HE LUSH TERRY-CLOTH gently caressed her weathered skin. Nurse drew the towel from her face and polished the fog from the mirror. The corrugated reflection that peered back at her documented the passing of many years living under the harshest of conditions. The towel in her hand felt good against her skin. A shower in the morning, clean linen . . . they were comforts she could quickly become accustomed to. She crowded the indulgent thought from her mind and let the damp fabric slip from her fingers and sag onto the sparkling tile floor.
Sound, too, seemed more than a bit sullen as he carefully applied the layers of makeup to her face. His mind was far from the task of hiding the myriad creases and age spots. The money in Cap’n’s briefcase called out to him. Its stockpile represented all the good things in life: a respectable job, a nice apartment, food in the refrigerator, silk sheets. Nurse studied the concentrated look on his flaxen face and listened to his labored breathing.
“You seem tired, Sound,” Nurse said, the words cutting into the ponderous silence.
The skinny man looked up and forced a weak smile. “I guess all this excitement is just wearing me out.”
“I know it ain’t been easy, you livin’on th’street an’all.”
“No, it hasn’t. But you sure made it wonderful.” His breathing was shallow and uneven. He was well aware that the life was slowly ebbing from his worn-out body. His malfunctioning immune system was failing faster than ever. The disease had nearly exacted its awful toll.
“Can’t say I care much fer this spoiled livin’ myself. If’n ya’ ask me, could make a person fat.”
Sound coughed and doubled over in pain. “I’ve bruised my ribs a little,” he moaned.
An alarm went off in Nurse’s head. “Lemme see.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“I mean it,” she insisted, reaching out with her crooked fingers.
Sound tried to resist the firm grip Nurse held on his shirt. “Really, I’ll be fine.”
Not to be denied, she yanked his shirttail free and lifted it up, exposing a nasty yellow bruise, which ran down his chest and across his stomach. “‘At don’t look so little t’ me.”
Sound pulled away. “I’ll be fine.”
“Any trouble inside? Pain in th’ lungs?”
“Just a little congestion. No problem.”
They both knew ‘a little congestion,’ if left untreated, could develop into full-blown pneumonia, imminent death for an uninsured man with AIDS. “Don’t like it,” fretted Nurse. “We best get you to the clinic.”
“When we’re finished. . . . Now, we need to get you looking like a million bucks, Mrs Lambert.”
Cap’n stepped from the bathroom, little bits of tissue speckling his shiny head. “I remember why I stopped shavin’,” he carped. “Can’t stand the thought of bleedin’ever’day by my own hand.”
The dismal tone of the room reached out like a woman scorned and slapped Cap’n up the side his newly shaved face. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Had a death in the house?”
“No, everything’s fine,” replied Sound.
“Like hell it is. I seen faces same as those you’re wearin’ when Jumper was found on the tracks.”
“We’re just a little tired, is all.” Sound knew the source of his bruised ribs. He also knew that it would tear Cap’n up something awful if he ever found out that he was the partial cause of the pain.
Tired of waiting–that’s what Ritter was feeling. The ‘few minutes’Barnes had promised had turned into hours–two, to be exact. Ritter had passed the time napping on the table, making a trip to the loo, and applying a new bandage wrap to his severed pinky. The guards were much more amenable to his requests than the last time he’d visited their fine establishment. And he was one who very much liked to be pampered.
Down the hall in a lockup section of the building, Greg Hart and Reverend Keller were finishing up a lengthy discussion that ran the gamut of marital relations–all about love, respect, responsibility, trust, overcoming addictions, and how to move forward if Linda were willing to reconsider a relationship. Greg had wholeheartedly agreed to any terms she might dictate.
Before the reverend left, he told Greg about one of his lawyer friends who on occasion did a bit of pro-bono legal work for his parishioners. Keller promised to speak with him to see if he could fit another case on his docket. Then he stood and said, “My guess is Lightening’s been brought in by the police by now. I’d have given a day’s blessings to have seen Vinnie’s face when his car was delivered,” he added, clearly amused. “That expensive piece of flattened wreckage must have been quite a sad sight.”
Greg chuckled, thinking of Mitch. “You don’t suppose they hurt him do you?”
“I’m sure they treated him gently, and also sure that more than a little adrenalin was pumping through his veins. Payback usually isn’t a good thing; in this case, I’ll bet it felt mighty fine.”
