A Fool for Lesser Things

Chapter One

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They say you can't go home again.  As the Greyhound bus cruised toward the southwest on the Kansas highway, Johnny Lockwood thought about the many meanings of home, and threw in for good measure all the other places that had been denied to him for ten years.  He remembered a song about a freed prisoner coming home, with yellow ribbons symbolizing acceptance by his family.  But this wasn't music land, it was reality, and Johnny knew that in returning to Logan Point he was headed for cold stares, turned backs and unrenewed friendships.  Silently or vocally,  most of them would despise him – how else could a small town be expected to treat a murderer?

He sank a little deeper into his seat and reminded himself of one of his cardinal rules of survival.  Other people were privileged to heap upon him any term of scorn or filth that they might wish, but he was never to degrade himself.  They could call him ugly names behind his back, but no one could truthfully say he was a killer.  He had to respect himself, and reach within himself for the strength he would need in the days ahead.

I'll lead two lives,  he had told his cellmate the day before.  By day, a compliant ex-con who keeps his nose clean.  By night, a vindicator who sniffs every rag for the least trace of guilt.

Ten years, Johnny thought as he gritted his teeth and watched farming country speed by the window.  He glanced at the gray-haired man next to him, who was wrestling with a pillow.

I didn't know how I'd feel today,  Johnny told the man casually.  I didn't know if I'd be leaping with joy or loaded down with bitterness.  Now that day's here, and I'm not sure what I feel.  Cold, maybe.  Like ice covering a volcano.

The man by the window put away his paperback on the Civil War, hugged his pillow and closed his eyes.  When I went to bed last night, I didn't know how I'd feel either.

Johnny waited a few moments then responded quietly,  But I had that conversation with myself ten years ago.

The bus rolled on.  In many ways it was a typical Friday in May.  He noticed that spring flowers were dotting the eastern Kansas hills.  It was important to him now, because at last he could pick those flowers, smell them and share a room with them.  He remembered vividly, twelve years ago before disaster struck, his girlfriend would take a dandelion and brush it gently across his nipples.  It felt wonderful.  He regretted not telling Linda how great it felt. 

As the trip continued in relative silence, he pulled out three of his most precious possessions and carefully examined them.

The first was a playing card, the jack of diamonds.  It had become his personal card, and a way of saying who he was. For Johnny, it was a harbinger of better things to come.

The second was an ink drawing of a javelin, with a bare arm launching the weapon.  It was a going-away present from his friend and protector, a prison guard who had made life there a bearable misery.

The third notable item was a letter from Johnny's grandfather, sent ten years ago.  His grandfather had been so ill with a stroke that he could not write the words himself, but had a family friend type them and mail the message.  A week later, Johnny's grandfather died.  Johnny's best guess was that there was some type of family document buried near his grandparents' house,  but to this day the location of any old material, if that is what it was, remained shrouded in mystery and confusion.  Johnny reviewed the brief words one more time.

WHAT YOU NEED  –  SEVENTEEN  FEET 

NORTH – STRAIGHT OUT FROM PORT – 

UNDER GARD BY THE SIBYL OR JOUST. 

After ten years, the words still made no sense.  Perhaps they were nothing but a jumble of worthless thoughts.  Still, there would be time to look into old riddles.  There would be time for a long list of things.

Only one freight stop was scheduled, and the bus coasted quietly to a halt at the filling station south of Osawatomie.  A few moments after the driver stepped out to check for freight, another man in a rust-colored suit and bronze tie climbed the steps and stood at the front, staring down the aisle.  The newcomer was in his forties, well-groomed in appearance and precise in manner.

Johnny closed his eyes, wondering if the stranger's unusual arrival would slow the trip.  Hopefully the man would go back out the door and disappear.

Pardon me ... are you Johnny Lockwood? 

Johnny opened his eyes to the realization that the man was bending down, only two feet away, and speaking in a whisper. 

Yeah.  Why?

I'm Vance Tyler.  Sorry about the abruptness, but I have to ask you to trust me.  Here's my identification and a letter from your aunt.

Johnny looked at the license that said something about a private investigator, and the handwritten letter that reflected the unique cursive of his great-aunt.  Uh ... yeah ... Aunt Camilla said she'd have some help lined up in Logan Point, but I thought she meant the job with Mr. Sendle.

No, she meant me, and we've got to jump out of harm's way right now, in order to secure Sendle's job later.  There's a reception party for you in Logan Point, and it's been getting nastier for the past hour.  An angry confrontation is no way for you to get things started.

You mean ... a mob?

Close to it.  Vance looked behind him, then back to Johnny.  My car's here.  Please trust me.  We need to scoot on off this bus.

Johnny hesitated, looking the man over.  I'll trust you, Mr. Tyler.

