Wrongful Death (13 page)

The boy’s knowledge amazed Sloane. “How long did it take to land him?”

“About twenty minutes. Mr. Williams used his net when I got him close, but only after I got him in.” Jake pointed to the man fishing just down the beach, who acknowledged Sloane with a wave. “He said we’ve been using the wrong spinners.”

“Your mother told me.”

“The kings like the pink ones, not the green ones. And you have to put a piece of herring on the hook. He hit on my third cast. Can you believe it? Mr. Williams coached me on how to bring him in.” Jake rushed to add, “But I did it all by myself. He didn’t reel at all.”

“I’m really proud of you.”

“There must be a run going on,” Jake said. “I’m going to get up early and fish.”

“We leave for Cabo tomorrow morning.”

The boy’s face brightened. “We’re going to catch so many fish,” he said.

“Hey, you two!” Tina shouted to them from the lawn and waved her arms. “Are we eating salmon tonight or not?”

“I have to bring the fish up to Mom.” Jake stood and hefted the cooler. “She’s going to let me clean it. You want to watch?”

Sloane nodded. “What self-respecting guy wouldn’t want to see fish guts?”

Jake started up the beach, stopped. “My pole.”

“You go ahead. I’ll reel it in and bring it up.”

“Thanks, David.” The boy did a duck walk carrying the heavy cooler between his legs. He set the cooler on the driftwood logs and yelled back down the beach. “Bye, Mr. Williams. Thank you.”

The man smiled and waved. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Jake.”

“That would be great,” Jake said, his joy apparently making him forget that he’d be on a plane to Cabo.

Sloane picked up the pole and reeled in the line until he felt it snag.

“Jerk it straight back.” The fisherman approached. “Just give it a quick tug toward you.” Sloane jerked the line, felt the lure pop free, and continued reeling. “It settles to the bottom when you stop reeling. Most people make the mistake of pulling to the side, but with multiple hooks it just sets the snag.”

“He’s sure excited.” Sloane looked up the beach as Jake disappeared behind the hedge. “That’s his first big fish.”

The man focused on the water, deliberately reeling. He wore a green fly-fishing vest with multiple pockets and a floppy hat. “He’s a nice kid. I enjoy his company. Most kids that age just grunt at an adult.”

“I’ll let his mother know. She’s the guiding force.”

Mr. Williams pulled in his line, cleaned seaweed from the pink buzz bomb, and checked the piece of herring hanging from the three-pronged hook. “He was using the wrong color. The kings like pink this time of year. Don’t ask me why, though.”

“Can I pay you for it?” Sloane offered.

The man flicked the pole back over his shoulder and snapped it forward. The reel hummed as the spinner shot through the air, ending with a plunk thirty yards offshore. He let it sink a moment before reeling in. “Forget about it. It was worth it just to see the look on his face. Reminded me of when I caught my first fish.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Me? I grew up in Minnesota. We used to have to cut holes in the ice to fish.”

“Well, I better get up and learn how to clean a fish. Looks like
he might be catching more. Thanks again.” He turned and started up the beach.

“Not a problem. You have a nice family, Mr. Sloane.”

Sloane stopped, turned. Tina had taken his last name, but Jake had kept his biological father’s name. “How did you know my name?”

The man continued to reel.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things, Mr. Sloane: How to fish. Your name. Jake’s name. Tina’s name.”

“Who are you?”

The man glanced up the beach in the direction that Jake had departed. “Me? You heard Jake. I’m Mr. Williams.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The spinner came out of the water twirling and swaying like a pendulum.

“Who the hell—”

Mr. Williams calmly pulled a knife from his vest, snapping the blade open with a flick of his wrist. Sloane stopped. The man grabbed the lure, cut free the seaweed and piece of herring, and threw both into the water. Two seagulls descended quickly to fight for the scrap of fish.

