The Sheltering Tree, page 1
THE SHELTERING TREE
A JOHN LOGAN THRILLER
RICK NICHOLS
Copyright 2020 Rick Nichols
Cover art by J. Kent Holloway
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Sheltering Tree (John Logan)
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
DEDICATIONS
For Erin Rohan, my friend and favorite attorney, with many thanks for her advice and assistance with this book.
And to my family who allows me to do what I love.
Friendship is a sheltering tree
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
ONE
The room was quiet except for the beep beep beep of the heart monitor and the raspy hiss of the respirator.
Funichi, my first sensei in Japan, once said that life was like a stream, ever changing, the calmness giving no warning of dangerous rapids just out of sight around the next bend. All of us experience those moments where our normal calm waters are suddenly churned into a maelstrom by an unexpected event. I gazed down upon the pale face and contemplated Funichi’s words. I was in the rapids now.
Mason Killian lay unconscious in the ICU ward of Forsythe Trauma Center. The respirator tube emerged from his mouth like a primitive alien creature. Wires and tubes ran over and into him, making him resemble a Giger painting that melds man and machine. At first glance I had not recognized him and feared that I had misunderstood the nurse and gone to the wrong bed. Only the blonde crew cut and Special Forces tattoo on the arm confirmed that it was Killian.
I expected him to open his eyes and give me a dirty glance, shoot me the finger—something to show me that he really was okay and this was much better than it looked. However, he just lay there, eyes closed and still.
I’d been around death and dying. Too much, some might say. Whether in the humid jungles of the Amazon or the back alleys of Bratislava, death came the same way. I’d lost men before. Each death had hurt me—some haunted me to this day—but this was different. Killian wasn’t just another soldier under my command. I was an only child and Killian was the brother I never had. He was my best friend, my confidant, my partner. We’d suffered through the rigors of Green Beret school together, and after my recruitment into the world of black ops, I had personally recommended Killian to assist us in several nasty operations.
When I married the love of my life, Killian had been my best man. As a wedding gift he paid for our honeymoon on the Italian Riviera. When we settled down in Coral Bay, Killian had popped in and out of our lives dropping by to say hello, buy me a beer, or join us for a barbecue. He loved Shikira like a sister and worked with her to throw me a surprise birthday party. When I scattered her ashes on the hills of her beloved Mount Fuji, Killian had been there to mourn with me. Since those times, he had been the one anchor in my life that had kept me sane, an immovable object in an otherwise ever-changing world. A river with unknown rapids ahead. Yes, Teri was in my life again, but Killian had been here before she had come to Coral Bay. Killian in many ways had always been.
“It’s okay, bro, I’m here,” I said. “Don’t you die on me, Master Sergeant, that’s an order.”
No response. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm the anxiety that threatened to turn me into a screaming sobbing child.
I sensed someone behind me. Teri stood there; the sight registered across her face. Her eyes widened and she went to the opposite side, took Killian’s hand. His arm was immobile from the tubes.
“My God,” she said, “What happened?”
“Don’t know.” My voice seemed cracked and broken. “Hospital called me. Said they had brought an Allen Lee into the hospital and that I was on his contact list.”
“Who the hell is Allen Lee?” Teri said. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. She glanced down at him. “Mason was using an alias?” Teri was the only one I knew who called Killian by his first name.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but it appears so.”
“Why?”
“Teri, you of all people should know, I don’t know. Killian keeps personal stuff to himself, even after all these years.”
She nodded and angrily blinked away the moisture forming in her eyes. “He looks so...”
“Yeah.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Of course, he will,” I said with more optimism than I felt. “Doctor is supposed to see me when he gets a minute.”
The nurse who flitted around the area kept giving us sharp glances so Teri and I took the hint.
“I’ll be back, buddy,” I said. “Remember you’re under orders.”
Teri kissed his forehead and we walked out, neither of us saying anything. Down the hall was a waiting room for family members. We went inside. The room was painted in a light cheery sea blue and there were two couches and a table holding a coffee pot and assorted bottled water and soda. Teri took a water and we sat down.
We waited for the doctor. There was nothing else to do.
* * * *
The doctor showed up forty-five minutes later. He was a young man who looked only a few years out of med school. His black hair was unkempt and he kept running his fingers through it to try and make it behave. He held a plastic cup of coffee as he shook our hands and sat down. The nametag on his coat read DR. M. LARKIN
“Are you Mr. Lee’s brother?”
“No,” I said. “He doesn’t have any family. We’re the closest thing he has.”
“No parents or siblings?”
“No,” I repeated. “What happened?”
