WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 13)

78

Ty Hamilton

The key worked. First thing I did inside the house was strip out of my dirty clothes and clean up. Standing in the shower, I assessed my gunshot wounds. It looked to me like I’d taken two pellets. They had ripped through the flesh of my tricep, but had not lodged.

It hurt to do it, but I could still move the arm. I cleaned it as best I could, using soap and water. It took forever to get all the mud out of the wounds. Probably not such a smart thing, doing that, but I’d seen it once on TV.

I didn’t see any bandages that would be large enough, so I rummaged through Mulligan’s chest of drawers and found a T-shirt. I ripped it into four pieces and wrapped one around the arm, tying it securely but not enough so as to cut off circulation. It would have to do.

Mulligan had a desktop computer. Come on. Seriously, who has a desktop computer these days? It kind of pissed me off, because I had wanted to just grab his laptop and get out of there. Look at it later. I sat at his desk and powered it up, ready to use the knowledge that I had at my disposal.

As long as I was going to be staying for a while, I decided to throw my clothes in the wash. Make good use of my time. Multi-task. I found a pair of shorts and another T-shirt to wear while mine were in the laundry.

An image of the Marine Corps logo appeared on the screen. Below was a prompt for a password. Could it really be so easy? I typed in “Semper Fidelis” and hit the ENTER key. The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor wiggled back and forth, sort of like someone shaking their head ‘No’. “Hmmm,” I said. I took a swig of water and tried “Semper Fi”, with the same result. Okay, so it wasn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped.

Not ready to give up just yet, I tried “Do or die.” Again, nothing. Heavy sigh. “I really thought it would be Semper Fidelis,” I said. Then, I wondered, ‘What does that mean, anyway?’ I leaned into the computer, and typed “Always faithful”. With a sly grin, I hit ENTER. And yet again, no luck.

“Aw, Come On!” I yelled. I slammed my fist on the counter. “Son of a bitch!”

79

I was in over my head with trying to guess the password, so I decided to examine the copies I’d run off at the library. Some of the suggestions included street address, birthday, interests and hobbies, and so on. With time, I could probably crack it, but damn, that eagle, globe and anchor logo just wouldn’t let go. Then, I returned to the keyboard and typed “Always Loyal,” and just like that, I was in.

I remembered my clothes in the washer, and took a break from the computer to transfer them to the dryer. I was tempted to call it a night, but I’m not one to quit when I’m on a roll, so I went back to the computer and began perusing files. It was like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There were bank accounts – both domestic and offshore – and passwords. Stored, ironically, under a file named accounts. Everything I needed.

The mail, the plaques on the wall, the checking and savings accounts at the local bank accounts were all in the name of Michael Welch. It became obvious to me that Jared Mulligan was not the real name of the man I had killed on the island. Which begged the questions, who was Michael Welch, and why did he carry fake ID?

He had accumulated a great deal of wealth, at least by my standards. The big accounts, all in the name of Jared Mulligan, added up to something to the tune of about three million and change. Maybe more, if I kept digging. I bit my lower lip lightly, stared blankly at the computer screen. I was about to take another step that, once taken, I could not retrace.

Mulligan had spread his assets in numbered accounts around the world. He had substantial accounts in Switzerland, Luxembourg, the Caymans, and Singapore and smaller deposits in Barbados and Belize. Maybe the purpose was to diversify, spread it around so that all the eggs weren’t in one basket. Or, in one country. I now realized that Jared Mulligan was not your average Joe. He had money, yet lived modestly, by all indications, as Michael Welch.

I wanted to know how to access the money without drawing unwanted attention. Which is to say, I wanted to do it without drawing any attention at all.

“And how did you come into all this money, Mr. Welch?” I asked aloud in the empty room. “Or Mr. Mulligan? . . .  Whoever you are.”

I noticed a trend. When he travelled, he was Mulligan. In Messerton, he was Welch.

80

Ty Hamilton

Jared Mulligan had booked a cruise, according to a confirmation e-mail I was looking at. Not just any cruise. A thirty-six day cruise, leaving Tampa on the last Saturday of August. I suppose even a hit man needs a vacation now and then. Ports of call – Panama Canal; Los Angeles; Tahiti; Fiji and eventually ending up in Sydney, Australia on a repositioning cruise. Once there, the ship and crew would serve the Down Under market with cruises to places like New Zealand, New Caledonia, Vanuatu and Fiji, as well as other Australian ports.

I’d had a full day, and I was ready to sleep, but the thought of lying in Mulligan’s, or rather, Welch’s bed, was something I was not yet ready to embrace, so I sat in the recliner, sipping on a beer that I’d taken from the refrigerator. I doubted Mulligan would mind, him being dead and all. I kept turning it over in my mind how I could have better handled the incident with the sheriff. There was no way I could have anticipated what happened. And if he hadn’t been hiding something himself, if he’d been a good cop instead of a dirty cop, none of it would have happened. It was all on him. Still, I felt a sense of failure for not having taken control of the situation.