“No luck today. Not for fish anyway.” He snapped closed the knife and calmly fastened the hook on one of the pole’s eyeholes, bending the tip slightly. Then he looked at Sloane. “Guess I’ll have to come back.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Mr. Williams smiled. “That’s not very neighborly, Mr. Sloane.” He looked up and down the beach. “Public beach. Public access. Public water. Nothing private about it as far as I can tell. No way to keep me—or anyone else—out.” He redirected his focus to Sloane. “You think about that. And you remember that it’s just as easy for someone to find out information about
you, and your family, as it is for you to find out information about them.”

He stepped past Sloane, his boots making a crunching sound in the rocks. The sound stopped. Sloane turned. Mr. Williams stood atop the cement wall at the entrance to the easement, looking down at him.

“Enjoy the fish.” He touched the brim of his floppy hat and walked off.

Sloane bent and put his hands on his knees fighting a sudden gag reflex, taking measured breaths. When he stood he felt the cool breeze off the water on his forehead and wiped at beads of perspiration.

Your name. Jake’s name. Tina’s name.

He hurried up the beach, stepped over the logs, crossed the lawn, and pushed through the screen door into the kitchen.

Tina stood at the counter holding a large meat cleaver, about to cut off the fish’s head. She looked up at him. “What’s the matter? You’re pale as a ghost.”

He couldn’t answer. Ken Mills’s voice echoed inside his head.

The first thing they said was to protect the people I love.

TINA QUIETLY CLOSED
the door to Jake’s bedroom and walked past Sloane, who stood at the top of the stairs.

“How is he?”

Sloane followed her into their bedroom and closed the door behind him. The soft light from the wall sconce spilled across the down comforter where Bud lay curled in a black ball, sleeping. Tina stood at the edge of the bed, folding clothes for their trip. Given the way she was throwing them into her suitcase, they’d have to be refolded.

“Tina, I didn’t—”

“You lied to me.” She tossed a T-shirt onto the bed.

“I didn’t lie.”

He walked to the armoire, opened it, turned on the stereo.

She looked up at him. “We can’t even talk in our own home now?” She shook her head. “Don’t play semantics with me. Withholding information is the same as not telling me the truth. You embarrassed me in front of Alex and Charlie. I feel like an idiot.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to—”

She stopped folding a pair of shorts. “What? Didn’t want to
what
? Upset me? And this is better?”

Sloane rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what I was dealing with. I still don’t.”

“Then why did you ask Alex and Charlie to come here? Why does Alex have one gun strapped to her ankle and another one inside her jacket?” She threw a pair of Jake’s pants on the floor, hands on her hips. “What do you know? How bad is it?”

He realized now that he’d been wrong to keep the information from her, but this was all new to him. He had never had to worry about anyone else before. All his life the only person he’d had to take care of was himself. Then, in Ken Mills’s office, he’d realized that was no longer the case. Standing on the beach, hearing Mr. Williams threaten Tina and Jake, knowing that the man had been to the beach on several occasions, had left Sloane horrified. He felt helpless and frustrated. The man was right. Sloane couldn’t protect them, not forever.

“Tell me what you do know,” Tina repeated.

Sloane started with his meeting with Robert Kessler and continued through his trip to Los Angeles to meet with Ken Mills. “Once he went public with the names of the companies, he began to receive threats. He had to send his family away. I knew I couldn’t get home before you, so I asked Charlie to come down. I thought it would be less…What’s wrong?”

Tina had paled and slumped to the bed, a hand to her throat.

“What’s the matter?”

“The man on the beach…” She covered her mouth as if she might throw up. “He could have just taken him. He could have just taken Jake.”

Sloane went to her. “I’m not going to let that happen, not ever again.”

She pushed past him. “But you weren’t here. You weren’t there,” she said, and he didn’t know if she meant today, or two years ago in San Francisco when she had been home alone in her flat, packing to prepare for the move to the Northwest, and the men broke into her house. She had managed to escape outside, even to run to what she thought was a police car, only to find out it was not. The men had drugged her and flown her back to West Virginia. There, Colonel Parker Madsen, the former White House chief of staff and leader of a black-ops force, had held her for ransom until Sloane agreed to meet to return the file Joe Branick sent to him.

