on finding the kid?”
“Don’t know. Callie, Callie, gave some information, but the cops aren’t telling me everything.”
Jake’s mobile phone rang. “Hello.”
“Mr. Ramsey?”
“Yes.”
“Sir this is Isabel Link from the FBI.”
“Hi, Isabel.”
“Mr. Ramsey, I want to know where to send the cloths Ms. Murray purchased.”
“Oh. Please send them to the funeral home, I’ll tell them to expect them.” He gave her the phone number of the mortuary.
After hanging up, Jake squeezed the bridge of his nose and looked up.
BJ said. “Not a good call, huh?”
“Naw, it’s okay. They’re just sending me the clothes she bought. They were special to her. I want her to wear them at her service.”
“Jake. Are you planning a full funeral?”
“Yeah. I guess I am. I want her buried right. I’ll have a headstone made also.”
“Jake, you hardly knew her. When did you become so sentimental?”
“I don’t know, BJ. I don’t expect anyone else to understand. She changed me. She never had a break in life, so maybe she deserves a little special treatment now.”
BJ didn’t pursue it further.
Connection
Julie LaRue had an early class schedule on Tuesdays, so was able to be home early, stopping at the supermarket on the way. Tuesdays were actually a full day for her. She had a four o’clock Pilates class in the afternoon, followed by swimming at her gym. By seven, she would be enjoying a glass of red wine and something light for dinner
Arriving home at two-thirty, she parked in the garage and carried her groceries to the kitchen, when the phone rang. She put the bag on the counter answering, “Hello.”
“Mrs. LaRue?”
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, this is Agent Franklin of the FBI. We have some new information about the case we discussed involving Callie Murray. Would you have time to talk if we came by?”
“Ah, yes, sure, what time?”
“How about four o’clock?”
“Ah, okay.” She could skip Pilates.
When they arrived it was Carly Mott and Al Franklin again. She met them at the door and invited them in. In their first meeting Agent Mott did most of the talking. This time, Franklin was leading. “Mrs. LaRue, the FBI has located the letters allegedly stolen from your garage by Ms. Murray.”
“Oh, thank God! Did they catch that thieving girl?”
“Yes, ma’am. She turned herself in to the police in Savannah, Georgia, and told them about the letters.”
“Good! So the little thief will get punished?”
The Agents look at each other briefly, then Mott spoke, “Mrs. LaRue, she’s dead. She died in an accident while being transported back to Louisiana.”
“Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have died. Poor girl, she was so sweet. I only wanted my letters back.”
Franklin continued. “Yes, ma’am. She was implicated in some serious crimes and was being escorted to Louisiana under a felony theft warrant. Apparently, the letters were part of a plot to defraud valuables from another individual.”
“My letters?”
He went on. “Yes, ma’am. They were going to be evidence in the case. As it is, there won’t be a trial, and we need to know if you want the letters returned to you?”
“Well, of course I do! They’re my letters.”
“Okay, ma’am. This is probably just a procedural thing, but the office in New Orleans has identified another claimant.”
“There can’t be. Those letters were written to me and have always been my property.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know a man named Jake Ramsey?”
“No ... actually, I’m not sure.”
“Okay, ma’am. We’ll get the letters back to you.”
They left after the short meeting. Julie was upset that some stranger would want her letters. He was probably just a ghoulish souvenir collector, wanting to take something a dead girl used in a crime. After thirty years, she’d momentarily forgotten Jake’s name.
Late that evening, Jake had returned home after spending all day around CHI mingling with people on his day off. He turned on the television to watch the evening news when the phone rang. It was the FBI.
“Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Jake, it’s Jeremy Wallace down here in New Orleans.”
“Hi, Jeremy. Anything new?”
“Yeah, kinda, Jake. Someone else has claimed the letters.”
He sat down. “I don’t understand. Callie didn’t have any relatives or friends that I know of.”
“It’s not that. Our division that handles North Central Texas says they were stolen from a lady in Mineral Wells.”
Jake was cautious answering. “Mineral Wells, are you sure?”
“Jake, that’s what it says.”
He hesitated before responding. “Jeremy, is this person named Julie?”