They removed a small bag from the overhead rack, and headed for the front of the bus just in time to encounter the returning driver.

Vance asked Johnny, Do you have anything in the bay?

No, nothing but this.

All right.  Driver, I'm escorting somebody off your bus.

Passengers don't get off here.

They do when circumstances demand it.  Vance showed his identification again.  I assure you, in a few short minutes you'll be happy not to have this passenger.

While this exchange occurred, Johnny stood in the aisle.  He had time to glance at the rearview mirror in the middle of the windshield. Hanging down from the mirror were fibrous strands of a blue rope.  It reminded him of an article in one of his psychology texts.  The piece described a village where a small rope was held to be a source of supernatural strength.

They left the bus and Vance led the way to a dark red Ford Taurus parked on the shady side of the gas station.  They both climbed inside.

All I had,  Vance said, was a snapshot of you that went back some five years.  Your hair was shorter and your face was painfully young.

If it's a prison photo, I'd like you to throw it away.

I think I understand that.  Vance started the engine.  But I hope you're not planning on throwing away that college degree you earned.

I won't do that.  Mr. Tyler, nobody spoke against me at my parole hearing.  How come they're fired up now?

Word got out that you're coming back to Logan Point.  Vance focused his green eyes on Johnny.  You know how people are.  I gather you've ... studied that for several years.

You know a lot about me.

Your great-aunt does.  She hired me to make sure that things go smoothly.  However,  Vance said as he backed the Ford into the open, I doubt that things will go all that smoothly in Logan Point.

I know they won't.  You don't think I'm witless enough to come back here looking for a leisurely life and calm haven, do you?

No-o-u.  Vance replied, drawling the word into more of an observation than a direct answer.  The Ford gained the highway and picked up speed.  The parole board bought the story that you've got a job and a house here, while none of the victim's relatives live anywhere near Logan Point.  But, people have memories, and feelings persist.

That's right.  Johnny tried to find a comfortable adjustment for the passenger's seat.  Feelings linger, and they don't always weaken with age.  With a hard and deep frown, he told his body to relax.  There's something we ought to get clear, Mr. Tyler.

Actually, two things.  The first is, I'd just as soon not be Mr. Tyler.  That kind of thing puts me in a rocking chair on the porch of the old folks' home.  You see, I turned forty-eight this past Saturday, and I'd prefer to hold on to the half ounce of youth that I still have.  So here's my proposal.  You call me Vance and I'll promise not to call you 'young man.' 

I'd like that.

And what were you going to say before I sidetracked you?

Mr. ... uh, Vance ... look, you don't have to believe me, but ... I didn't kill Jacob Millbrook.

They rode on in silence for a minute.  Vance casually adjusted his sun visor.  I've spent the past week or so doing some reading and some rummaging, while your aunt got your grandparents' old place fixed up for you.  I don't think you killed him.  And my best guess is that your central reason for returning to Logan Point ... is to search for the person who did.

"That person has raped ten years out of my life.  Johnny clenched his right fist then slowly released it, hoping Vance had not seen the gesture.  Eleven, if you count the trial and all."

I suspect there's no other way to size it up.  And if it makes any difference to you ... Johnny ... I know it's a substantial burden to carry.

Thank you.  Another minute went by.  It's like this, Vance ... if you're here to lend a hand with the crucial work that's ahead of me, I welcome that.  But if you're here to stop or limit me, then we've got a lion-size roadblock. 

Vance ran a finger over his eyebrow.  I never was one to stand in front of a freight train with ten years of momentum propelling it.  And Camilla's no simpleton, either.  So we're on your side.

I appreciate that.

We got word this morning,  Vance added a few minutes later, that your mom and stepfather will be flying in tomorrow.  I gather that she travels extensively.

Now she does.  God, her life has changed a lot.  For which I'm glad.  Otherwise, it would've always been linked and tied to mine.

They passed a sign indicating a state park, and Johnny stared at the row of trees that curved off toward a picnic area.

I remember this place.  We're only two miles out of town.

Something like that.  Johnny, there's one more thing.

Yeah?

We may never find the murderer.  But if we do, I won't be a party to killing or injuring him.  And I won't turn my back while you do something.

Vance, in my dreams, I have chased that person, and tackled him, and ... maybe you can visualize it.  Anyway, that's in my dreams.  I don't live in my dreams, and if I can't restrain my emotions then I don't deserve to be out of prison.  Word of honor, Vance ... I want to do it legally.  As I've come to look at the world, a vindicator is someone who makes wrong things right.  Two murders could never credibly make a right. That wouldn't work.

My view is much the same.

On the north edge of Logan Point was a strikingly high hill, unusually tall for the surrounding countryside.  As Vance reached the portion of highway that bypassed the hill, he signaled a left turn.