“Have you heard from Nurse?”
“Not yet, but my wager is she’ll be right on time.”
“And the elder Mr. Domenico?”
“I had a bit of a time getting through, but once I did and read him the letter, he was anxious to meet with me.”
Greg extended his visitor a warm handshake. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.
“The expression on your face says it all. Just hope I don’t get sent to join you here, that’s all I ask.”
“You don’t suppose they’d . . .”
“Nah, I’m a man of the cloth,” Keller retorted. “I have just a little more wiggle room than the regular Joe. Although I am going to pay through the nose listening to Cook. He can’t stand serving warm orange juice on the soup line. But that refrigerator-freezer was needed elsewhere.”
Greg laughed.
“It’s time for a new one anyway.” Reverend Keller continued to grip Greg’s hand. He then pulled him close and said, “With God’s help–and that’s the source of all help, I remind you–we’ll get you through this. I promise. And the rest of our friends, too.”
Rays of warmth and compassion seemed to radiate from the old plumber like bright beams of channeled love. At that very moment Greg felt strangely connected to God. Little shards of prickly warmth danced up and down his spine. “Somehow I believe you,” Greg said as they pulled away and wiped the corners of their eyes. “I can’t help but believe you.”
When the door clicked shut behind him, Reverend Keller bowed his head and leaned up against the nearest wall. Closing his eyes in prayer, he offered up thanks for bringing light to Greg’s life. Then he put in a shortorder for another little strand of future miracles.
On the other side of the wall from Keller, Greg, too, was overcome by a feeling of thanksgiving. A spiritual wave washed over him, a longing to be fed by God’s grace. While waiting for the guard to come to escort him back to his cell, he covered his face with his hands and offered up his own humble prayer. For the first time in more than a year, he asked for–more accurately, pled for–additional guidance, direct from its Source.
Stephanie had been riveted by the latest news reports. Every few minutes an in-studio anchor would come on with an update: It appears that a blatant onslaught of identity theft has been perpetrated against a number of local political leaders. . . . A Nevada State Senator has been accused of. . . . The mayor claims that credit cards in his name were used. . . . The story had fast turned into a media feeding frenzy–and a politician’s worst nightmare. Law enforcement and political leaders dogged one another, each pointing fingers, demanding the other do something– “create tougher laws,” “find better means of enforcing them. . . .”
The disastrous assaults against politicians had been sustained on a local level, but the political fallout was very much felt nationwide. Lawmakers all across the country flew into a tizzy, desperately seeking a solution to the insidious attacks on their character. It was like they were standing in a windstorm dressed in cheap cotton skirts. If nearly every public figure in Nevada could be targeted, that meant no one was safe.
In only a day’s time, a congressional subcommittee was formed to investigate the issues and present new information that could help mend the broken system. In addition, a senate hearing had been scheduled to listen to victims of such crimes. The burden that followed such a devastating breach of personal financial security must be shared and felt by others.
One seemingly insignificant little man, Roy Higgins, appeared to be at the center of the storm. Although he was only the tiny cadre of the plan, it was he, who the media seemed to focus on. He who’d managed to kick the financial legs right out from under so many powerful men. Now he was being held in a Florida county jail, surrounded by a team of media-chasing legal-beagles. The public outcry for the case to move forward through the justice system was being jammed up by a simple extradition hearing, a political hot-rock that quickly forced the Florida Supreme Court to call a special session to consider the evidence.
A long list of powerful people–senators, congressmen, judges, the state governor, and Las Vegas’s own mayor–were among the wounded egos. Juggling high-priced attorneys, they wanted to see the case back under Nevada rule as soon as possible. Only close at home could they assure that the proper thumbscrews would be applied.
It didn’t matter that the publicity and political wrangling were costing precious time–time that allowed Ivan Lions and his three-man staff to pull up stakes and skip the state; time that allowed Roy Higgins to melt under the clutches of slick lawyers and plead the 5th. Were it not for their shrewd motions and objections, Higgins would have sung like an angelic creep, giving up the entire basement operation and all its players.
Stephanie gazed impassively at her father’s face as it flashed across the screen on the national morning news, the pained face of a congressional freshman encompassed about by reporters. “He looks tired,” she said. “So does mother.”
