, you mean?"

            "Yeah.  Not only did the life insurance money help me buy our house out here and obtain the necessary things to make Joey's life better, but it also helped fund this shop."

 

            Rick dropped his eating utensils in his now empty container.  He wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it in with them.  "If you don't mind me asking, do you own this building?"

 

            "I don't mind you asking.  And the answer is no, I don't.  I rent this shop, but own all the inventory.  Business has been good.  I have a long term goal of some day owning the building my shop is housed in, though I'd like to relocate to a better part of town at that time.  But that's a few years away yet.  Logan plans to come on board full-time after he graduates from high school.  When I have him here to help me out on a permanent basis then I'll extend the hours the shop is open.  I really need to be open on the weekends, but right now that's not possible.  When the day comes that it is, I anticipate making a hefty profit.  But hey, for now I can't complain.  I make enough money to support my family in the style Patty had always dreamed of, and I don't answer to anyone but myself."  Cord disposed of his napkin and utensils in the same manner Rick had.  "And I'll tell you one thing, Sarge, ain't no spic or nigger gonna replace me now."

 

            Rick nodded his head as if he were in sympathetic agreement.  This side of Cord was in sharp contrast to the young man he'd known so many years earlier.  He'd never heard Cord make a prejudice remark back then, and a number of their close buddies in Nam had been of various racial backgrounds, including the two he was now defiling as ‘spics’ and ‘niggers.’

 

            Rick's mind came up with a readymade excuse.  Hell, maybe I'd be sayin' the same things if I'd walked in his shoes. 

            The detective disposed of the empty food containers in the garbage can that sat next to Cord's desk.  "So Logan's gonna join you here in a few years, huh?"

            Cord beamed at the mere mention of his younger son's name.  "Yeah, I can't wait.  We're more like best friends than father and son.  Now don't get me wrong, we don't always see eye to eye.  He gets upset over how clean I make him keep things around here, and how clean I make him keep his room at home.  But I tell him there's no place for slackers in my life. If he's going to make his way in this world he has to discipline himself to do tasks he doesn't like.  I'm forever reminding him that life isn't one big party.  You know how it is with kids of his generation.  They've grown up with televisions the size of movie screens, access to hundreds of channels on those televisions, stereo systems the Beatles would have envied back when they started in the music business, plus computers, video games...instant entertainment at the tip of their fingers.  Very few of them know what hard work is.  Well, not my Logan.  He doesn't always like the rules I impose, but he knows he has to live by them.  It's up at the crack of dawn around my house no matter what day of the week it is.  He has his share of K.P. duty. and he can clean a toilet bowl until it sparkles.  It's "Yes, sir," and "Yes, ma'am," to all adults he speaks to.  It's holding a door open for a woman, or giving his seat up on the bus to an elderly man.  It's not using profanity or telling an off color joke in the presence of a lady.  It's not questioning someone in a position of authority.  You do what you're told to do and you do it right the first time without complaint or you drop and give me fifty push ups."              

 

            Rick smiled and teased, "It sounds like you're running a boot camp there, old buddy."

 

            Cord smiled back.  "I guess in a way it does.  I'll admit that a lot of what I learned in boot camp I apply with Logan.  About the time he became a teenager I realized how important it is for boys his age to have direction in their lives while being guided by a firm hand.  Admittedly, poor Logan got pushed aside during his younger years because of Joey.  The boys are four and half years apart in age, but because of Joey's disabilities it was like having two babies in the house.  Patty always said we were lucky Logan had such a pleasant disposition.  If I was at work and she got tied up with Joey she could just plunk Logan in the playpen with some toys and he was content to sit there until she got back to him.  Because of that we over compensated and spoiled him.  We let him get away with things he should have gotten a swat on the behind for.  When he turned twelve I realized I had to give Logan some long overdue attention, while at the same time teaching him what being a man is all about.  I wasn't going to have my son wasting away his teen years in a video arcade at the mall like my nephew Jason did.  What the hell is that going to teach him?  Certainly not what the real world is all about.  I want a son I can be proud of."

 

            "I think you've done a fine job, Cord.  You've got two sons you can be proud of."

