The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Read online

  After a personal record in packing time and a harried rush through town, Ham strolled up to the first class check in counter, inwardly smiling at the throng that impatiently awaited their turn for check in for coach.

  Poor slobs. Must be rough to have to scrimp and save like that.

  Excitement gnawed at him as he wasted the time to boarding by thumbing through paperbacks at the gift shop. He selected a mystery—some private eye guy—almost haphazardly, not certain he’d even bother to read. He fully expected to spend the entire time bedazzled by the luxurious legroom and the obsequious service. Which was why, when he grabbed a couple of snacks at the counter, as was his norm, he quickly set them back. No need for this, he smiled to himself. No need at all.

  Now, proud to respond, for once in his life, to the announcement that “our first class passengers may board at their convenience,” he settled into the comfort of the premium cabin and immediately ordered a scotch. Not because he wanted one particularly, but he felt duty bound to strut his newfound importance. And what could be more emblematic of the leisured class than a drink not proffered to the poor? A soothing drink, to be sniffed, twirled and savored, while the lower class clogged the isles on their way to cattle car claustrophobia.

  With a deep and contented sigh, he leaned his seat back as far as it would go, daring the flight attendant to instruct such a high paying and influential passenger as himself to put his seat in the upright position in preparation for takeoff.

  This, he thought, this is the life. What a way to spend a day in which he’d had absolutely nothing else of promise or surprise.

  Had he been less full of himself, had he simply remembered the old adage to be careful what you wish for, his less quixotic persona might have cautioned him to follow his basic and more cynical instincts. Might have warned him that his ascent from McCarran Airport might lead not to paradise, but to paradise lost.

  2

  ANTICIPATION

  One of the perks of first class, Ham mused, was that you not only got on first, you got to exit first, too. After being stuck inside, no matter the comfort proffered, a good stretch of the legs, actually walking more than the few steps needed to reach the bathroom, would be a welcome relief. So as soon as the ping indicated that they’d made the gate, he unbuckled, grabbed his carry on and stood first among those silently pleading for the door to open. As soon as a whoosh of air announced his freedom, he popped through, intent on beating all others into the airport proper. Why the need for this minor victory he didn’t know, given that he had a sixty minute layover. Probably just for the hell of it.

  And because even small wins were rare, he grudgingly admitted to himself.

  Knock it off, McCalister. Enough with the self pity. You’re on an adventure here. Enjoy it for what it is. It’ll end soon enough.

  He searched among the signs and throngs of people that cluttered the area around the gate. Desperate to find a bathroom after all those unneeded but irresistible first class drinks, he dutifully followed the arrows that proclaimed “Restroom” but found nothing. Nothing but an oversized lounge for a plethora of gates whose signs advertised destinations that had nothing to do with him. After a few minutes of stumbling about, he actually did stumble into one and, finding the nearest pot, simply let fly.

  Washing up, he studied his face in the mirror, trying to see what Blake might divine when they met. A bit tall at six foot two, carrying a few pounds more than the 190 he usually weighed in, he still appeared medium to slim for his size. Fortunately, he’d been to the barber only last week, so his short brown hair looked styled, even stylish he thought, what with that bit of graying near the temples. To his eye, he still appeared freshly shaved, though that would change by the time he arrived in Hawaii. He rubbed his chin, wondering if he’d look more intimidating with a beard, but of course he wouldn’t. His facial hair was well splashed with gray, an age enhancement he neither needed nor desired. His own bias prevented dying it as an alternative solution. He didn’t believe in hair color for men, not for real men, certainly.

  His eyes, large and piercingly green, now showed the first onset of the drinks he’d so freely imbibed. A little bloodshot, bad not yet too bad. As he studied those eyes, that old unwanted memory flashed through his mind, the one left over from before his ex decided another man’s eyes were superior, both in and out of bed. Eyes, she’d claim, that women got lost in, that men perceived danger in, eyes that he, personally, saw as rather plain and forgettable. As with his presence in general. In truth, there was little anybody would remember about him, which might have been displeasing were it not for the fact that it served him well in his chosen profession.

