Air Force Blues: The Sandeen Mysteries, Book Two

PROLOGUE

Dad, is Mom really mad at me? Alvin Templeton asked. A slim, dark-haired boy a couple inches shorter than average, he was standing beneath the early spring leaves of a huge elm tree that had been planted only a year after the founding of Ponca City, Oklahoma.

John Templeton stopped what he was doing. Still youthful in appearance—more than anything an older, larger copy of his son—he’d been loading the trunk of the family’s aging Ford sedan with a chilled watermelon, a triple-layer chocolate cake, and a huge pot of his wife’s famous baked beans. No, Al, she’s not mad at you. She’s disappointed you can’t be there for Aunt Wilma’s birthday, but she knows how important those college entrance tests are.

Al nodded. If you’re sure she’s not mad at me… But I could reschedule the tutoring session. I’m sure Tim Jackson wouldn’t mind.

John’s face tightened a bit. Al, Mister Jackson is a youth minister in our church, and I’d be happier if you don’t refer to him by his first name. It isn’t respectful. And it would be very rude to ask him to reschedule only an hour before your session. Mr. Jackson has probably planned his entire day—he is a busy man, you know—and he‘s doing you a big favor by reserving the time to help you with your math.

I understand, Dad.

Templeton turned to face his son. No, Al, I don’t think you do. You’re never going to be big and strong. What happened to you when that car hit you left a mark you’ll have to live with. You’re going to have to be someone with a good education—a manager or executive type—because you’re not going to be able to make your living with your back. You have this one shot. Oklahoma State University will award you a scholarship, but only if you score in the top ten percent on their standardized tests. Now, your school counselor says we don’t have any worry about your language skills or your science knowledge, but that B- in Trigonometry concerns me. It makes me think your math isn’t quite up to par. So, you need to study your butt off for the next six weeks, and ace those scholarship tests. Otherwise, I don’t know how to squeeze college tuition for you out of this family’s budget. I’m not a bank president, son. I sell appliances in a store I don’t own.

Al backed up a step and looked down at his shoes. I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t mean to disappoint you.

John laughed quietly. "Disappoint me? Alvin Templeton, you are my pride and joy. I couldn’t be more proud of you if I tried. I just want you to know the reality of the world you’re about to enter. I want what’s best for you, and I will move heaven and earth to try to get it for you… But no matter how hard I try, we’re not rich and we never will be. So jump all over this opportunity and never look back. Be the first in our family to get a college education, and be the man who gives orders instead of the one who takes orders."

I’ll do my best, Dad, Al said. Then he smiled in his odd, bashful way. And I’d better get going. I wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Jackson waiting. He started to leave, and then turned back for a second. Tell Mom I love her, and tell Aunt Wilma ‘Happy Birthday’. Okay?

You bet I will, John Templeton said, as his son limped toward the sidewalk and his appointment with the math tutor.

Are we ready to go? Elizabeth Templeton asked as she walked down the three wooden steps from the front porch.

Templeton looked with pride at his pretty wife and two beautiful daughters—all of them dressed up for a birthday party—and said, Hop in the car, ladies. We’re off for day of fun and frivolity.

Once everyone was aboard, John drove the ’54 Ford carefully. The clutch felt a bit soft and he didn’t want to get halfway to Nowata and have it start slipping. He made a mental note to adjust it while they’re at Wilma’s place, and another note to take the car by the Ford dealer the first of the week. He knew you could only adjust a clutch so many times before you had to replace it, and he figured he’d probably run out adjustments.

I saw you having what looked to be a very straight talk with Al earlier, Elizabeth said quietly. The two pre-teen girls in the back seat were occupied with playing a game of Old Maids, and she felt she could have a conversation with her husband about their son if she kept her voice down.

John nodded and kept his eyes on the road. I did. I told him the truth about how much he needed a scholarship, and he understood. He’s a good boy, Elizabeth, and he didn’t argue, or try to bargain. He took it like a man, and said he’d do what’s right.

She patted her husband on his shoulder. Now all we have to worry about is Mr. Jackson. Do you think he’s really that good as a math tutor?

He’s the one we can afford. He’s not charging us a cent. He says it’s all part of his ministry.

But do you trust him? He’s so young. How could he have gone through seminary when he doesn’t look that much older than Al?

Reverend Kilbourne vouches for him. If the Reverend says Mr. Jackson is a good math tutor, then who are we to argue? And maybe Mr. Jackson is one of those people who never looks his age.

I guess, she said, looking out the passenger window. It’s just that we’re putting all our eggs in one basket. If he’s not a good tutor, and Al doesn’t do well enough on those tests, he won’t get the scholarship.

So, he waits a year, and then tries again, John said after an audible sigh. With that bad leg, the draft’s not going to get him, and it might even be good for him to enter college when he’s a year older. He’s seventeen, but he doesn’t seem that old. Maybe it was spending all that time in the hospital, or maybe I’m worrying too much, but I just don’t feel that Al’s ready to leave home and enter college.