            Cord cocked his head.  "You say that almost like you know Joey personally."

 

            Rick had to admit that's how his sentence sounded.  He realized his words were a reflection of what A.J. had told him.

 

            "No, I don't know Joey personally.  But I know Joey's dad personally, and that's how I know he's a young man to be proud of."

 

            "Thanks."  Cord's smile seemed forced.  "I love him very much, of course.  But it's hard, you know?  Not being able to do the same things with him I can do with Logan.  I think the worst part is never knowing what's on his mind."

 

            "But I thought you said he had some kinda computer that helped him talk."

 

            "He does.  But that's not the same as talking like you and I talk, or like Logan and I talk.  Basically he can only formulate simple wants and needs like 'I'm hot,' or 'I'm tired.'  We've never really had what you'd call a conversation."

 

            Based on things A.J. had told him, Rick thought Cord's words sounded off-kilter.  Was A.J. interpreting thoughts Joey really didn't voice, or was Cord truly that ignorant of his son's capabilities?

 

            Cord shook his head and spoke in a voice thick with sorrow.

 

            "When they place your first born son in your arms, the love and pride you feel threatens to burst your heart right out of your chest.  I remember the first time I held Joey.  He was just minutes old.  I looked down into his little face, completely overwhelmed by this beautiful life I'd helped create.  I remember whispering into a tiny ear that was no bigger than the end of my thumb.  I told him everything we were going to do together.  I promised him fishing trips, and camping trips, I told him I'd teach him to ride a bike and to drive a car.  But we've never gotten to do any of those things together, Rick.  He's twenty years old and still wears a diaper.  And he'll still be wearing one when he's thirty, forty, and fifty years old.  Joey will always be just who he is now...Joey.  Sometimes I wonder..." 

 

            Cord's voice faded as though it hurt to say his thoughts out loud.

 

            "Wonder what?"

 

            The man's blue eyes locked with Rick's.  "Why he's lived all these years.  We almost lost him three different times before he reached eighteen.  Twice to pneumonia, and once to a kidney infection. I find myself spending a lot of time wondering what the point is."

 

            "To Joey's life?"

            "Yeah.  What's the point to an existence that isn't really an existence at all?"

            "Only God knows the answer to that, my friend."

 

            "Yeah, right," Cord snorted.  "God.  I stopped believing in such a deity a long time ago, Sarge."

 

            "We all gotta believe in something, Cord.  That's how we get through each day."

 

            "Yeah, well the only thing I believe in is myself.  And that's just what I'm teaching Logan, too."  Cord sat up straighter as though his sixteen year old really was sitting before him.  “Believe in yourself, son, because if you think some mighty Being from Heaven's gonna sweep down and fix all the problems in your life you're sadly mistaken.  Take it from someone who knows first hand.  There is no God.  There is no higher entity that controls the happenings here on earth.  If there were, He wouldn't have allowed things like Vietnam to happen.  He wouldn't have allowed some chemical with a dumb ass name like Agent Orange to be sprayed over us.  If there was a God he wouldn't have let my little boy be born any other way than healthy, like all little boys should be born."

 

            Rick had no reply for Cord's bitter words.  What could he say?  He couldn't blame the man for feeling the way he did.  It was easy to understand how Cord came to this point.  A person can only be knocked down so many times in life before he grows weary of picking himself up from the ground.  Rick had no doubt Cord had been forced to picked himself up numerous times since Joey's birth.

 

            Cord reached over and smacked Rick's hand.  "But hey, enough of this kinda talk.  How would you like to come with me and Logan this weekend to the property I own over by Beckland?  You familiar with the area?"

 

            "I've heard of it, but I can't say I've ever been there."

            "You'll love it, Sarge.  My place is nice and isolated in the foothills of the Stone Ridge Mountains.  Me and the guys spend the weekend doing a little target shooting, hiking..."

 

            "Guys?"

 

            "Some friends of mine.  You'll like 'em.  Most of 'em are vets just like us.  A few of them never served in the military, but are vet wannabes, if you know what I mean."

 

            The word 'radicals' flashed through Rick's mind, but he pushed it aside until he could judge for himself.

