Interpreter for the Dead Read online

  There had to be something he was missing, something he'd overlooked. But he'd have to stick around if he wanted to figure it out, his back exposed, never knowing what kind of shit Spurlitz or any of the rest of them might pull next. Without the lawyer he was walking a tightrope without a net.

  Dane scooped up the pieces of beer label and squeezed them into a ball. And what about the realtor? The missing week was still unaccounted for. Surely he couldn't have expected the writing on the calendar to hold up in the case of an investigation. Where were the ticket stubs? Why wasn't it on his Visa statement? It didn't make sense.

  "And I'm thinking, they know man, they know. But I don't really care either. At this point I just don't want to get sued or lynched..."

  "I here you," said Dane, reminding himself that he was here for a reason.

  "Then Brent pulls an envelope out from inside his jacket, right? Says it's an offer from a company we'd talked to before, based out of Japan. Just got it yesterday, but thought we'd see what DataCorp had to say before we took it. A total line of shit. You know what the letter was? An eviction notice. I'm ready to kill the son of a bitch."

  "Crazy," said Dane, watching the guy spin his Visa card in his hand and finally getting the last three numbers. He contemplated his next move. Lift a car from one of the dealerships and slap on a pair of stolen plates, start heading east.

  "...you know what? The bastard pulled it off. I shit you not. DataCorp called and left a message back at the office before we even got back. Just like that," the guy snapped his fingers, pulling Dane out of his reverie. "We go from ramen noodles to steak and lobster. Just because of one little piece of paper."

  Bob stopped spinning his card long enough to take another drink and Dane got the expiration date, committing it to memory. He finished off the last of his beer, more than tired of listening to this guy.

  "Well," said Dane, getting up and reaching for a pen before he headed for the bathroom. "I've gotta-".

  Dane froze, the numbers slipping from his memory as the words the guy was speaking took their place. "Wait, what did you just say?"

  The guy laughed, still not quite believing it either.

  "There was no other offer, man. But we still got two million out of DataCorp. Can you believe that shit? All because Brent showed the guy a bogus piece of paper."

  Dane sat back down. The gears began to turn. An idea began forming through the hops and barley haze, dim at first, but quickly taking on form until it at last became solid.

  It looked like he would be staying for one more round.

  Chapter 21

  Dane picked his way across the construction site, following the smell of chorizo and roasted chiles to the brightly colored catering truck parked on the other side.

  Dark-haired men traded insults in rapid-fire Spanish as they shuffled beneath the propped-up serving window, ordered their breakfast burritos and wandered off.

  "Hola, por favor?" The woman greeted Dane as his turn came, while she stirred a vat of scrambled eggs.

  "Yeah, I'd like a ham and cheese breakfast burrito and a decaffeinated espresso." He hoped he got that right.

  "Que?" The woman asked, confused.

  Dane repeated the order, and then asked if he could pay with a Visa. He didn't have it with him, but he knew the number.

  "Un momento."

  The woman disappeared and was replaced with a very serious looking muchacho sporting a fumanchu and tattoos all the way up his arms.

  "You want to pay with a credit card that you don't even have?" asked the man in thick L.A. barrio.

  "I walked out of the house without it, but I know the number and the expiration date."

  "For a burrito and a coffee? I don't think so."

  "I guess I'll just have to get Bobby something else."

  "Bobby?"

  "Si," said Dane. "Roberto. El Apollo."

  The nickname elicited a silver-capped grin.

  Fumanchu took out a scrap of paper and told Dane to write down the numbers. "What's El Apollo up to nowadays?"

  "Same old thing," said Dane. "Painting naked women."

  Fumanchu laughed and called for the woman. He rattled something off in Spanish in her ear and she disappeared again.

  "He still got those skinny little chicken legs?" He danced a pair of toothpicks across the counter.

  "I don't know. I just talked to him on the TTY, but I'll ask him when I see him."

  The man folded eggs and chorizo into a couple of tortillas and handed one to Dane. "Make sure you see him at work." He winked.

  Dane laughed. Bobby had told him he was airbrushing strippers three nights a week down at one of the clubs in Denver. Beats the hell out of working for a living.

  They had hooked up when they were in the Fresh Perspectives program back in the day. Something cooked up by Boulder County, Fresh Perspectives was supposed to be a wilderness camp reality check to keep juvie offenders from winding up in prison. In actuality it was little more than an extended camping trip out in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of assholes.

  Bobby was deaf and the others picked him on because he sounded funny. Dane got picked on because he was one of the youngest. Not usually one to stick his neck out, Dane got tired of seeing the same jerk who was giving him crap break into Bobby's stuff when he was asleep.

  Dane let him know what was going on and that was all she wrote. Bobby knew a little boxing and put the guy on the ground with one just punch. Once he knew Dane spoke sign language, they were thick as thieves and Bobby taught him how to fight. They had each other's backs until the program was abruptly cancelled only two weeks later when one of the girls reported a counselor had sex with her.