“That’s right, Jake.”
“Okay, Jeremy. They’re hers, not mine.”
“So, Jake. It’s okay to release them to her?”
“Yes, Jeremy. It’s okay.”
He hung up feeling the guilt of thirty year’s neglect returning. Julie was alive in Mineral Wells, and he had never even talked to her after Bobby’s death.
The next morning, BJ picked him up to drive to the funeral. The service was held in the smallest room in the funeral home, which seemed immense with less than a dozen people attending, mostly from CHI and a couple neighbors. Except for BJ, none had known much about Callie. They arrived fifteen minutes early and Jake went immediately up to the casket.
She was beautiful. He touched the fabric on her arm and noticed how it glided. At least she had the experience of something beautiful before she died. He tried not to cry, but it was hard, holding back his tears. She looked so restful and at peace. He said softly, “Rest in heaven, sweetheart.” He turned to greet the others as they arrived. One of the last in was Judy Testa.
She came immediately to Jake and hugged him, whispering, “She will always be alive in our hearts, Jake. She was an angel sent to protect me.”
He wiped a small tear away, “She saved me, too, Judy.”
The service was non-denominational, conducted by the funeral director. Following the final viewing, some of the CHI men were pallbearers to the hearse, then again at graveside. Jake didn’t believe in an afterlife, but today he appreciated the view of the park-like setting from her plot. Following a brief ceremony all departed. There was no reception or other morbid event to prolong the sorrow only he, and maybe Judy, felt.
At his house at mid-day, Jake sat alone, feeling lonelier than he had ever imagined in his hermitage. Callie had brought it liveliness for a brief time, something he wanted back again, but it was now lost. He thought about the bourbon bottle again, but she wouldn’t have approved. He’d started to whimper when the phone rang. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes before answering. “Hello.”
He did not recognize her voice when she said, “Hello. Is this Jake Ramsey?”
This was not a good time for him to talk. He said abruptly, “Yes?”
“Mr. Ramsey, you don’t know me, but I was wondering if you flew helicopters in the Army?”
He sat motionless for a few moments, not even breathing before answering. “Yes.”
“The reason I’m calling, Mr. Ramsey, is that the FBI said you wanted some letters that belong to me, letters written from my boyfriend in the Army almost thirty years ago.”
He hesitated answering. “You mean Bobby, Bobby Lowe?”
“Yes, he was killed, but before that he wrote me almost every day about flying with his friend Jake. I ... I never met this man, but often thought it would be nice. Maybe to learn more about Bobby’s experiences and just to know his friend.”
Jake was bewildered. “You’re Julie, right?”
>
“Yes, Julie Larue, although Bobby knew me as Julie Morgan.”
“Ah, Julie. I don’t know what to say.” Callie said Julie had died, but, of course, that was all part of the story line to win his confidence.
“Jake, I don’t want to pry, but I’d like to know about you, about your life since the Army. About your wife, your kids, your career, your home, all of it. I guess I’d also like to know about Bobby. I only knew him for a few months before he shipped out, but he was my first love.”
They talked for more than an hour. He’d lost an angel, but another one seemed to be calling on the phone. He learned that her circumstances were much like his, a single lady, although she had been married, no kids, physically active. Oddly, they didn’t discuss Bobby in any detail. That would happen sometime later. They ended the call with a promise to talk again -- soon.
Running
Will stole a license plate from anther truck at the cheap hotel where he spent the night. He went out before dawn, finding everything coated with ice. It was difficult removing the plate from the other bumper, and his fingers still ached from the cold, pressing against the steering wheel on the Interstate. A cigarette helped, and he changed hands frequently. He wouldn’t get the tail lights fixed until late in the day, avoiding any local auto shops that might be alerted. When he passed into Mississippi, he stopped at a Waffle House for breakfast and filled the truck with gas. He needed to get to Lafayette to complete some business before driving on to Texas. He wanted to reach El Paso in two days, which would allow him to pass into Mexico at Juarez, if necessary.
The first sign inside Mississippi said there was a Cabelas Outfitters store at the next exit. He needed ammo for the forty-five and for the Beretta. He only had the magazines that were in the guns, no