On the same West Virginia bluff where Sloane had met Charles Jenkins, Tina had endured the trauma of seemingly watching Sloane die, shot in the chest. But unlike in Grenada, Sloane had worn a protective vest that night, and it had allowed him to do what he could not do for his mother, to save Tina.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tina asked.

He struggled to find the words. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough, David. I’m your wife.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER
MONTLAKE DISTRICT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

J
ames Ford stepped lightly, a difficult task wearing combat boots. The paper star hung in the corner of the bedroom emitting a soft pink light to ward off monsters. He picked up the tiny articles of clothing from the floor, placed them on the end of the yellow bedspread, and bent to tuck in his daughter.

Althea’s eyes popped open. “Hello, Daddy.” She giggled, delighted to have fooled him.

“What are you doing awake so early, angel?” He had wanted to kiss her forehead and leave quickly, without waking her. He had wanted to avoid this.

“If I’m awake, then you can’t leave.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did. You said last night that when I woke up, you’d be gone. So I never went to sleep. Now you can’t leave.”

Ford felt a lump in his throat. “I wish that were true, angel.”

Althea scrunched her face and grabbed hold of his beige uniform. “I don’t want you to go.”

“It’s my job, honey.”

“You’re a schoolteacher.”

“It’s my duty. I signed up.”

“Unsign.”

“I made a commitment,” he said. “And you know what we say. We Fords honor our commitments.”

“It’s a matter of the principal,” she said.

“That’s right. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Will there be bad people in Iraq, Daddy?”

“Some,” he said, “but not too many.”

“Do you want to take my night light?”

He smiled, fighting tears. “No. I bought that for you.”

“But what will you do if the bad people come?”

“Well,” he said. “I’ll make a scary face, like this.” He furrowed his brow, bugged his eyes, and growled. Althea laughed. “Not scary?”

“You better come up with a scarier one.”

“You think of one for me and when I call, you can tell me what face to make.”

“How far is Iraq? Will you come home to visit?”

“It’s pretty far, honey, but I’ll write and call you all the time.”

“And Mom?”

“Of course Mom. You know she’s my number one partner.” He took a breath. “Now you go back to sleep.”

Althea shook her head. Tears pooled in her eyes. Ford pressed his cheek to hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing. “Who loves you, angel?”

“Daddy,” she sobbed.

“And I always will. Now you have to let me go, because the sooner I get over there, the sooner I can get back home.”

“No.”

“You want me to come home, don’t you?”

Althea loosened her grip.

He stood. “Now close your eyes so Daddy can go.”

Althea closed her eyes. He tucked the covers under her chin and kissed her forehead. At the doorway he picked up his duffel bag and fought the urge to turn back, walking quickly to the stairs, wiping tears. At the bottom of the staircase Lucas, Alicia, and James junior stood in their pajamas crying. Ford descended and hugged the rest of his children to his chest.

“Come on, now. This isn’t so bad. I know it sounds like a long time, but I’ll be home before you know it.” He looked down at his oldest. “Lucas, you’re the man of the house until I get back. I expect you to respect your mother and look after your brother and sisters.”

Lucas nodded.

“And JJ and Alicia, your mother will be sending me your report cards.”

“We know. You expect A’s in math,” JJ said.

“What would it say about me as a teacher if my own children didn’t do well in math?”

He kissed them all.

Beverly stepped out from the living room. “Back upstairs now,” she directed and the kids trudged up the stairs.

James hugged his wife and buried his face in her neck, breathing as if each breath was his last. “This, I’m taking with me,” he whispered.

She pulled back to look at him. “What?”

“This smell, you, I’m taking with me.”

She grabbed him, clutching her to him. “And you let it bring you home,” she whispered. “Don’t you go being a hero, James Ford, not with four children at home.”

He kissed her again, broke their embrace, and stepped to the door. They had agreed it best that she not drive him to Fort Lewis. A friend waited in a car out front.

She handed him an envelope. “Open it.”

He pulled out a photograph, the one of him in front of the Christmas tree hugging Beverly, the children clinging to him like ornaments. “You take us all with you,” she said. “And you let us bring you back home.”