A two-hour documentary on World War II was running on the television. Somebody should tell the folks at the History Channel that we all know by now who won that war, and we’d like to move on and learn about something else now. But, there is no better sedative than a two-hour documentary on World War II. I closed my eyes and thought of Dianna as I fell asleep in the recliner.

When I awoke early the next morning, I thought about trying to go back to sleep, but I resisted the urge. I was ready to start my new life. Jared Mulligan had given me a gift, and I was not going to let it go to waste. I’d already squandered one life. I had a lot to do. Choices to make. But first, coffee and a bagel with cream cheese.

I had just poured the coffee when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on the microwave as I shuffled to the front door – 7:41 was a little early for visitors, wasn’t it? Maybe not in the Midwest. Farm country, even in town.

81

Ty Hamilton

I had no idea who it could be. One of Mulligan’s relatives? A friend? The cops? I pondered the notion of not answering the door, but decided against it. The house was lit up. It was obvious that someone was at home. I peeked through a slit in the blinds at the living room picture window. All I could see was the top of a head of platinum blonde hair. I took a deep breath, opened the door partially. “Yes?”

I guessed the woman at the doorstep to be several years older than me, but still quite attractive. She got right to the point. “Where is Mr. Welch?” “He’s not here at the moment,” I replied, a bit too quickly. Immediately I regretted it. This woman might figure out that something was not right and call the police I could be in jail before dinnertime.

“You must be his . . . friend,” she said. “Mr. Welch told me all about you.” It sounded like an accusation, perhaps a judgment. “He said that you might be coming here soon.”

“Really?” I said, hoping that she would bring me up to speed on this friend, whoever he might be. I waited. And waited. Finally, to break the silence, I said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name . . . Whom should I say came by to see him?”

“Rhonda,” she softened her expression and smiled. “Rhonda Gates,” she said.

I offered my hand. She hesitated, then shook it. “Where is Mr. Welch?” she repeated. “It’s important that I speak with him.”

“He’s out of town on business, Ms. Gates.” I knew that to be true. Of course, he had been killed on the job, but I saw no need to mention that minor detail. “I’m house sitting while he is away.” Again, a mistake. Too much information, and possibly contradictory to what she expected, or maybe had been told previously.

“Oh!” her head snapped back slightly, as if surprised. “Really?” Apparently, I failed to avoid raising suspicion. She raised an eyebrow.

I tried to slide the door shut, saying, “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

She put her hand on the door and leaned forward as if she wanted to come inside. “His rent is due today. And he promised that he would serve as a judge for the Miss Polecat pageant. That’s this coming Thursday! What am I supposed to do? He said he would be a judge!” Only then did she notice my bandage. “What happened to your arm?”

Before I could formulate a response, she went on, “I was Miss Polecat, back in 1970!” It was impossible not to detect the pride that she felt in the telling of it. “I was 26 years old. I had just finished college and gotten my teaching certification. I was engaged at the time to a young man who was overseas. Viet Nam.” She sighed heavily. “But he never came home.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Shit happens.” She shrugged, brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You can fill in for him.” It was more a directive than a request.

“Fill in?”

“I’ll put you down to take his place as judge.”

“Whoa, wait … I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It will only take up a couple hours of your time. The pageant is Thursday at 7 o’clock. You need to be there by Six.”

“Ummm … Okay, I guess …”

“Here’s the itinerary,” she stuck an envelope toward me, through the narrow opening in the doorway. “It gives you a schedule … everything that you need to know.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said. What was I thanking her for? I didn’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

She started to go, then hesitated. “Your name,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I never did get your name.” She said. “I’ll need it for the program.”

“Program?”

“For the pageant. We always like to acknowledge the judges by including their names on the programs that we pass out to the audience. It goes to the printer tomorrow morning.”

“Just call me …” I hesitated a second, thinking. “TC,” I said, using the first and middle initials from my recently abandoned previous life. At least that way I could keep it straight.

“What’s that stand for?”

“Hmmm?”

“I assume TC’s not your actual name. What does it stand for?”

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, giving her my initials like that. Especially if she was going to print my name. Quit being so paranoid!

“Curtis,” I said. “T. Curtis.” I brought a hand up to the side of my mouth and leaned toward her conspiratorally, “I just go by TC. So if you’ll just print it that way, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.” There, problem solved. I’d managed to maintain an abundance of caution without being overly paranoid. I mean, really, would anyone read Tyler Curtis on the Miss Polecat pageant program and say, ‘Hey! Wasn’t that fellow they’re looking for over in Indiana named Tyler Curtis Hamilton? I didn’t think so.