  Toweled off, Ham exited the bathroom. Back out in the terminal, and once locating his new gate, he took time to wander the concourse, seeking out the shops, hoping for some interest to break the airport tedium. And there, of all things, in a store for the weary and desperate traveler, he found what he had not known he was looking for. Among the Seattle ornaments, the Starbucks, the sweatshirts, hats and whatnots, there it was, standing out among the multitude of disks and movies: a sign. A sign meant only for him. Neatly packed in plastic, a double CD, The Best of Truckee River.

  Ham picked up the CD, a portable player, and a set of phones. If nothing else, by the time he got to Hawaii, he’d be able to intelligently discuss some of Blake’s songs with him. It might at least give them a starting point to…whatever.

  Pleased with himself beyond anything he had felt of late, he carried his precious cargo aboard, again barging on at the earliest “first class passengers” call to his final—and still unbelievable—destination of Honolulu.

  Even before nodding acceptance of yet another “free” drink, Ham plugged in the headphones and tuned the CD to the third song in. He knew the title and decided he’d start there, where at least he had a smattering of recognition.

  As the attendant placed his scotch rocks before him, he punched play and heard the first lilting notes of what he remembered to be a haunting melody. Two bars in, the song began.

  Did I do it for the money, did I do it for the love,

  Did I ever understand what the meaning of it was?

  Did I give you all I had to give, with truth that was precise,

  Or did I just indulge myself and let you pay the price?

  Stunned, Ham hit the stop button and gazed in horror at the offending disk. How had he possibly known? How, so many, many years before, had Blake summed up Ham’s dilemma so quickly, so neatly, so beautifully melodically?

  For that was precisely the question Ham had refused thus far to ask himself. What was he doing? And why? Taking advantage of an older, richer man, was that it? A man so mentally muddled he believed completely in some pseudo psychic, so much so that he was willing to bleed money to Ham for…what? To hold his hand? To ward off the boogeyman?

  How could he do this? How could he go through with it and have enough pride to shave in the morning mirror?

  Because you’re a cynic, that’s why. You’re just doing what any other self-preserving capitalist would do. Right? Right?

  Maybe not, he hoped. Or at least not entirely. After all, in all his years in Vegas, dating back to UNLV and beyond, he had never met a celebrity. Not on the job, and not at any of the myriad nightclubs where they were rumored to hang out on their frequent trips through town. Of course, that was no real surprise. They were cocooned, protected, kept away from the paparazzi at all times while they debauched their way through top of the line entertainment. No, he would not have met them. He would not have even met their security. They, too, exceeded his reach.

  So maybe part of this was the chance to meet a legend. Not just meet him, but actually talk to him, spend time with him, get to know a bit what he’s like. And then, later, name drop like hell. My good friend, Blake Garrett, you know, from Truckee River, was telling me just the other day…When I was with Blake in Hawaii…oh yeah, he paid for me to fly over there to join him at his vacation condo…

>   Cradling his fourth drink—he really needed to watch this—his unwanted sense of morality again forced its way into consciousness, overwhelming his celebrity excitement. Being paid, and paid well, for proving that Blake’s psychic was a phony—a money grubbing phony—seemed somehow unseemly, and not a little hypocritical.

  Oh c’mon, Ham, it’s worse than that. It’s stealing, plain and simple.

  But…well, why not? If not him, it would just be somebody else. And Blake could afford it, God knows. Yet…yet…was this an indication of an old rocker’s, an old man’s, drug addled mind, a paranoid induced hysteria?

  And so what if it were? He’d be providing a service, a real service, wouldn’t he? He’d sell security, peace of mind, to a tortured soul. Surely that was clean money. A good deed even.

  Sure. He was as a saint. Saint Ham.