MONTLAKE DISTRICT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

RUBY-RED FLOWERING PLUM
trees lined the street and soft light spilled from the windows of modest Craftsman homes with shingled or clapboard siding, pitched roofs, and covered porches. Darkness and a steady drizzle made it difficult to read the addresses. Sloane drove to the end of the block, circled back, and found the address on the second pass, an A-frame, two-story structure with brown shake siding and a dormer window. The driveway ran along the right side. He parked behind an older-model Honda and walked up a cement walk to three worn and paint-chipped wooden steps. A yellowed glass fixture lit the wraparound porch.

Sloane pressed the doorbell, producing a series of chimes. A moment later he heard a chain rattle, followed by the click of a deadbolt, but the door did not immediately open. The person on the other side seemed to be having difficulty pulling the door free of the jamb, the wood perhaps swollen from the moisture.

When the door finally shuddered open, a little girl stood behind a black mesh security gate, her hair in two braids, a gap in her smile where her two front teeth used to be.

“Hello,” Sloane said. “Is your mother home?” The girl nodded but did not otherwise move. “Could you get her for me?” he asked. Another nod. Still no movement. Sloane heard a television from inside and could feel heat escaping the front door. “Tell her Mr. Sloane is here to see her,” he said, trying to coax her feet.

The door swung open suddenly. “Althea, don’t be opening the door by yourself.” A muscular young man in a white T-shirt glared at Sloane. “Who are you?”

“My name is David Sloane. Is your mother home?”

“What for?”

“Your mother came to see me at the courthouse the other day.” The little girl continued to beam up at Sloane like he was the ice cream man holding Popsicles. Sloane winked at her. “Tell your brother I’m okay,” he said.

The boy, physically mature for his age, which Sloane guessed to be fourteen or fifteen, pulled his sister back by her shirtsleeve and closed the door. Sloane heard him shouting. “Mom, there’s a white dude here to see you! Mom!”

Beverly sounded annoyed. “Lucas, do not yell at me. If you want me, come upstairs and talk to me like a civilized human being.”

Lucas yelled louder. “White dude at the door for you.”

Footsteps descended stairs. Beverly Ford pulled open the door, hesitated. “Mr. Sloane?” She reached to unlock the security gate and pushed it open. “I’m sorry. I was upstairs.” Ford wore a powder-blue nurse’s uniform and white tennis shoes. She ducked her head behind the door to admonish her son. “Lucas, where are your manners?”

“Yeah, like I’m going to let some white dude I don’t know just walk in.”

Ford made a face as if she might let the comment go, then put up a finger and stepped behind the door. Though she lowered her voice, she remained clearly audible. “Watch your mouth, young man. Do not get smart with me.” She reappeared, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry, this must sound horrible to you. Excuse my son’s lack of manners. Please come in.”

Sloane stepped into a small entry. A staircase led to the second
story. A hallway to the right of the stairs continued to a swinging door at the back of the house, presumably to the kitchen. Sloane smelled the aroma of baked chicken and spices. To his left, books and papers cluttered a dining room table, homework in progress.

“I’m sorry about the time,” he said. “I should have called.”

“I worked late,” she said. “I had an opportunity to pick up overtime. Are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be long.”

Disappointment registered on her face. “Please.” She led him into the room to the right of the door. Lucas sat slumped in a chair with a bored expression, his leg slung over the arm, a remote control pointed at the television. The little girl moved behind her mother’s leg, staring up at Sloane.

“Lucas, get up.” Beverly Ford snatched the remote from her son’s hand and turned off the television. “We have a visitor. Introduce yourself like a man.”

Lucas stood with what appeared to be great physical effort. “Hey,” he said, and turned to leave.

His mother grabbed him by the arm and spun him toward Sloane. “Look him in the eye and shake his hand.” The young man rolled his eyes. “And if you’re going to roll your eyes to heaven, young man, get down on your knees and pray.”

Lucas gripped Sloane’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Sloane said.

