White Wolf McLeod Page 15

“Now, tell me, my son, why are you really here?”

  The question caught McLeod off guard, and for the first time since he could remember he could not snap back with a plausible reply right away.

  “I have the office bugged,” he said conspiratorially, smiling and feeling so proud of himself for accomplishing such a feat. “Just don’t tell Michael.”

  “You know there’s bad blood in New York,” McLeod began, starting to trust the old man. “They might have started a war in Colombia that’s going to spill over between them and the Miami families.”

  “Luigi never got into the drug business. He changed his mind?”

  “No, Don Antonio. But Florida is where he keeps one of his homes. He’s made peace with the other families, and the last thing he wants is for a war to erupt in his own backyard.”

  “Why the interest in Prescott or Senator Laughlin?” Don Antonio may have aged, but he had not lost his edge on his keen insight of people.

  “We know that your family helped Senator Laughlin. We have no desire to hurt you or the Senator. But there are other men who have no honor. They are nearsighted and look at only what they can gain for themselves, regardless of the cost to others. This kind of men can only bring ruin to the society we have painstakingly built and maintained over the years. If we do not stop them—well, we might as well bring back the old days when the families were at each other’s throats, and the Feds picked us off one by one.”

  Don Antonio sighed as if the many burdens he had acquired and carried for too many years suddenly weighted upon him. “Is that your Indian sagacity speaking?”

  “Being Indian doesn’t hurt. But since you know the rest, any war between New York and Miami will eventually involve your family. Don Luigi admires your courage in your efforts to establish a new beginning for your family. He hopes that it will become the model for the future of all the families. But your enemies—”

  “Yes, yes. I know my enemies. It won’t be long before I’ll be forced to rectify that. I had hoped my stepping down would satisfy the old debts. Instead, Michael has merely inherited the sins of his fathers.

  “And what would your Uncle do if he believes that Senator Laughlin is involved in fomenting trouble between the families?” he asked after a pause.

  McLeod shook his head. “He will take no action against Senator Laughlin. Out of the deep respect and friendship between you and my Uncle, we will turn over any and all information we find on the Senator over to you. You created him, and by that right, only you should make the decision as to how to deal with him. Whatever you decide, Don Antonio, we will support you.”

  Don Antonio nodded gravely. “Let us both hope that you find nothing. Now, come. I have monopolized enough of your time, and you have been very polite in indulging an old man. Let us go back to the house. Besides, I am feeling a little tired.”

  McLeod almost felt sorry for the old man. He had built a kingdom on the bones of so many people who had tried to obstruct him in his endeavors. Despite all of the kindness and favors he had meted out throughout his life to people in low stations, his good works did little to obviate the darker deeds he had committed in his rise to power.

  As they walked back to the house, McLeod observed the presence of the new car and noted that it was a rental. A nagging thought crossed his mind as he wondered to whom it might belong, and for the first time since he had set out on this adventure he had something to worry about.

  “Do not be afraid,” the voice of the she-wolf spoke in his mind, almost startling him. “I am above you, below you, and all around you.”

  Unbeknownst to him, Sandinista had met privately with Carlos Cortez—who was using the pseudonym Carlos Aguillere—in the “war room,” an area within the house set aside specifically for the various employees who were either permanently or temporarily assigned to the compound. He told him about the Deputy Marshal’s visit to the precinct house and her desire to observe the house undetected. With pride, he then described in detail how he and O’Reilly had taken care of the problem.

  “You couldn’t have been more stupid,” Carlos chastised him. “Now we’ll have a missing Federal agent with more agents looking for her later.”

  “So? We’ll kill her at the cabin and dump her body somewhere else.”

  “You really are stupid, even for a cop. Don’t you think it will be rather suspicious if the murder scene doesn’t match the murder? It would have been a whole lot easier if you had just come to us in the first place and let us take care of it later. A hit-and-run, or even a mugging that went bad, would have been plausible, even acceptable. An unfortunate accident, one that even you boys could manage to document and sweep under the rug.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Now, that’s the first sensible thing you’ve done since this whole ugly affair started. Go and keep your new girlfriend company and under wraps until I talk to Michael. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

  McLeod found himself back in the inner sanctum, only this time Michael had been joined by an older gentleman.

  “Mr. Wolf,” Michael said. “This is Nathaniel Philosophus. He’s one of our corporate attorneys.”

  “I thought that Krazinsky was your family lawyer?”

  “A family as big as ours can never have enough lawyers,” Michael responded without humor. “Mr. Philosophus has been kind enough to put together some information you might be interested in.”

  “I appreciate that,” McLeod said flatly.

  Michael handed him a folder. McLeod sat down in the same chair he had chosen during the previous encounter, opened up the folder, and started perusing the contents. He noted that the pages had all been pulled from other sources and hastily compiled. They were also originals, which meant that he was not expected to take the information away with him. He read the material and filed it away in his memory.