“Public scrutiny isn’t an easy thing to take,” Maggie empathized. Then Stephanie’s fixed stare took on a hurt expression as an all-toovivid memory came to mind. “Once, during one of our worst arguments, he told me that raising a rebellious daughter who was an embarrassment to the family name was the hardest thing he’d ever done.” “That must have stung.”
“It did, but I don’t think he really meant it. He’s just too bullheaded to say he’s sorry, and I’m too hurt to go crawling back for more.”
The women listened halfheartedly to the succession of news broadcasts. They were followed by an informal statement from Congressman MacArthur, which instantly turned into an impromptu question-and-answer session. Out of the blue, one of the reporters shouted out a question that sent a hush over the crowd. “Congressman MacArthur, is it true your daughter is being held in custody and your son-in-law, Mitchell Wilson, was arrested this morning on suspicion of murdering an FBI agent?”
“Oh, no!” Stephanie gasped.
The congressman’s face fell slack, the jolt from the question penetrating like a hot syringe. His head snapped to the side, as if he had a crick in his neck. Only slightly recovering from the shock, and with his political prowess barely intact, he mumbled, “I can’t comment at this time.”
With that, he was beset by a fresh onslaught of questions. Stephanie watched the horror register on her mother’s face as she was shuffled to the waiting car. Deep within her eyes, the terrible–and understandable–wave of despair and disbelief merged with another, strange, indefinable emotion. Peering hard at the face on the screen, Stephanie suddenly recognized it for what it was. She beheld in her mother’s expression a note of relief and tranquility. Perhaps it resonated from the knowledge that now, finally, they could get to the bottom of the matter–and then start anew to climb back out.
The call to Mr. Lyman Wilding, the Special Supervisory Resident Agent (SSRA) up on the fifth floor, came within 20 minutes after Congressman MacArthur’s slam of Bureau headquarters in Washington. In less than two minutes, the stuff hit the fan on down the line: Field, the SAC, was censured by the SSRA and, in turn, Field yanked Barnes from a meeting with Reverend Keller and ordered him to report.
The ‘pucker factor’ was up around a ‘10’ when Barnes and Horne entered Field’s office, where Wilding himself sat, waiting.
“We’ve got a leak big enough to sink the whole damn ship,” Field began. “We just had a Washington reporter, on national television, ask Congressman MacArthur about his daughter and son-in-law. What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Barnes’ voice cracked slightly.
Wilding cleared his throat. A methodical man, with a full head of black hair graying at the temples, he sniffled a bit from the tail-end of a spring cold and begged a simple question: “Why wasn’t the congressman informed?”
Barnes came back with a simple answer: “The girl asked us not to tell him. The man hates his son-in-law as it is. Seems her marriage to the lower class drove a few skeletons into the closet and let a few others out.”
“Fair enough,” nodded Wilding. “The girl has her right to privacy. Now bring me up to speed. If I’m going to take a butt-chewing from Washington, I might as well know how to cover my agents’ backs.”
Barnes tried to summarize the situation in as few words as possible. “At this very minute we have a Reverend Keller sitting in interview two. He says he knows where Agent Hale’s body was hidden shortly after he was murdered. From what we know about the reverend, he’s straight up and tight with the homeless. The man has a lot of information rattling around he’ll never give away, but what he’s willing to give us seems legit.”
“You mind if I observe the interview?”
“No, sir.”
Hence, a few minutes later the brass were seated behind the twoway mirror as Barnes tried to pick up the interview where he left off. “Sorry for the interruption, Reverend. Let’s see, where were we?”
Keller shook his head in mock forgetfulness. “I can’t remember for sure. Was it you who told me about the report on national television, or was that inspiration?” Barnes flinched. The stunning fact was that the ‘leak’ was sitting right in front of him. He’d only barely recovered from the question when Wilding and Field entered the room–the proverbial cavalry to the rescue. “Reverend Keller,” Wilding said, pulling his identification from his hip, “I’m the supervising agent of the Las Vegas division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He thrust the badge in Keller’s face. “And this is Special Agent Field, in charge of this case.” Field likewise flashed his badge. “You’re a very resourceful man.”
“With a little help from God, don’t forget,” the reverend said, smiling.
Wilding had no witty rebuttal for such a remark. “Granted. . . . Now,” he stammered, “you might be able to clear up a lot of . . . confusion for us.”