  Irritated with himself, Ham shook away his blackening mood, snapped the music back on and forced his mind back to the adventure awaiting him in Hawaii. If nothing else, he’d enjoy some beach time, sip a few tropical drinks and soak up some local culture. His first time in that Pacific paradise, with all that to anticipate, and instead his preparation had been angst and turmoil. Typical Ham. So screw it. Time to close his eyes, picture the beauty, anticipate exotic smells, and get ready for excitement.

  * * * * *

  Ham was excited. So excited that it threatened to overwhelm his duty. Taking a few calming breaths, and mentally pinching himself, he acknowledged the uniqueness of being in Florida, on stage with Truckee River while they did their sound check. He grinned like a school boy when Blake called him over to stand by him as they began a warm up number. If only there was somebody with a camera, he thought. He’d give his proverbial kingdom for a man with a camera right now.

  Yeah, that’s a picture of me and Blake on stage in Daytona Beach. Eat your heart out, Drew.

  He glanced across the stage and nodded a quick hello to Blake’s songwriting partner and band guitarist, Russ, who responded with a warm smile and nod of his own. Eric, on base, studiously avoided his gaze, while the drummer ripped off the riff that set them rocking into their signature song, “Nevada Moon”. Watching this, hearing this, Ham felt the song surge through him, knew that this was his time. He knew every note, every line, every sense of the soul. He just knew. He knew he should join Blake at the microphone, add an amazing harmony that would make the other members of Truckee River gape in awe, so much so that they’d demand he be made an immediate member of the band, that he take the lead, that he’d guide them from old into new, that he be their star. He’d become rich, he’d be famous, he’d…

  Never heard the shot that rang out. In truth, even if he hadn’t been caught up in fantasy, he’d never have heard it over the roar of the amps. He knew that, but it didn’t matter. The blame lay with him, and only with him. He hadn’t done his job. He’d been pretending to do theirs.

  And why? Because he was a little boy in a big man’s body, a child so caught up in fantasy that the real world ceased to exist? Or because he’d not believed any of this in the first place?

  No matter now. Do something. Anything. Just act. Pretend he’d been on the job, look alert. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

  Ham leaped the small distance to where Blake lay, crumpled, blood staining an alarming amount of stage around him.

  Act, act, act! But he couldn’t, could do nothing but cradle Blake in his arms, utter nonsensical words of reassurance, “It’ll be all right, Blake, it’ll be fine, Blake, it’s okay, Blake. I’m here, I’m here. I’ll protect you, it’ll be okay.”

  A part of Ham’s mind noted the hole directly through the fret of Blake’s guitar, the guitar strap that strangled Blake’s neck, but his eyes refused to focus. They were too busy tearing.

  He looked up then, through unclear eyes, to see Charlie staring down at him accusingly. “What have you done?” Her mouth never moved, those lips never parted, but he heard the words clearly in his mind, echoing, echoing, echoing. “What have you done, Ham? What have you done?”

  * * * * *

  “Hey. Hey, buddy, are you okay?” Ham regarded his seatmate with uncomprehending eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you, but, man, you were having one bad time there. Kept groaning and mumbling ‘what have you done.’ I was afraid you’d get some unwanted attention from our ever alert attendant up there. Don’t want that.”

  “No. No, it’s fine, thanks. Just a bad dream.”

  Shaken awake, and thoroughly shook, Ham quickly downed what by now was an utterly watered drink and ordered a coffee. Black.

  No way was he going back to sleep. Not now, and maybe not for a very long time.

  Ham paid little attention to events either inside the cabin or out the window until, several tense hours later, the plane banked gently over the south end of Oahu, toward the shore and slightly east, as it lined up for its approach to Honolulu International Airport. Finally more relaxed and now fascinated with this first glimpse of alien scenery that dropped off into black nothingness at water’s edge, he stretched his neck to garner a neon and gridded view of the millions of dots of blinding lights that stretched into and danced upon the gentle phosphorous waves they almost skimmed upon landing. When the tires kissed tarmac, he barely refrained from literally pinching himself. He was actually here. In Hawaii. A place he’d never anticipated seeing, never could have afforded to visit if he’d had to rely on his own meager resources.

