Letters From the Grave
let the docs and meds work.”
“Jake, I want to tell you...” She closed her eyes, and he was going to back away. “Jake, I didn’t want to hurt you...” She faded again. “Jake, he wouldn’t let me stop. I just wanted to lead us both to capture.”
“It’s okay, Honey. I know you wanted to do the right thing.”
She showed more strength. “Jake, I was scared. He killed my neighbor and, I think, my mother. He was going to kill me if I didn’t do what he said. I think he tried to kill you.” Her eyes were watering, pleading for his understanding. Officer Testa listened from behind, outside of the lights over the bed.
Jake said gently, “Callie, don’t overdo it now. There will be time for explanations.”
She wanted to say something again. “Jake, the letters. Give Bobby’s letters back.”
“Back to who, Callie?”
She tried to turn toward him but couldn’t speak.
She closed her eyes, while the doctors both moved away from the monitors and talked across the room. Callie’s facial muscles were completely relaxed, like she was sleeping peacefully.
Dr. Lewis approached, while Jake released Callie’s hand. “Mr. Ramsey, Officer Testa, can we speak outside please.”
Jake sensed something wrong and reluctantly followed the others into the hallway outside the ICU. Lewis turned and spoke, looking at neither of them. “Ms. Murray did not respond adequately. Her neurologic signals did not reach the levels we had hoped for, and she’s now regressing.”
Jake was alarmed. “Can’t we give her more? Can’t we try again?”
Lewis looked at him sympathetically, “Mr. Ramsey, it doesn’t work that way. This was like an electric shock to her nervous system. We get one shot. Any more would kill her.”
Jake responded, “So, what’s next?”
Lewis looked back at him, then away. “I wish it was easier.”
Judy Testa interjected, “Doctor, what are you telling us? Be direct.”
He looked at her. “We can try to keep her comfortable until...”
Jake lost it. “Until! Until what? I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
Lewis took a deep breath. “We’ve done all we can. It’s just a matter of time now.”
“Time for what?” Jake knew the answer, but didn’t want to know it.
Testa put her hand on Jake’s shoulder. “How long, doctor?”
“It could be any time now. You can stay with her.”
Jake was looking at him, but couldn’t speak. He turned to Testa with pleading eyes. She looked at him, then down saying, “Mr. Ramsey, Jake, I think you should go sit with her.”
He nodded up and down weakly then turned back through the ICU doors.
Many of the noises had subsided from before, and the nurse had removed some wires. Her breathing tubes were still attached. She looked asleep and completely relaxed. The only sign of life was the video screen on one of the monitors which showed a series of spikes, her pulse. The beeping sound had been turned off. He sat in the chair and put his hand on the covers over her arm. He said quietly, “Callie, I hope you can hear me. I have grown to love you like my own daughter. I don’t want to lose you, but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for anything. You’ve given me a new life. I want to share it with you. Please don’t leave me now.”
He sat with his head against her bed for a long time, never looking up or checking the time. It was completely quiet until he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps. He looked up as the nurse stood by the end of Callie’s bed, writing something on her chart and checking her watch. She walked to the opposite side of the bed and turned off the monitor and reached under the covers, removing the electrodes. She then gently removed the breathing tube from Callie’s nose and straightened her hair. She looked amazingly peaceful and asleep. The nurse then came around the bed to Jake’s side as he looked up with pleading eyes. She said softly, “You can stay here for a while if you like.”
He cried uncontrollably.
Before leaving the hospital for the drive back to Lafayette, Jake made arrangements for her body to be shipped to the only funeral home he knew in town. He also met with Officer Testa, who would always feel a lingering guilt about the accident.
The drive home was like a shallow dream. He had no recollection of time or stopping for gas or food, or anything. He only thought about Callie and the hard life she’d had. She was a good girl but would never have a chance to live a good life.
He called BJ while on some lonely stretch of highway. BJ answered, “Hey, Jake. What’s going on?”
“She died, BJ.”