“I do that each morning on bended knee when I’m reminded of the needs of my little flock.”
“Put aside the ecclesiastical mantle, Reverend,” snapped Wilding, “It seems you may have an agenda that runs counter to what we’re trying to achieve. Can we cut to the chase and put that request and consideration on the table?”
It was time for Keller to drop his bombshell. “Before we do,” he said, meeting Wilding’s gaze, “why don’t you send a team to Ford Frozen Foods and examine locker number 418. I placed a call to Mr. Ford this morning; I don’t believe you’ll need a warrant.”
“You’ll wait here?”
“Fine. I was thinking it might be nice to visit another one of my parishioners–who just happens to be one of your prisoners–if you don’t mind.”
Nurse and Sound parked themselves in the dining room of The Palace, piecing on the brunch buffet. More breakfast varieties “than you can shake a stick at”–as Nurse remarked–lined the linen-topped tables. Cap’n was off by himself, feasting at the snack bar. Occasionally he peeked over to see what was taking the two so long. Guests who sat nearby kept sneaking sideways glances at the odd-looking couple casually eating breakfast and engaged in a serious discussion.
“I don’t want any special measures taken to keep me alive. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yup,” Nurse grunted, “but it don’t mean I like it.”
Sound coughed. “You still have power of attorney for me, right?”
“That cough don’t sound so good.”
“Do you still have it?” Sound repeated.
“In my box. . . . Ya’ know, I don’t care none t’ talk ‘bout you dyin’.”
“Talking about it or not talking about . . . it won’t change anything.”
Nurse gave a nod. “Then let’s not talk about it.”
“We have to. I had that dream again last night. This time I was standing at the door, ready to knock. I think it’s going to happen soon. They say once it gets into its last stages, you go downhill pretty fast.”
Nurse inserted her fingertips in her ears and began to hum: “La, la, la.”
“Nurse,” Sound said, pleadingly, tapping on her hands. “You’re the closest thing to family I’ve got. I need you to listen.”
The old woman picked up her napkin and daubed at her eyes. “Don’t know if’n I can, boy. I ain’t had to deal with nobody dyin’–nobody I been close to, that is–not fer fifty years. . . .” Her voice broke as she added, “Ya’ got so . . . close t’ m’ heart. Don’t wanna . . . let ya’ go.”
Sound was crying, too. “Maybe you’re healing,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s time to let a little of the love back in . . . start receiving back some of that love you’ve been giving all these years. I haven’t heard you talk to Belle in days. And you just admitted that she died fifty years ago.”
“I was afraid,” Nurse blubbered. “Afraid if’n I let her die, she’d–she’d take my heart with her. Turned out just the opposite. Seem’s my heart’s so full it’s ‘bout t’explode.”
“And that’s okay, Nurse. That’s how it’s supposed to feel when we lose someone we love.”
“But I don’t like it–don’t like it one bit. . . . Hurts too much.”
Sound forced a little smile. “Tell me about Belle. Was she a pretty baby?”
Amid the tears, a faint smile slowly appeared on Nurse’s lips. “Oh,” she sighed, “a beautiful child. Soft blue eyes, dimpled cheeks. When she giggled she’d let out a belly-laugh ‘at made ever’body in earshot howl. Her little hands looked like they’d been screwed on at th’ wrist by God hisself. She used t’ stand on my lap when she finished nursin’ an’ plant a mouthful a’ kisses on my face. Would make me laugh so hard. . . . Her daddy tried t’ make me stop nursin’ her when she got so big she’d march right up an’ pull up my shirt an’ just ‘bout crawl underneath it. Belle an’ me, we did it anyways. Doctor said nursin’was good for th’baby.” The old woman paused.
It was then that Sound realized how the dear old woman had picked up her nickname. She’d nursed ‘til she could give no more, then went right on nursing those in need. It was a bonding thing. In her loneliness, she’d tried to fill a void–filling it up with love. “How are you feeling right now?” Sound asked.
Still picturing her beloved child, Nurse’s smile hadn’t faded one whit. “Them’s fine memories,” she said, her eyes still brimming with tears. “Makes me feel good all over.”
Sound put his hand on hers. “That’s how love works,” he tenderly explained. “It never goes away. God gave us some tools to deal with pain. Time helps; so does the comfort of loved ones. And after awhile the pain goes away and pure love takes its place.”