“Well, the police are piecing it together but your friend was shot 4 times by a 9-millimeter. One went clean through his right shoulder, narrowly missing the subclavian artery. Two bullets struck him on the left side, the first just under the floating ribs and tore through the small intestine. Another hit him higher up, fragmenting off his ribs and lacerating his spleen and stomach. The fourth one hit him in the right pectoral and went downward, puncturing a lung. He’d lost a lot of blood when we brought him in and, quite frankly, I didn’t expect him to make it through surgery. He’s a strong fellow, your friend.”
“So how is he doing now?”
“He’s critical but stable,” Larkin answered. “The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be the test. If he makes it without an infection or serious setback, his chances will get better.
“Can I see his personal effects?”
Larkin shook his head. “They’ll be held per policy. Anytime we get a gunshot victim the police have to be notified. We seize all the personal effects for them.” He finished the coffee. “I take it by the tattoo that Mr. Lee is former military?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Lots of scars on him. Couple of bullet wounds, a few knife scars as well.”
“We all have scars, Doc.”
He thought about that for a second. “I suppose we do.” He rose. “Go home and rest. We have your numbers. We’ll call you if anything changes.”
He left us alone in the silence of the room. Teri sat with her head down, and fingers interlaced against her mouth. I didn’t know if she was praying or thinking. At last, she sighed and looked up at me.
“What do we do?”
“First I want to talk to Ross, see what his boys have found out,” I said.
“Are you hungry?” Teri asked me.
“Sure.”
We left the hospital and walked to the parking lot. Gray clouds hung over the city giving the day a gloomy washed out feeling. It fit my mood. I gave a glance back at the hospital. I didn’t know why.
We stopped at a burger place where Teri got a double bacon burger and a mountain of fries. I knew her well enough to know that she pigged out on fast food when she was stressed. She gobbled half the burger down before she said anything. She loaded her fries with ketchup before looking at me.
“I like to know what happened.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Killian asked me for a favor the other day.”
Teri raised an eyebrow. “That’s unusual. What did he want?”
She listened while I told her.
TWO
“I need a favor, bro,” Killian said.
He was flat on his back, hands gripping the bar and pressing the weights above his chest. His blue tank top was soaked in sweat and his pec muscles seemed to ripple in time to his movements. I spotted him, standing with hands ready in case anything should happen.
His words nearly stunned me into inaction. Mason Killian had never asked me for a favor in the twenty years I’d known him. He’d certainly done many for me, but had never asked for one himself.
The gym hummed with activity. Heavy-beat dance music played over the speakers while patrons huffed and puffed around us. A couple of college girls in tight shorts and midriff-baring tops worked on the adjacent elliptical machines. They talked and whispered while throwing interested glances at my friend.
Killian finished the final rep and I helped him place the bar back on the rack. He sat up and drank water from a bottle at his feet. He stood and nodded at the room in the back used for various classes. Now it was empty and we walked onto the wooden floor. I removed my shoes.
“You know, Kenosha would let you workout in the dojo anytime you wanted,” I said.
Killian shrugged, that slight movement of his shoulders that he did. There was very little energy wasted with him. Every movement seemed done with the least amount of effort expended. He slipped off his sneakers and we faced each other.
Most martial artists use gloves and footpads when they spar to avoid injuries, a practice stressed in every karate school in America.
But I wasn’t trained in America.
Pads were rarely used in my sensei’s dojo except for kendo practice. The wooden swords, when wielded by a master, were just as deadly as any weapon, so pads had to be employed. Killian and I had sparred together so often that we’d long abandoned the pads. For us, it was also a test of our control.
He bowed first, acknowledging my higher rank. I returned the bow and immediately tried to kick in his teeth. He blocked my attempt and we moved around the room, punching and kicking. Each movement was controlled but a mistake would get you a nice bruise for tomorrow.
Killian was off. I made it through his guard a couple of times to merely pat him on the head and though his expression remained stoic, I sensed that he wasn’t quite concentrating on things. We continued to spar, drawing interested looks from other patrons.
A half hour later, we bowed, the workout over. I went home and showered and met Killian a half hour later at a small café in the tourist area known as the Plaza. His usual quietness was more noticeable today. We ordered breakfast and I sipped coffee while Killian sat, his eyes hidden behind Oakley sunglasses, and ignored his coffee.
“Your mind wasn’t quite on the match,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
Killian never said he was sorry. Now I was concerned.
“Everything okay?”
“Sure.”
“You said something earlier about a favor.”
He finally looked at the coffee cup, as though just realizing it was there. He picked it up and took a sip. “Nothing big, bro. If you don’t have time...”