“Jake, I’m sorry, man.”
“She never had a chance in life, BJ. She wasn’t a bad girl. She just was born into a bad situation and never got out of it.”
“Jake. You gave her a break, and she stole your collection.”
“She was scared, BJ”
“Scared of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well. What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to let the police do their job.”
“How do you know she didn’t just hide your coins somewhere?”
“BJ, why would she? She turned herself in. She confessed to everything. She was dying in the hospital and had nothing to lose by hiding them. She’s not the one behind all this. She was just a tool.”
“I still find it hard to believe”
“BJ, what difference does it make?”
“Well. I just don’t want you and the police chasing a figment of someone’s imagination.”
“All right, man. I gotta go.”
They disconnected and Jake felt more depressed than before the call. Was he being foolish believing in Callie’s innocence? Wasn’t it just something he wanted to believe? Nothing added up, and he was getting a headache on top of his grief.
It was early morning when he arrived back in Lafayette, and he needed sleep desperately. He took off his shoes and lay on top of his bed, hoping to sleep, but not expecting to. His head pounded, and he rolled over and over trying to find a position where the ache stopped. Around ten o’clock he was even more awake, and the bed seemed repulsive in the daylight. He climbed out, took some clean underwear and went to the bathroom to shower.
While the water was running to get hot, the phone rang. He closed the faucet and answered on the fifth ring. It was the funeral home, confirming his instructions from Alabama. The city of Lafayette would pay for transport of the body to them and a local mortuary in Alabama was preparing the body for transport. The person on the phone was being as gentle as possible, but it depressed Jake to think of her remains treated like some package to be delivered in the morning. He would need to stop by later today to make “arrangements,” whatever that meant. She’d been special to him. She was the only girl that had ever been special other than his mother, who’d been gone for almost five years.
He went back to the shower, and the phone rang again. This time it was Detective Tibbs. “Hey, Jake. I’m sorry. From what I hear, she was special. Our patrolman, Testa, said she was the bravest and most caring person she ever met and will be eternally grateful to Callie.”
“Thanks, Tibbs. She never expected much in life, so I only hope she’s in a better place now.” It occurred to him that he was being hypocritical, given his lack of religious beliefs, but it seemed appropriate.
“Look. The FBI is on the case and will be contacting you. There’s some angles they’re interested in, so just be aware they’re the lead agency now.”
“Okay, and, Tibbs. Thanks for helping me get to her before ... you know.” He couldn’t complete the sentence.
“It’s all right, Jake, take care. Call me if we can do anything, and I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
Backtrack
Will Ryan wasn’t really a qualified airplane mechanic, or any type of mechanic. He barely qualified as a shop helper. His so-c
alled mechanics school in the Coast Guard never got past the first phase, which addressed procedures, documentation and tools, with minimal overview of their helicopters. It also covered the different classification of hardware. He was never allowed to touch anything on an aircraft. He learned about military specifications for hardware and why aircraft use components different from commercial parts. He was trained to never use standard hardware that would fail under stress aboard aircraft.
He was lazy and possessed less aptitude than test scores indicated and had no motivation. The Coast Guard sent him on to his first duty station, after cutting training short, with no more qualifications than a raw seaman. The flaw in his personnel record was his MOS (Military Occupational Specialty), which could be interpreted as a competency statement.
He barely got into Alabama before his truck overheated and started making a huge tapping racket. He managed to limp into a service station that had a mechanic late at night. The noise was caused by hydraulic valve tappets in the engine running dry when the oil pressure fell. He hadn’t checked the oil level in a long time, maybe never. The engine overheated due to excessive friction, causing the radiator to boil over, further increasing the heat and wear on the engine. It was hard to tell how long it had run without oil, but it was at least twenty miles.
Inside the service bay, a mechanic in dirty overalls leaned across the front fender under the open hood, listened then yelled. “Shut her down.”
Will stepped out of the truck cab as the man pulled the dipstick out. The garage was filthy, and the