 

            "So will you come?  I know Saturday's the Fourth of July and you might have something going already, but the guys would be thrilled if you could join us."

            Rick pretended to search his mental calendar for a long moment. "Sure, I can join ya'.   I don't have any special plans for the holiday other than dinner out with my lady, but I can switch that to Friday night.  I'll have to sweet talk her into keeping Rex for the weekend while I'm at it, but that won't be a problem either."

 

            "Great.  We leave first thing Saturday morning.  How about if Logan and I pick you up at the marina at five?"

 

            "That's fine.  I'll be ready.  What do I need to bring?"

            "Nothing but a sleeping bag and a change of clothes."

 

            "No food or anything like that?"

 

            "Not this first time.  This time you're our guest.  If you decide you wanna come back again then you can help contribute to our kitchen."

 

            "Sounds fair.  I'll be looking forward to it."  Rick glanced at his watch, playing the part of dedicated employee.  "I'd better get going.  Even though you don't have to punch a time clock any longer, I do.  I have to be back at the shop by one."  Rick looked at the two closed doors the office contained.  "Do you have a john I can use before I leave?"

 

            Cord pointed to the door next to the file cabinets behind his friend.  "Right there."

 

            When Rick emerged from the bathroom the office was empty.  He could hear Cord talking to someone in the shop.  He could pick up enough of their conversation to tell a customer had entered. 

 

            Rick was reaching for his keys and hat when the phone on the desk rang.  Cord yelled from the shop,  "Rick?  You in there?"

 

            "Yeah!"

 

            "Would you get that for me please?"

            "Sure thing!"  Rick picked up the receiver.  "Franklin Gun Shop."

 

            "Yeah, it's me.  Everything came in as planned.  I'll bring them with me on Saturday."

 

            A pregnant pause prevailed before Rick spoke.  "Uh...hold on a minute."

 

             The detective laid the receiver on Cord's desk.  He grabbed his hat and keys, then walked out to the showroom.  The customer Cord had been waiting on was leaving with a small bag in his hand.

 

            "Have a good hunt!"  Cord called after the man who had purchased ammunition for a rifle.  He turned his attention to Rick.  

 

            "Phone's for you, Cord."

 

            "Thanks."  Cord started for his office.

 

            "Listen, I need to get going.  I have to get back to work."

 

            "Okay.  Thanks again for lunch."

 

            "No problem."

            "Logan and I will see you at five on Saturday morning, Sarge."

            Rick nodded.  "See you then."

 

            Franklin plucked the phone's receiver from his desk.  The cord was long enough that he could walk back to the showroom with it in his hand.  He gave Rick a wave as the glass door shut behind the departing detective.         

 

            Cord spoke into the phone.  "Hello.  This is Cord Franklin."

 

            "Who the hell answered the phone?"

            Those six words barked over the line changed Cord's entire demeanor.  His face darkened and his brows drew together.  "And just who the hell do you think you are talking to me like that?"

            The voice went from angry to immediately contrite.  "Sorry, Cord.  I didn't mean anything by it.  The guy just caught me by surprise is all.  I thought it was you when he answered."

 

            "What'd you say?"

 

            "Just that everything came in as planned and that I'd bring them with me on Saturday."

 

            "Good.  Things are right on schedule then."

            "But what about the guy who answered the phone?"

            Cord watched Rick climb in the Durango.  "You don't have to worry about him."

            "You sure?"

            "Yes, I'm sure.  He's an old, and very dear friend.  I trust him with my life."

            "Those are the kind we need in our line of work."

 

            Cord smiled when he heard Rick beep the Durango's horn as a way of saying ‘goodbye’ when he pulled away from the curb.  "Yes, they certainly are.  As a matter of fact, I have a feeling he just might decide to join our cause."

                                   

Chapter 11

           

            Troya could hear the distant roar of the ocean.  The wind swirled her hair around her face causing ivory strands to get stuck in her tears.  She stood clinging to her daddy's hand in front of the sun washed grave.  Her father squeezed her hand while keeping an arm around her sobbing mother.  Grandpa Dalton stood on the other side of Troya's mother wearing a black suit similar to the one Troya's daddy was wearing.  She'd never seen her daddy in a suit before, and thought that even with his red swollen eyes, he was still the most handsome man on the island.