Elizabeth snapped a look at her husband. "Now’s a great time to tell me something like that. Are you expecting him to fail? And not get a scholarship?"

He looked her way and smiled. Not really. I was just being honest about how I see our boy. He’s naïve and defenseless—almost a babe in the woods, and I worry about him on a college campus with thousands of young people, some of whom do not have the best morals or motives.

Why, John, I never thought I’d—Look out! she screamed as a huge dump truck heading in the opposite direction on the narrow two-lane road suddenly swerved into their lane and collided with their fragile Ford at a combined speed of more than one hundred miles per hour. In the fraction of a second before he and his family perished, John Templeton thought, "NO. I’M NOT READY TO DIE!"

CHAPTER ONE

Are you Sandeen? the fellow asked as he stood across the counter from me. I didn’t recognize him as one of my regular customers.

I nodded. Yes. What can I do for you?

My name’s Bob Templeton. He looked around. Can we talk privately?

I pointed at an isolated table near the back of the store. Over there. Care for coffee?

Yes, he said. Black, no sweetener.

Coming right up. I poured two steaming mugs of Kenya AA, and headed toward the table.

He sized me up as I approached. When I placed the mugs on the table, he said, Hope you don’t mind my being blunt, but that’s quite a limp you have.

It only hurts when I walk, I said as I sat across from him.

That’s what they all say. He chuckled. Do you mind if I ask how you got it?

I got shot.

He nodded. So I’d heard. I thought writing books was a safe occupation.

As did I.

The conversation stalled for a moment and I checked Templeton with a bit of care. Looking to be in his fifties, he was about 5’ 10" with a good tan and sandy hair. He wore dark brown loafers polished to a high gloss, crisp tan slacks, a medium-green polo shirt that didn’t come from Penny’s, and a wristwatch that had to have set him back a couple grand. The rest of his appearance was equally immaculate. His hair was expensively cut and styled, he didn’t need a shave, and his hands were perfectly manicured. I had a feeling he was accustomed to having things his way.

How’s the coffee? I asked.

Good. Excellent, in fact. He paused. You’re probably wondering what all this is about.

I’m hoping you’re not from the IRS or a well-dressed bill collector.

He laughed. Rest assured, I am neither.

Still, you seem to know certain things about me, I replied. But I don’t know anything about you, other than your name.

Fair enough. He looked down at his hands for a moment. They say you’ve found people who’ve gone missing. Or, in the worst case, what happened to them.

A few times. But my batting average is a lot lower than you might think.

Nevertheless, my father disappeared on June 6, 1977. I’d like to know what happened to him.

I sat back in my chair. That’s more than thirty-six years ago.

That’s correct.

And you think that after all those years I might be able to find him.

He stirred his coffee and still didn’t look up. That’s my hope.

You know that after all this time it would be extremely unlikely.

Are you willing to hear me out?

I thought about it. Okay. What was his name?

He finally looked up. Alvin Edward Templeton.

I pulled my notepad and wrote it down. Where was he living when he disappeared?

On Forbes Air Force Base.

That took me a moment to process. Forbes was part of Topeka’s history. The base had been closed and then slowly turned into an industrial park. Your father was in the service?

He was a Master Sergeant in the Air Force.

And he disappeared.

Yes. The Air Force listed him as AWOL for a while, and then as a deserter.

I’m sure they searched for him with all due diligence. If they didn’t find him, what makes you think I can?

They say you’re good at what you do. And I’ve read a couple of your books.

I shrugged and waited.

He didn’t desert. I’m sure of it.

What did he do in the Air Force?

He stirred his coffee some more. I’m not sure. I think he was in intelligence.

Then we may have a problem here, I said, trying to slow things down a bit. Or maybe several. I’m not sure I want to spook around with the spooks, and your father’s file may still be an open case with some law enforcement arm of the government.

It’s not, he said, flatly.

How do you know that? I was hearing that little voice of caution going off in my head. As I remember, desertion is a crime without a statute of limitations.

I’ve had people look into it. His file got lost several years ago. Maybe by intent, maybe by neglect, but the Air Force has no record of my father ever serving. As far as they’re concerned, he never existed.

"I really don’t like the sound of that," I said.

"It’s the truth. There is no record of his service."

I took another sip before asking, How old were you when this happened?

I’d just turned seventeen.

Tough age. That must have been difficult for you.

He shook his head. Not as difficult as for my mother.

Tell me what happened.

They treated her badly. Once they changed my father’s status from AWOL to deserter, we were hustled off the base unceremoniously. My mother thought that being the wife of a high-ranking NCO gave her some status. When that was yanked away from her, she never recovered. She died shortly before my twenty-first birthday. They said it was cancer. I believe it was a broken heart.

Has your father been legally declared dead?