  Despite his excitement, he avoided the game of “first off” and let those ahead of him disembark before he exited his way to the terminal proper. He was aware that this had less to do with sudden chivalry than it did with his still haunting dream.

  He knew now what he had to do. He would decline the job. He’d explain to Blake—probably should start thinking in terms of “Mr. Garrett” but that die was already cast—that his ethics would not permit him to take the job.

  Ham almost choked at the thought. His ethics. Right. When was the last time he’d worried an ethical dilemma? Not when he was on the force. And not since. So when?

  No matter, get on with it, he thought. Find his way out of there, to Blake’s—Mr. Garrett’s—house, and on back to reality. Although taking a couple of days to explain his position would buy him some time to … No. No, no, no. He’d use that open ended ticket tomorrow.

  He followed the signs to baggage, determined to also follow this unexpected, and unwelcome, bit of conscious redemption.

  That ended the moment he saw her.

  Charlie. Charlie Hollister. Live and in person.

  “Hi, Hamster.”

  He half grinned, half grimaced, a bit of forced amusement. “Charlie. What are you doing here? And I still prefer ‘Ham’.”

  “I still remember that. I still don’t care. And I’m here with my dad, what else?”

  “Not ‘Dadster’?”

  That tinkling laughter that had so bewitched him a year earlier reproduced itself. “Not bad, Hamster, not too bad at all. And not far removed. So...” She ostentatiously studied him, up and down, from shoes to the cut of his hair, before turning genuinely curious eyes on him. “A button down shirt, chinos and loafers. What are you, like, from the 1950s? Ward Cleaver, all that?”

  “It’s what I wear.”

  “No you don’t. You wear dark, dreary suits, white shirt, narrow tie and wingtips. And you drive a gray Ford Focus. A real live Sergeant Joe Friday.”

  “How much retro TV do you watch?”

  “Touché,” she giggled. “Let’s get your bag and get out of here.”

  Ham grabbed his bag as it finally appeared on the carousel and together they strolled out into the warm tropic air. The slight breeze and the unknown smell that wafted upon it acted to lift his mood. “Right, then, Charlie. Where are we headed?”

  She looked surprised. “You know Oahu?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  Same old Charlie, he thought. “How far to the car?”

  “It’s right
here.” She beamed as she directed him to a 1965 VW Beetle, powder blue with white interior that looked in absolute prime condition. “It’s Pop’s car, one of the many he’s collected over the years. He’s got a bunch of fancy and expensive cars, toys, really, but this, this is definitely my favorite. The rest is a collection of crap. I mean, who needs all that. Or any of that, for that matter? Not when you got the real thing like this one here.”

  As they pulled out of the garage, entering, he noted, the H-1 to Honolulu, Charlie explained, “Except for the black smoke it tends to belch when punched, this baby’s an all-around decent mode of transportation. And too, the ’65 model was the first in a long while that actually looked a bit different than it had for all those years before. More comfortable, too.”

  It intrigued Ham to see they followed the sign to Nimitz Highway. History come alive. So alive, he could almost hear the planes of that fateful morning. He could certainly imagine them.

  Tuning back to Charlie, he agreed, “Yeah, I know. They enlarged the windows and windshield, which improved visibility for drivers and passengers alike, made it feel less small. Better heater, too, and levers rather than knobs to adjust it. More contoured seats. Like that.”

  Charlie glanced at him in surprise. “Well you’re just a fount of trivia, aren’t you? Where’d you get all that?”

  “My uncle owned one just like this when I was a kid. I thought it was the coolest car in the world. I got a similar one once, years later, but blew out the clutch. Too little power, too much impatience.”

  Whatever road they’d been on, a highway he’d thought, all of a sudden became a city street that wound its way past piers, replete with tankers and other heavy haulers on the one side and rather seedy shopping areas on the other.

  “So tell me about your dad.”

  She shrugged a noncommittal reply. “What’s to tell? He’s Blake Garrett.”

  “You’ve known him what, a few years?”

  “A little more than that, but yeah.”