“Now please go get your brother and sister.” Ford turned to Sloane as Lucas trudged up the staircase. She glanced at her file, which Sloane had removed from his briefcase, then ignored it, straightening pillows on a floral couch and gathering the newspaper, putting it along the side.

The furniture in the room was serviceable. A plastic runner led out the other side of the room where the carpet had worn
threadbare. A painting of a serene lake and a meadow of wildflowers hung above the fireplace mantel, which was filled with framed family photographs. Sloane considered one frame containing a painting of a dove, and what appeared to be a prayer about building houses not of brick and wood, but of love.

“James loved that poem. He said it was a prayer,” Beverly said, noticing Sloane’s interest. “He loved the thought of it.”

Sloane turned to her, struck by the words. “It’s beautiful.”

“The artist was a friend, George Collopy.”

Sloane had never felt that love in any of the foster homes in which he had been raised. They had all been just brick, mortar, and wood. He had never felt “home,” not until he and Tina and Jake made one together at Three Tree Point. Now someone was threatening that. Standing in James Ford’s house with his wife and his children, Sloane realized what had drawn him to a case he knew intuitively he could not win. It wasn’t the scar on his chest that bonded him to James Ford. It wasn’t the body armor that Sloane had once sacrificed to another soldier. James Ford represented everything in life Sloane had never had. Ford had not just been a soldier. He had been a husband and a father. He had been the man Beverly Ford expected to grow old with, the man to teach his sons how to be men, the man to walk his daughters down the aisle on their wedding days, the man to be a grandfather to their children. He was a mentor and a teacher. It made his death that much more tragic.

“Are you a religious man?” Beverly asked.

“I don’t really know,” he said, answering honestly. No one had ever taught him religion. He believed in God—that much he had decided. But mostly he believed in a more basic principle: In life you reap what you sow.

Sloane took a seat on the couch. “You’re a nurse. I don’t think I knew that.”

Ford nodded. “I put James through school. I stopped when the children were born. James and I agreed it was better to sacrifice financially than to have them come home to an empty house after school. It was difficult, but we managed. I went back to work when James was called to active service to help make ends meet. Normally I work the swing shift, but I had the chance to pick up some overtime.”

She looked again at her file in Sloane’s lap.

Footsteps thudded down the staircase, drawing their attention. Lucas walked into the room with the same disgruntled expression, followed by a younger boy, perhaps twelve, and a girl who looked to be about the same age. Both bore a strong resemblance to their mother. Sloane stood as Beverly Ford made the introductions.

“You met my oldest,” she said, but Lucas had already departed the room. “And this is my daughter, Alicia, and my son JJ—James junior.”

Each shook Sloane’s hand. Sloane squatted to the level of the youngest. “And who is this angel?”

The little girl’s smile brightened.

“This is Althea,” Beverly said.

“Althea. That is a beautiful name. How old are you, Althea?” She did not answer. “I’m guessing you’re…twenty-two or twenty-three.” The girl shook her head. “No? You can’t be twenty-four.”

“She don’t talk.”

Beverly’s voice cracked like a whip. “Lucas, watch your tone.”

Lucas leaned against the doorframe, head cocked, arms folded across his chest. “Not since Dad died,” he continued, clearly testing his mother’s patience. “Not since his funeral. So don’t bother. She doesn’t say a word. Not to
anyone
.”

“That’s enough, Lucas. Go finish your homework, all of you. Alicia, take Althea and get her ready for bed.” The little girl departed the room holding her sister’s hand, looking back at Sloane, still smiling.

“I’m sorry about Lucas,” Ford said after the children had left. “He’s developed an attitude—thinks he’s the man of the house—but more times than not, he still acts like a boy.”

“I’m sure this has been hard on all of you. Is it true what he said?”

Ford nodded. “The doctors say it’s a post-traumatic stress disorder associated with her father’s death. They were very close. In Althea’s case her unwillingness to speak is a regressive symptom.”

“Unwillingness? She’s choosing not to talk?”

“The doctors call it elective mutism. She can talk—physically there’s nothing wrong with her. She just won’t.”