“Okay, TC. Thank you for helping us with the pageant. One other thing,” she hesitated, just a second or two, then continued, I want you to know that I will be sure to include you in our prayer circle this morning. The Lord still works miracles every day, you know. Not just in the olden Bible times.”

I had no clue what this old bat, this former Miss Polecat, was talking about. I just assumed she was grateful to have a judge for the pageant. “That’s very kind of you,” I said, smiling as I closed the door.

82

The doorbell rang again. Rhonda Gates. Again. “Hello,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Sorry to keep bothering you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?” I said, “Was there something else?”

“Well, I know it’s nothing to do with you, but Mr. Welch usually has his rent check for me on the first of the month, and here it is the second already . . . so I was wondering if maybe he had left it with you to pass along to me?”

“Rent?”

“Yes,” she said. “I own this house. He likes to pay cash.” She leaned in, conspiratorally, and said in a hushed tone, “which is just fine by me, if you know what I mean.” She put a hand to her mouth, as if to stop herself before she said too much. “You’re not with the IRS, are you?” she giggled.

I thought it might be fun to mess with her. “No. Illinois Department of Revenue,” I said, with no hint of amusement in my voice or expression.

Rhonda Gates gasped. “Oh my! I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea. I . . . I . . . I certainly didn’t meant to imply that I . . .”

“Relax, Ms. Gates,” I said with a smile. “I’m just goofing with you.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she let out her breath in relief. “My God, but you scared me. Don’t ever do that again to an old lady.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “But no, I haven’t seen any cash lying around.”

“He always puts it in an envelope. I don’t suppose you’ve seen one anywhere around have you?”

“No,” I shook my head, “Can’t say that I have.”

Rhonda Gates stiffened. Sniffed. “I see. Well, then if you speak to him remind him that his rent is past due.”

83

Ty Hamilton

I don’t know what came over me. I needed to get moving, get out of town as soon as possible, but within seconds of Rhonda Gates leaving, I became immobilized. Maybe it was PTSD after having a couple different people—professionals both—try to kill me. Maybe it was the whole changing identity thing. Or maybe it was grief for the loss of my old life. Of all things, I faced indecision over the request to serve as a Miss Polecat judge on Thursday evening.

Maybe I could stay a few days and do the Miss Polecat pageant thing, I supposed. It might not be so bad. Probably wouldn’t lead to disaster, but then again, you never know. In a small town like Messerton, everyone knows everyone, and people like Rhonda Gates made it their business to know everything about everyone. And tell everyone else about it. She made me nervous. Not to mention, I had just killed a sheriff from Indiana, and I kind of wanted to get the hell out of there before someone found the body.

I felt a tightness in my chest, and my breath was shallow, rapid. I didn’t think it was a heart attack. The pressure in my head was so great it felt as if it might explode. Without willing myself to do it, I closed my eyes and held them tightly shut. I’d had this before, many times. And then, when I opened them again, the blindness had come over me. Again.

84

It had been a while—months, maybe—and I’d pretty much forgotten about it. Figured it to be just one of those things. Periphery vision loss can be caused by any one of a number of things, ranging from migraines to glaucoma to a brain tumor, and anything in between. Back when it was happening more frequently, I did a little research and came to the conclusion that most likely I was experiencing ocular migraines. They always happened when I was under a lot of stress. Since I refused to entertain the thought of a brain tumor, I chose ocular migraines.

It was my leg to fly, and everything was progressing normally. The weather was good, and we had just begun our descent from cruising altitude. Without warning, I began experiencing what I guess you would call tunnel vision. My peripheral vision clouded up, all around, with just a small circle in the center where I could actually see. Kind of like on television or in the movies when they are showing a dream sequence.

The little tunnel through which I could see kept getting smaller and smaller. And the airport was getting closer and closer. “Ed,” I said to the first officer, “I’m not feeling well. Why don’t you do this landing?” And at that moment, I had this feeling, like the future had been changed. Not maybe in a big way, but maybe like we both were going to live because Ed did the landing instead of me. I’ve only had that feeling a few times in my life. So, Ed did the approach and landing and I read the checklists.  Actually, I held the checklist up and verbally recited from memory. The landing was uneventful, and I called in sick for my outbound flight.

I was under a tremendous amount of pressure, so I figured it was just a matter of time until everything cleared up. It did, for a while. Then it came back again. It was intermittent, completely unpredictable. It happened a couple of times when I was flying my seaplane, and there was no first officer there to land it for me.

The doorbell rang again. I glanced at the clock. My vision had returned, enough so that I could read it. Had I really been sitting there for two hours?