“I got nothing better to do.”
Our food came. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. For a long moment we ate, me wanting to push and knowing better. With Killian you could never push. He would tell me or he wouldn’t.
“I need you to find someone for me,” he finally said. “You have the resources to do it faster than I can.”
“Sure. Who is it?”
“Guy named Dale Travis.”
“Sounds like a thirties cowboy star.”
Killian shrugged. “He’s a vet. Beret. Did some black ops work during our time. Retired a light Colonel.”
“Any reason why you’re interested in this guy?”
Killian nodded.
“I’ll see what I can find,” I said. “Is he in the city?”
“I think so,” Killian said, “But I don’t have any permanent address that I can find. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“And when I locate him?”
“Don’t talk to him,” Killian said. “Just tell me what you found and where he is. I’ll take it from there. Promise me, bro, No contact with this guy.”
“Sure.”
It seemed the world lifted off of Mason Killian’s shoulders. He didn’t say anything but there was a subtle shift in his posture, a miniscule straightening of his shoulders. He nodded his thanks and went back to his breakfast.
And that was that.
* * * *
I left the café and went back to my houseboat. Lucky, my gray and white cat, greeted me with a purr and a figure eight through my legs before allowing me to give him a scratch behind the ears. His back arched and the tail went vertical while I rubbed.
“Morning to you, too, pal.”
I fed him. He attacked his breakfast with the intensity of a wild animal. I got a glass of milk. For some reason the breakfast weighed heavily in my stomach. Perhaps it was just me or maybe Killian’s behavior had made me unsettled.
In the corner of my living room rests a small table with a laptop that functions as the only office I have. I sat down and went to work.
To survive in this business, you have to be able to get information, whether it’s on people or events. The internet has made it a lot easier, but there are still some tricks of the trade. Certain subscription sites provide people like me access to all kinds of data for a monthly fee. But in this case, it was difficult because I had no information on Dale Travis. Give me a social security number, a driver’s license number, or something similar and I can find out everything in a few minutes. In the case of Dale Travis, I had nothing but a name.
I made a phone call.
“I need access to the V.A. personnel records, Jake,” I said.
“Oh, of course you do,” Lieutenant Jake Ross, Homicide Division said. “That’s why I’m here, to be your personal research assistant.”
“I let you do murders in your off time, too.”
“And I appreciate it,” Ross growled. “What do you need?”
“Dale Travis,” I answered. “No other information, although he was a Green Beret and retired as a Lt. Colonel.”
There was a pause. “Green Beret. Is this personal, John?”
“Never met the guy.”
“Not too many Green Berets by that name, I’m sure,” Ross said. “He still living?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a minute,” Ross said. “I could be flogged for giving you this stuff.”
“Do they still flog in the police department?”
“No, it’s worse. They promote you.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” I said.
“I’d rather be flogged.”
After talking with Ross, I had a social security number and a few other tidbits. I went online and began to get more. I found an Army photo of him taken fifteen years ago. Travis was an average looking fellow with a long thin nose and an intense gaze. His hair was in a buzz cut. The look of a drill sergeant.
Two days later, after a few phone calls and a few promises involving gifts, I got a good dossier of Dale Travis.
* * * *
Killian glanced at the file when I slid it across the table.
“That’s all I can find without putting some V.A. personnel noses out of joint.” I leaned back in the chair. “You can say it. I know. I’m good.”
Killian flipped through the pages. “No current address?”
I sighed. So much for expecting a compliment. “The last driver’s license he had has expired. He’s drawing Social Security and his military retirement and they’re all going to his daughter’s residence. She says she hasn’t seen him. However, three months ago he was arrested in Miami for a drunk in public and sent to the local VA hospital for treatment of alcoholism and PTSD. He was listed as a transient.”
Killian kept reading. “He’s homeless.” I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
“Appears so. The daughter is married and lives in Dallas. Says her father lived pretty normally for awhile after retiring but now appears to have dropped off the grid. Says she hasn’t heard from him in a while.”
“This means he may or may not be in Coral Bay.”
“You seem to think that he is.”
Killian closed the file. “Gonna take this with me.”
“It’s yours.”
Killian was thinking, turning something over in his mind, although it was hard to read him most of the time. He would have made a great poker player. He reached down and did something very unusual. He stuck out his hand. “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”
I shook it. “What are friends for?”
He nodded and walked off the boat. I watched him go never thinking that the next time I saw my friend, he would be in ICU.
THREE
By the time I finished, Teri had eaten the fries and was slurping the last bit of her cola. “So is his shooting related to this Travis guy?”