“It’s gonna leave a big hole when you’re gone.”
“We’ve shared enough love to fill the hole–and then some. We’ve given each other so much that you’ll have plenty to share. You’ll be happier each time to give a little. . . .” Sound looked across the table and gave Nurse a solemn stare. His voice lowered nearly an octave. “Now Cap’n can’t know he bruised my ribs clear to my lungs, or it’ll crush him. Promise you’ll never tell him. And if he ever does figure it out, promise me that you’ll help him get through it.”
Nurse squinted through the tears and mumbled, “Promise.”
Sound returned to his philosophical lecture. “It’s sometimes good to cry, Nurse. Tears are God’s way of washing away the pain. When the tears come, call up the good times we’ve had, the hard times, too. Smile and laugh about them. I promise the hurt will go away if you do.” He clasped the woman’s weathered hands between his own. “If I could have a choice where I wanted to spend this last year, it’d be with you again. I’d take the sickness over health, to be your friend all over again.”
Nurse let out a heavy sigh, a cleansing breath to oust the despair and take in the comfort. “An’if’n I could choose, I’d take th’ sickness for ya’, so’s you could finish them years you’ll miss.”
The sound of air leaking out of something diverted their attention to a booth across the isle and down from theirs. It was Cap’n. “Psssst . . . pssst,” he hissed, motioning with his head for them to leave the restaurant. If the sight of the two blubbering diners in the first booth hadn’t already attracted enough attention, Cap’n’s flat tire impression in booth number nine finished the job.
Smitty traversed the length and breadth of the junkyard, exploring every nook and cranny, climbing on mountains of cars, jumping from pile to pile. The dogs followed at his heels, running along on the ground, seemingly overjoyed to act as his personal entourage. “Tarzan of the Junkyard” seemed an appropriate title–and that’s just how he felt: like a giddy, wild, all-powerful ape-man.
As far as Smitty was concerned, he’d died and gone to dog heaven. Up until Nurse came along, the few mutts he was permitted to have as a child had been his only friends in the world. It was as a sensitive eight-year-old that his friends met a most tragic fate. When his stepmother realized that those dogs were Smitty’s only reason to get up each day and put a smile on his face–despite her beatings and neardrownings–she promptly saw to it that they were destroyed, slaughtered right before his eyes. The trauma lasted for years; at times the ghastly images from that day still caused him to awaken in a sweat of panic. But now both Smitty and his new canine pals were safe. That evil woman couldn’t hurt these dogs–never, not where she’d gone to. No . . . never.
Smitty peeked under the front steps of the trailer and wrested the key from its hook. After gorging himself on week-old junkyard dog stew, soon he was sound asleep on the living room couch, happily dreaming about dogs.
Meanwhile, the home aid assigned by Medicare had already been replaced by a special agent trained in nursing. Word had not yet filtered down that the perp was in custody and the agent could be reassigned. And so, riding along in the back of a van, the agent and his not-so-patient patient, Mr. Wilson, were on their way out to the dusty junkyard.
Around 1:15 that afternoon, the homehealth van pulled up the gravel drive. Another car followed fifteen seconds behind. The sight and ruckus of a wild pack of dogs leaping from the porch sent a wave of terror through the young driver–and sent him scurrying back to the safety of the van. But to Grandpa’s ears, the barks and howls were strains of joy–comforting, lyrical music to a tired old man’s soul. “All bark, no bite,” the cantankerous old fellow grunted from the makeshift bed. He turned to the unnerved aid. “Unbuckle me and help me up. I’ll call ‘em off.”
The aid released the straps and helped his patient to a sitting position, from where he gave a labored whistle. The barks immediately went from throaty snarls to whiny yips and yelps. The dogs’ body language changed as well, tails wagging, heads bobbing.
“You can get out now,” Grandpa called up front. “They know I’m home.”“You kiddin’me?” said the young man behind the wheel. “Them dogs’ll eat me for lunch!”
All at once the trailer’s front door burst open and, like a flash of lightning, Smitty sprang out and bounded over the railing, before disappearing southward into the metal jungle. Thundering paws gave chase, as one heap of dog flesh clambered over the other, each trying to be first in line behind the leader of the pack. Off they went, their anxious barks splitting the still, hot air.