  Not knowing what else to do with them, the county stuck them in classes over at the Vocational-Technical Center. Dane followed Bobby into a computer graphics program and soon discovered the kid knew more than the instructor, and not just when it came to art. Bobby showed him how to make money using a computer.

  Released from the program, they said they'd keep in touch, but it didn't quite work out that way. Dane's mother died of cancer just a few weeks later and he hit the road, never looking back.

  Bobby was the first person he thought of when he got the credit card number the night before. Not trusting his home phone not to be tapped, Dane had called him using the phone line in a model home and his parent's TTY machine.

  After telling him what he needed and catching up on old times, Bobby had sent him here.

  The woman came back and whispered into Bobby's Uncle's ear.

  "I can give you five."

  Dane walked back to his car a minute later with a cup of coffee and five thousand dollars in a paper bag.

  Dane hit town and found the closest electronics store, where he bought a laptop computer, a briefcase and five cell phones with car adapters.

  One more trip to an office supply store and he would have everything he needed. He turned onto Broadway and headed south. He was making good time until he got to Spruce Street and traffic stopped. The traffic lights were out at the Pearl Street Mall with a cop directing traffic. Some idiot had buried his pickup truck into one of the light poles. As he waited for the cop to wave him on he saw four more officers attempting to wrestle two men into the back of squad cars.

  One of the men was John Caywood.

  The veins on Caywood's neck bulged and spit flew from his mouth as he screamed obscenities at a guy twice his size, also barely restrained by the police and even more rabid looking.

  Dane opened his door and got out.

  "I'll kill you next time, Caywood!"

  "You'd better hope so you sorry redneck piece of shit, because I swear to God if I get my hands on you-"

  Caywood accidentally headbutted one of the cops and was rewarded with a crack of a baton to the back of his skull.

  His secretary screamed and ran to his side.

  The other guy, who Dane assumed was the secretary's boy Ronnie, went ballistic.

  "A conference in Ve
gas? I knew you were fucking lying, you slut! I'm out busting my ass and you're shacked up in some hotel with him! I got your credit card receipts, Vivian. You hear that? I got proof where you was at!"

  The two cops shoved him down into the car. They got one door shut and then the other, the car rocking as he continued to thrash around.

  Traffic started to move, and Dane hopped back in his car. He had work to do.

  Chapter 22

  The Boulder Valley School for the Deaf and Blind had changed little in the ten years that Dane had been gone. A few new buildings of blonde brick contrasted violently with the original hand-hewn sandstone that composed everything else.

  He walked under the stone archways leading to the front doors only to find them still locked. Dane switched the briefcase to his other hand and checked his watch. He was early. With nothing else to do, he paced and tugged at the tie around his neck, going over everything one more time.

  Normally, he'd rather have dealt with the school's lawyer, but a quick background of the man put the kabosh on that idea. The guy belonged to more charities and church groups than anybody he had ever seen. The final nails in the coffin were the large American flag in the front yard and the Jesus fish on the minivan.

  Dr. Hiram Emerson, the new administrator and the only other name on the claim filed in court, seemed a better bet. He had no apparent religious or civic affiliations, but Emerson non-eventful background gave the impression he may be of the bean-counter type. The kind of guy who made sure every t was crossed and every 'I' dotted before making a decision.

  Dane heard the doors being unlocked and went inside, following the janitor down the cavernous main hall to the front office and another locked door. People milled about on the inside. Knowing that secretaries more often than not held the keys to the kingdoms, Dane left them to enjoy their coffee and donuts and took a seat on one of the benches outside.

  Fifteen minutes until eight.

  He opened up the briefcase and looked over all the paperwork one more time, checking once again that the phone numbers given matched the ones on the prepaid cell phones he'd bought. Everything checked out, but his palms began to sweat anyway.

  He heard footsteps and turned to see a group of three girls come around the corner. Using the railings put in place throughout the school, they shuffled toward him. Their whispered tones were indecipherable as they bounced off the stone walls. He set his brief case down to let them know he was there. They became silent for a moment then resumed their conversation.

  The girl in front stopped not far from him, reading the Braille placard on the wall with her fingertips.

  "The office isn't open yet," Dane let them know.

  "Thank you," said the one closest to him, turning toward the sound of his voice, her eyes pale and luminous.

  They sat down on the bench across from him. The girl in the middle tugged on the sweater of the girl to her right and then danced her fingers in her palm.

  Dane had wondered what it would be like to be blind, thinking it must be worse than being deaf, but to be both was nearly incomprehensible.

  The oldest pulled out a ball of yarn and began to knit while the other two talked into each other's palms. The clicking of the knitting needles was as regular as a clock. Dane had the impression of being in the presence of the Three Fates, wondering if the thread they were weaving was the one that contained his life.

  The doors opened, catching him by surprise and causing him to knock over his briefcase. He bent down to pick it up, the girls gone when he stood up. A chill ran up his spine, until he saw them walking through the office.

  Get a grip.

  The woman behind the counter smiled and asked if she could help him.

  "Yes, I have an appointment with Dr. Emerson. My name is Michael Dane."

  Emerson wasn't in yet, but she let Dane wait in his office.