 

            Grandma Dalton stood next to Grandpa.  She was tall and thin and regal, and years ago had been a beauty queen.  She'd even won some sort of contest in the United States when she was young.  Troya didn't know Grandma Dalton that well.  She rarely came to Kono, instead preferring to live in an apartment in New York City in the winter time, and at the Dalton family estate in the Hamptons during summer.  Grandma wore a black suit, too, only hers had a skirt instead of pants, and she had a big black hat on her head she had to hold in place to prevent the wind from blowing it away.

 

            Troya turned to look at her sister. Tiffany rested her head against Aziah's plump hip.  She refused to open her eyes, as if by keeping them shut the five-year-old could block out the reality she didn't want to face.  Aziah hid her face in a black lace hanky.  She tried to stifle the flow of her tears, but every few seconds a gasping sob escaped her lips. She rubbed a hand over Tiffany's back, murmuring words of comfort in her native tongue. 

 

            The rest of the island population stood behind Troya's family.  Or so it seemed to the eight-year-old girl.  Anyone who had ever died here was buried in this graveyard.  It stood atop a hill that gave it a view of the entire island, as if the deceased were now in a position to watch over those they'd left behind.

 

            Troya looked down at the little coffin that held her brother's body.  She wondered if Brooks was watching over them.  Grandpa Dalton said Brooks didn't hurt anymore now that he was in Heaven.  Troya hoped that was true.  As long as she lived she'd never forget his last day on earth.  He'd screamed and writhed and cried almost until the moment he died when blood suddenly spurted from his nose and mouth.  Troya's mother 

became hysterical at the sight, and her father hadn't been much better.  If Aziah hadn't been in the house and called Doctor David, Troya didn't know what would have happened.  Her father had Brooks in his arms when Doctor David rushed in the front door, but it was too late.  The little boy was dead.  Brooks' blood had soaked through her father's shirt and dripped down to splatter on the floor.  When Doctor David tried to take Brooks from Troya's daddy, the man had gone crazy.  It scared Tiffany so much she ran and hid.  It took Aziah two hours to find her.  Troya didn't hide though.  She just watched, wide-eyed, as her father sank to his knees with Brooks cradled against his chest.  He sobbed for what seemed like forever and begged Brooks to live again.  He finally laid Brooks on his little bed and stroked his hand over Brooks' limp body.  But no amount of pleading could bring Brooks back to life, and finally Daddy let Doctor David take him to the funeral home.

 

            Troya heard her daddy breaking things in his study late that night.  She went downstairs, but stopped short of entering the room.  He was crying and throwing things and yelling,  "I'll  kill him!  I'll kill the sonuvabitch!  Because of that bastard my boy is dead!  Before this is over I'll kill them all!"

 

            Troya silently backed out of the doorway. It scared the eight-year-old to see her father this way.  He was still wearing his blood soaked shirt, his hair stood straight up from his head in sweaty spikes, and his eyes were red and wild with grief.  She didn't know whom he wanted to kill and that scared her, too.  She thought maybe he was mad at Doctor David for not saving Brooks. 

 

            Troya listened now as the minister prayed over Brooks' grave.  She looked out at the ocean, seeing the distant beach they loved to play on.  She wondered if Brooks' soul was dancing on that beach even as she watched.  She hoped so. 

 

            When the minister said his final amen, Troya's father let go of her hand and stepped up to the coffin.  The miniature mahogany box was still suspended above the hole in the ground, waiting to be lowered to its final resting place after the family left.  Troya watched as her father slumped to cradle the casket just as if he were cradling Brooks.  Fresh tears ran down his face and she could hear him sobbing, "My boy.  My boy.  My beautiful boy."  He finally had to be led away from the casket by the minister and Grandpa Dalton.

 

            Troya hung back when everyone turned to leave the graveyard.  It was easy to get lost in the sea of people. Aziah held Tiffany's hand, and Grandma Dalton held Mommy's, while Grandpa walked with an arm around