  While he was reading, he only took minor note of Carlos entering the room and wishing to speak privately to Michael. The pair then stepped out of the room for a few short moments. Michael reentered the room alone and strode behind his desk where he pulled out one of the lower drawers. He withdrew a cigar box and set it on the top of the desk.

  “Let me share with you a rare treat, Mr. Wolf,” he invited, opening the box. “These may be the only Cuban cigars west of the Mississippi. Please, indulge.” He motioned towards the box with the flat of his palm up.

  McLeod looked up from the folder at the forbidden fruit and then at the men watching him. Feeling that it would be less than good manners for him to refuse, he leaned forward and picked up the cigar nearest him. Krazinsky performed the honors of clipping off the end and then striking a match for him to light up.

  After taking a few puffs, he saw that he was the only one enjoying himself. “I feel presumptuous in being the only one to take advantage of your generosity, Mr. Seriglio. No one else wishes to partake?”

  Michael smiled and took one of the cigars closer to the bottom of the box. He allowed Krazinsky to assist him and was soon puffing away himself. “Find anything useful in there?” He pointed to the folder.

  “Well, I—” He began to feel light-headed. He tried to move forward and experienced a sudden bout of dizziness. Then the room began to swim. Someone took his cigar out of his hand and disposed of it.

  “You must really think that we are stupid, Mr. Wolf. We opened our arms to you, and you decided to betray us.” If Michael spoke more to him, McLeod did not hear him, for his consciousness spun into darkness with the words of the she-wolf “Do not be afraid” echoing through his spirit.

  “What do you want us to do with him, Michael?” Krazinsky asked.

  “Put him in the boathouse. We’ll dispose of the body later.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MCLEOD’S ATTACK

  “SAM, YOU MUST like getting beat up.” White Wolf’s high school gym teacher sidled up to him after witnessing another trouncing.

  “What do you think?” White Wolf rejoined tartly.
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  “Come with me,” Tom Drury said, ignoring the disrespect. “I am going to teach you a few tricks.”

  Tom was a veteran of the Second World War, tall around six feet but slender in build. His physique belied a tremendous strength, but it wasn’t his strength that made him formidable; rather, it was his martial arts expertise. During the war he had always been the first one in and the last one out of many battles, his numerous scars attesting to his bravery. Death was something he did not fear and did not believe would come for him. He had been captured twice by the Japanese and yet managed to escape both times and return to friendly lines, earning a high regard by the enemy who prized courage and bravery above all things. And on top of all that, he was a Buddhist, a man of conviction who refused to condone violence except to protect the temple, which he preferred to call his body. He began to teach White Wolf how to defend himself with his hands and balance, sparking a keen interest in the boy in the field of martial arts.

  After several months of training throughout which Tom was a grueling yet understanding taskmaster, White Wolf never lost another fight, and his classmates came to respect him as a person—or at least someone who was not an easy target—and not an outsider of small stature—or even the fact that he was an Indian.

  Shortly after joining the Air Force, the North Korean army invaded South Korea. During and after the Korean Conflict, White Wolf spent a great deal of time on Okinawa and mainland Japan, where he studied jujitsu. He caught the eye of a master sensei, who, breaking a time-honored tradition of “no gaijin allowed” in his classes or sharing his knowledge, taught him more of the advanced arts and skills. Eventually, White Wolf learned enough training to be very lethal with just his hands, besides being knowledgeable with conventional weapons.

  ALL THIS PHYSICAL training, however, was not going to help him through this new attack on his temple. A poison had invaded his body through the inhalation of cigar smoke and the absorption of chemicals that had been coated on the tobacco wrapper. His spirit hovered in suspension between the two worlds of the physical and the spiritual.

  ONLY ONCE BEFORE in his life had he experienced a life-threatening situation where all but one person who believed in him had given up all hope for his recovery. Shortly after the Korean Armistice had been signed, he was admitted to the military hospital on Yokota Air Base, Japan, bleeding profusely from every orifice. The doctors could not understand why he was bleeding internally. There were no telltale pathological indications that his bowels had been perforated or damaged from trauma induced by an external source. A complete examination of his epidermis also showed no invasion or evidence that he had been struck. Worse, they could not determine a means to stop the bleeding. They literally poured liters of coagulants into his blood stream along with antibiotics. But none of their prescriptions brought about the desired cessation in the flow of blood. Finally, they ceased giving him blood transfusions altogether and waited for him to die.

  “There’s nothing more that we can do for him,” the attending physician declared sadly. He stood at the foot of the bed where White Wolf’s body lay supine, hating defeat but at the same time accepting the inevitable. Two Japanese nurses looked at him, the younger nurse forlorn while the older, wiser nurse gazed at the American doctor with a mixture of scorn and pity for the White Man.

  “Wake me when he has expired,” he told them. The hour was late, and he had felt that he had already spent an inordinate amount of time on this patient to the detriment of the other patients who had better chances of surviving.

  “He will be well in the morning,” the older nurse criticized him with a strong conviction.

  “Huh? How do you figure that?” the doctor demanded tiredly.

  “He’s Buddhist.” She realized that this declaration should have been all the explanation needed for an educated man, but she added for his benefit, “It’s his way of healing himself.”