  The office was in one of the new additions he'd seen from the outside, and still had the overpowering smell of fresh paint.

  The walls displayed various student's crayon drawings and pictures of Dr. Emerson and his wife, fly-fishing mostly. Dane recalled how his grandfather could see a picture of part of a lake or river and tell him where it was, what kind of fish it had. Dane hadn't gone fishing since the day his grandfather died.

  "Sorry I'm late."

  Dane turned to see Emerson come shuffling through the door, picking up a butterscotch candy and popping it in his mouth as he sat down.

  "I'm assuming this pertains to the videotape we provided to the court," said Emerson, ushering him to the seat in front of his desk.

  "Yes, it does," said Dane. "I think you need to take a look at this."

  Dane took a copy of the will from inside the briefcase and handed it across the desk. Emerson hands trembled slightly as he took it. He peered at Dane over the tops of his bifocals when he finished reading it.

  "I was under the impression Henry Dane left no will."

  "So we believed," said Dane, giving Emerson no time to ask who 'we' were, before hurrying on. "Until we were contacted by the law firm with which my father had filed the will. As it turns out, my father's attorney passed away before he did and it took until now for his partners to go through his files and contact all of the appropriate parties."

  "I see," said Emerson looking back and forth between the paper and Dane. "You'll understand if we want to verify this."

  "Of course," said Dane standing up to leave. "You can keep that copy, if you'd like."

  "I do have one question, though," Emerson leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. "Why did you come here? Why, personally, I mean? Your attorney could have handled all this."

  Dane put his hands in his pockets and took a look around.

  "Because I know how much this school meant to my father, Dr. Emerson. I don't want to leave you empty-handed."

  Emerson didn't respond.

  "I've got an opportunity that I need to move on right away, but you and I both know this could take months going through probate."

  "Unless I have our lawyer pull the claim," Emerson queried.

  "True," said Dane.

  "And for doing this, you're going to give me something."

  "Twenty percent of the farm's selling price."

  "Isn't that bribery?"

  Dane shrugged, moving into hardball phase and turning to leave. "If that's what you want to call something that will help the entire school, because that would be who I make the check out to."

  "But if I don't pull the claim, we get nothing."

  "You've got nothing now."

  "Except your word."

  Dane opened up his briefcase and pulled out the paperwork and handed it to Emerson.

  "It's right here in writing. Twenty-percent upon sale of the property. Have your lawyer check it out."

  "When do you need a decision?"

  "The day after tomorrow at the latest."

  Emerson nodded and pursed his lips.

  "I'll call you."

  Dane paused at the door, a nagging question popping into his head. "May I ask why it took the school so long to file the tape with the court?"

  "We only just received it ourselves. Oren McConnell sent it to us yesterday. Maybe you should ask him the same question."

  Chapter 23

  Dane hit the turn-off doing about sixty, barely staying between the two ditches as he shifted into fourth gear, the washboard gravel road threatening to shake the truck apart. The old Ford fishtailed wildly for a moment before he regained control.

  McConnell had the tape all along.

  He'd only coughed it up as a last resort, after he'd failed to get control through the probate court. McConnell must have realized that the only way to keep his hands on the property was by making a deal with the school.

  The staccato sound of gravel popping under tires caused AJ to look up from her exam table in the barn, just in time to see a plume of dust streaming out behind Henry Dane's old truck as it roared down the driveway.

 
; Barely slowing down when he got to the house, he skidded to a halt and sprayed the porch with gravel. A portly Bassett Hound howled and skittered around the back of the house as several ponies in a nearby paddock scattered in fear.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Dane punched the doorbell over and over until the old man finally came out.

  Oren's face registered immediately why he was there. The tone was unmistakable in the angry strokes of Dane's signs.

  "I want the rest of it, Oren."

  "Who do you think you are, driving in here like that?"

  Maggie McConnell came down the stairs, gripping the railing with her gnarled hands. The pain of arthritis was evident with every step. It took her by surprise, seeing Oren and Dane on the porch.

  "I want the rest of the things you took from my father's house."

  "What's going on?" Maggie signed, frightened.

  "Go back upstairs," Oren made a motion to shoo her away, then turned his attention back to Michael. Maggie didn't move, too stunned by the scene.

  "Your husband has been taking things out of the house," Dane directed the signs at Maggie.

  "I didn't take it. Henry gave it to me."

  "He gave it to you? So why didn't you give it to the court three months ago?"

  "I forgot about it."

  "Henry Dane dies and leaves no will. His best friend gets himself appointed executor. Very convenient."

  "Get off my property."

  "Too obvious to just outright sell the place and pocket the money. Better to make it look like it's for the co-op. Right Oren?"

  "You don't know anything."

  "I know a lot more than you think, McConnell. I know you're a thief."

  "He gave me the tape."

  "Oh I see, and I guess not telling anyone about it just makes you a liar."

  Maggie shuffled across the foyer and stood stiffly in the doorway behind her husband.

  "Is this true Oren? Did you lie about the tape?" Her eyes begged him to say it wasn't so.

  "The school deserves the land more than he does!"