| General Fiction posted February 20, 2011 | Chapters: |
...17 18 -18- 18... 
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A disturbing talk with Uncle Mark
A chapter in the book The Heir Apparent
Questions Without Answers
by Sasha
| Background Uncle Mark expresses concern over Dad's hidden past. The trip to the cabin comes to an abrupt end when they discover someone has obviously been there since their last visit. |
When I woke, I was pleasantly surprised to find three large boxes sitting on the table. One was filled with new sheets and blankets, and the remaining two contained enough food to last Uncle Martin, Charlie, and me at least a week; far longer than I planned on staying at the cabin. Despite the late night and two full bottles of wine, Mom and Aunt Em managed to wake early and go shopping. Mom left a note on the table telling us they had gone to see Susan and she hoped we had a good time. At the bottom of the note was a large happy face, definitely not Mom OR June Cleaver. I could only attribute the strange and uncharacteristic doodle to an abundance of adrenaline caused by obvious lack of sleep.
After we loaded everything into the back of the Humvee, I climbed into the front seat beside Uncle Martin. Charlie, still tired, lay curled up on the backseat like a baby sound asleep.
Uncle Martin appeared tense and preoccupied, babbling about the weather in what seemed to be an obvious attempt to avoid revealing whatever was rattling around inside his head. His vise-like grip on the steering wheel was a dead give-a-way that something was bothering him. After ten minutes of pointless chitchat, I couldn't take any more and finally interrupted him. "What's wrong? If you squeeze that steering wheel any tighter, I swear gangrene is going to develop in those swollen, white knuckles that once resembled fingers."
Relaxing his death grip only slightly, Uncle Martin took a deep breath before responding. "James, how much do you know about your dad's parents?"
I was unprepared for the question. I felt a strange uneasiness come over me as I fumbled for the answer. "Not much. Grandma died before I was born and Grandpa died when I was nine-years-old. Although he lived in Bellingham, we never visited him so there is nothing to remember. I learned long ago not to ask Dad about his parents. He made it clear the subject was off limits."
I noticed Uncle Martin's fingers turn white again. Convinced he was hiding something, I abruptly added, "Okay, my turn to ask a question. What do you know that you are not telling me?"
"James, that's what bothers me. Questions are all I have. Every time I've tried to talk about your dad's parents, both Em and your mother change the subject. If I press them for an answer, they simply get up and walk out of the room. It's obvious they're hiding something but, for the life of me, I cannot get either to tell me anything."
I had always been curious about why Dad refused to talk about his parents or his childhood. But, knowing how angry he got when I broached the subject, I kept my curiosity in check, leaving my imagination to fill in the blank spaces; something I was not very good at. A lifetime of telling myself that Dad and Grandpa simply didn't get along, just didn't cut it any more. I reached over and tapped Uncle Martin on the shoulder. "I've always known you didn't much care for Dad. But why now? Why ask me a question you know I don't have the answer to?"
Uncle Martin kept his eyes on the road and in a voice shaking with anger and frustration, said, "Don't you think it's about time someone finds out what the hell your dad is hiding?"
Although I already knew the answer, I asked, "And just how do you suggest 'someone' go about accomplishing that?"
Uncle Martin smiled. "I'm sure your new friend Detective Mac would be a good place to start."
Uncle Martin was right. This was something I needed to talk to Mac about.
* * * *
Uncle Martin clicked the turn signal, tapped the break pedal several times, and slowed down as we turned onto the dirt road leading to the cabin. After slamming into the third pothole, Charlie fell off the backseat and landed with a thud onto the floor.
Charlie crawled back onto the seat and in a whiney voice said, "Thanks for the warning, guys!"
I laughed. "Buckle up, cry baby; we still have at least three-quarters of a mile to go before touch down."
It had been more than a year-and-a-half since our last visit to the cabin evidenced by the overgrown, nearly impassable road. As we pulled up to the fence I was disturbed by the sight of the "No Trespass" sign, and a huge, rusty chain holding a gate shut, a gate and sign none of us had seen before. A familiar, sick feeling came over me. The same feeling I had after I opened Dad's tackle box. The three of us stared at the gate for several seconds without daring to speak. Keeping his eyes on the gate, Uncle Martin reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and handed it to me. I dialed Mac's number. I knew Snohomish County was out of his jurisdiction, but Mac would know what to do.
Fearing what I might find, I had no intention of going into the cabin. From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious, Charlie and Uncle Martin felt the same as me.
After several unanswered rings, I suddenly heard Mac's voice, "Homicide, Detective MacKinnon speaking."
An unexpected calm come over me.
"Hi, Mac, it's James, I think we need to talk."