  “Yeah, right,” the physician grunted and wearily walked away.

  White Wolf’s spirit had stood beside the man, hearing and observing everything as if he were physically present in the flesh. He looked down without any particular feelings upon the pale complexioned body that was only a shell his spirit inhabited while in the material world. A robe, the People called it, a temporary vessel to house his spirit in time and space. Whether this lump of flesh continued to function or not did not matter to him at all. He existed as evident of his spirit—his true self—and he would go on existing whether he chose to remain in the spirit’s world or select another material body to inhabit. It was not a matter of blending the philosophies of the People and Buddhism; the fact that he was experiencing this event was proof enough.

  “How do you know he is Buddhist, Onni?” the younger nurse asked her superior.

  Nurse Kim pulled down White Wolf’s gown slightly to reveal a medal hanging from a chain around his neck. “When he was first admitted here, the other nurses tried to remove all of his jewelry. He would not permit them to touch him. He said his wife would take all of his jewelry except this medal. When the nurses insisted on removing the medal, despite his weakened condition, he adamantly refused. Even his wife was not allowed to touch it. There might have been a serious fight if I had not intervened. I calmly told him that he might need surgery, but he could wear the medal up until the time the doctors would operate. Then I promised him that only I would remove his medal and keep it safe for him.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He told me that this medal never leaves his body, which is his temple. The medal protects his body. He also said that when his time had come to depart this Earth and the monks burned his body, his medal was to be burned with him. However, because he trusted me, he gave me special permission and would allow me to remove the medal, if necessary.”

  “But if he is under anesthesia, how would he know if you took it from him?” the younger nurse questioned.

  “He told me to make sure that whichever anesthesia the anesthesiologist used that it was very powerful, because he said that he has a history of problems. Even though the doctors thought that his brain was under, his spirit still controlled his body. I looked at his records. He once tore an entire operating room apart while supposedly under a powerful anesthetic. He ripped the leather restraints on his arms and legs as if they were made of paper and broke most of the equipment in the operating room. It took at least ten people to subdue him, and several of them were injured. So, I believe him.”

  “He must have a very powerful faith,” the younger nurse commented in awe.

  “Yes, I can feel that in him. There is something else surrounding him, protecting him. Remember this man, younger sister. Rarely a man twice blessed comes into the world, and rarer still the likes of a person like me to meet such a man.” She touched White Wolf’s forehead and bent low towards his ear and whispered something to him.

  “What did you tell him?” the younger nurse asked curiously.

  “His mind and body must be tuned to communicate with the other, if there is to be any hope of healing. His spirit must choose whether or not to cooperate; that is, to go on living in this world or decide to depart for the next. Right now, his mind and body are shutting down all of his bodily functions to the barest essentials. Only then can he stop the flow of blood and begin the healing process.”

  The younger nurse measured his blood pressure and counted the number of heartbeats a minute. “I cannot believe he is still alive,” she murmured. “His blood is barely moving, and his heart rate is extremely slow.”

  “Keep monitoring him,” Nurse Kim told her. “It may get worse before it gets better.”

  White Wolf watched the proceedings with a detached curiosity. He felt like he was viewing a kind of movie that failed to capture the full interest of its audience. But at the same time, he could not walk away but found himself bound to see the conclusion. He wished it would end soon, for although he did not care what the intended outcome came to be, he tired of watching. He found this emotion
to be incongruous with his particular situation, for he could not feel the passage of time, at least not like the nurses. He could only witness its effects as the changing chain of the connected movements by the two nurses. But their actions and movements began to blur or merge together, a kind of repetitious litany like that of a Buddhist chant come to life. Then, the younger nurse’s outburst brought his being into focus.

  “Nurse Hirase! I can’t find a pulse!” the younger nurse cried out in alarm.

  White Wolf did not see the older nurse move closer to his bedside. Instead, he saw his Grandfather standing beside a well-trodden dirt road where the hospital wall should have been. Behind his Grandfather, he saw the road split and continue in two different directions. He moved forward, forgetting the soap drama being played out in the hospital room, until he stood before his Grandfather.

  “Grandfather? Have you passed on without telling me?” White Wolf asked with some confusion. If his Grandfather answered in the affirmative, he would not be sad. It would only mean that the elder man had come to accompany him to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

  “Time is relative, Grandson,” his Grandfather answered. “Is that not what your friend Einstein, the White Medicine Man who could see the secrets of the universe through his figures and numbers, told you? According to him, I can be present here at the edge of time and still be within my own timeline at the same time.”

  “Are you really my Grandfather?” White Wolf challenged.

  “That’s all relative, too. Is your spirit not greater than the sum parts of each journey in which you wore a materialistic robe?”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “To guide you to the next step in your development. You have a choice, my Grandson,” his Grandfather told him, turning towards the fork in the road. “You must walk down one of these roads.”

  “Where do these roads lead, Grandfather?”

  “One will take you to the Happy Hunting Ground. The other will take you back to the world.”