After we loaded everything into the back of the Humvee, I climbed into the front seat beside Uncle Martin. Charlie, still tired, lay curled up on the backseat like a baby sound asleep.
Uncle Martin appeared tense and preoccupied, babbling about the weather in what seemed to be an obvious attempt to avoid revealing whatever was rattling around inside his head. His vise-like grip on the steering wheel was a dead give-a-way that something was bothering him. After ten minutes of pointless chitchat, I couldn't take any more and finally interrupted him. "What's wrong? If you squeeze that steering wheel any tighter, I swear gangrene is going to develop in those swollen, white knuckles that once resembled fingers."
Relaxing his death grip only slightly, Uncle Martin took a deep breath before responding. "James, how much do you know about your dad's parents?"
I was unprepared for the question. I felt a strange uneasiness come over me as I fumbled for the answer. "Not much. Grandma died before I was born and Grandpa died when I was nine-years-old. Although he lived in Bellingham, we never visited him so there is nothing to remember. I learned long ago not to ask Dad about his parents. He made it clear the subject was off limits."
I noticed Uncle Martin's fingers turn white again. Convinced he was hiding something, I abruptly added, "Okay, my turn to ask a question. What do you know that you are not telling me?"
"James, that's what bothers me. Questions are all I have. Every time I've tried to talk about your dad's parents, both Em and your mother change the subject. If I press them for an answer, they simply get up and walk out of the room. It's obvious they're hiding something but, for the life of me, I cannot get either to tell me anything."
I had always been curious about why Dad refused to talk about his parents or his childhood. But, knowing how angry he got when I broached the subject, I kept my curiosity in check, leaving my imagination to fill in the blank spaces; something I was not very good at. A lifetime of telling myself that Dad and Grandpa simply didn't get along, just didn't cut it any more. I reached over and tapped Uncle Martin on the shoulder. "I've always known you didn't much care for Dad. But why now? Why ask me a question you know I don't have the answer to?"
Uncle Martin kept his eyes on the road and in a voice shaking with anger and frustration, said, "Don't you think it's about time someone finds out what the hell your dad is hiding?"
Although I already knew the answer, I asked, "And just how do you suggest 'someone' go about accomplishing that?"
Uncle Martin smiled. "I'm sure your new friend Detective Mac would be a good place to start."
Uncle Martin was right. This was something I needed to talk to Mac about.
* * * *
Uncle Martin clicked the turn signal, tapped the break pedal several times, and slowed down as we turned onto the dirt road leading to the cabin. After slamming into the third pothole, Charlie fell off the backseat and landed with a thud onto the floor.
Charlie crawled back onto the seat and in a whiney voice said, "Thanks for the warning, guys!"
I laughed. "Buckle up, cry baby; we still have at least three-quarters of a mile to go before touch down."
It had been more than a year-and-a-half since our last visit to the cabin evidenced by the overgrown, nearly impassable road. As we pulled up to the fence I was disturbed by the sight of the "No Trespass" sign, and a huge, rusty chain holding a gate shut, a gate and sign none of us had seen before. A familiar, sick feeling came over me. The same feeling I had after I opened Dad's tackle box. The three of us stared at the gate for several seconds without daring to speak. Keeping his eyes on the gate, Uncle Martin reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and handed it to me. I dialed Mac's number. I knew Snohomish County was out of his jurisdiction, but Mac would know what to do.
Fearing what I might find, I had no intention of going into the cabin. From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious, Charlie and Uncle Martin felt the same as me.
After several unanswered rings, I suddenly heard Mac's voice, "Homicide, Detective MacKinnon speaking."
An unexpected calm come over me.
"Hi, Mac, it's James, I think we need to talk."
 Recognized |
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James Mathews is not your typical eighteen-year-old boy. He has an IQ of 190 that not only makes him smarter than most adults he knows, it makes developing friends his own age next to impossible. His photographic memory has turned him into a walking, talking library. Waking one day to discover his father is the infamous Belltown Killer, turns James's life into a living hell. He reluctantly becomes friends with Mac, the lead Detective on the case. Together, they discover more unsolved murders and James is faced with the choice of continuing his search for the truth, or simply turning a blind eye.
Bellingham is a small city located two hours north of Seattle and less than an hour from the Canadian Border.
I'm using a friend's laptop and not used to not having a mouse. Any and all suggestions are welcome...instructions on the use of a laptop would be helpful too. I'm on my way to Guadalajara so I'm not sure you will even get this.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Bellingham is a small city located two hours north of Seattle and less than an hour from the Canadian Border.
I'm using a friend's laptop and not used to not having a mouse. Any and all suggestions are welcome...instructions on the use of a laptop would be helpful too. I'm on my way to Guadalajara so I'm not sure you will even get this.
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