It's my surmise that if we scurry up this steep grade, we can see what kind of reception the town rowdies are scheming to give you.

The Taurus threw gravel left and right as the car bucked and swayed its way to the top.

They call this place the Promontory,  Johnny ... or so I'm told.  Popular with the high school kids at night.  You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?

A trace of a smile crossed Johnny's face.  I used to take Linda up here in my convertible.  First kiss ... right up here.

Vance parked at the top.  Johnny hopped out and walked to the rosebushes near the railing.  We'd park over there, because it's got the leafiest cover.  He soaked in the panoramic view of Logan Point, spread out below.  Then I was on trial, and she didn't even want to talk to me.  A misty reverie filled his blue-gray eyes. At least she wrote me once.  To tell me that she was getting married.

Vance carefully focused the binoculars.  There comes the bus.  We were never more than a couple of minutes ahead of it.

Johnny watched the miniature people far below.  Thirty or forty in number, they moved in a spiral manner, shifting their mass toward the front door of the bus.  Their signs seemed tiny and insignificant.  What's their plan?  Make sure I'm on the bus, and bash my brains out?

Bigots usually don't have plans ... they just react.  Vance took  a step toward Johnny and handed over the binoculars.  I've got two ace  helpers down there, and we'd better check with them.

Johnny scanned the scene below.  The crowd is lamenting my absence.  As he scouted the surrounding area, a blur of silver caught his eye.  Hey ...

Something new?

After examining a rooftop for several seconds, he handed the binoculars back to Vance.  The top of the yellow building.  Maybe I'm crazy, but it looks like a rifleman in a silver-gray jumpsuit.

Vance studied the rooftop.  I'd say the same ... a rifleman.  He lowered the binoculars.  Now do you see why I wanted you off that bus?

Yeah.  I can work that out.

Vance used his cell phone to tell his associates the location of the gunman.  Try scaling that fire escape.  Johnny and I will skirt past the crowd and meet you on the rooftop.

Johnny listened to this and frowned.  Is that wise?  The guy in the silver outfit has a gun.

So do I. 

Chapter Two

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It seemed to Johnny that their descent off the Promontory was more controlled than the climb up.  Vance braked carefully, keeping the Ford at a steady gait.

Looks like you know how to go down a steep hill,  Johnny said.

Never get in a hurry and break your neck,  Vance replied dryly.  Once back on the highway he drove southward on the main highway, turned left onto Heather Street and then north on Navigator.  He found a place to park in the small lot south of the yellow building.  In going this route he completely bypassed the crowd by the bus station.

Vance cut the engine and made cellular contact with one of his assistants.  Are you on the roof?

I'm here.

Any sign of a gunman?

Nada.

We'll climb up the fire stairs and join you for some searching.  With one last check for potential attackers, Vance slid out of the car.  Johnny followed, taking only a moment to note that they were parked just south of Brushwood Street, which seemed deceptively urban because of the three-story buildings on its south side.

Once on top of the flat-roofed structure with faded yellow paint, Johnny, Vance and his two assistants had a wide view of other roofs and the street below.  It was plain that the gunman had chosen the tallest building in the area.

The wolf made it back to his den,  Vance said in a somber tone. Then, brightening, he made quick work of introductions.

Johnny, these are two more guys on your aunt's payroll.  The secure grip that helped us up over the edge belongs to Nari Montez.

Thanks for your help.  I'm Johnny Lockwood.

Call me Nari.  My job is to keep you alive, and maybe help out in a few other ways.

Johnny liked the muscular young Latino's self-confidence and amicable smile. 

My other helper is Chayton Wambee,  Vance said.

Johnny shook hands with the fortyish man and repeated his first name slowly.  Chay-tuhn?

"Close enough.  It's like Clayton but with more chuh at the start."

It was a softer voice coming from a more laid-back man, obviously Native-American.

Vance turned his attention to the nearest rooftop within possible jumping distance.  Maybe he could've sprinted on over, and down.

Chayton stepped closer to Vance and carefully gauged the leap it would have required.  Too far.  I'd say he took that trap door over there, and went through this building.

Carrying a rifle?

Maybe yes, maybe no.  You think we should look for him?

Vance shook his head.  I don't have that much rapport with the sheriff just yet.  No sense stepping on his turf.  Walking briskly, he moved to the west side of the roof, and gazed at the crowd around the bus, half a block away.  A mob down there, and a sniper up here.  You could've died today, Johnny.

"When you're in prison, you've got a chance to die every day."

After a few moments Nari asked, What next?

Vance motioned toward the street below.  I'll take Johnny home.

Home was a private parcel of land on the southern edge of Logan Point.  In their time, Johnny's grandparents had been one step away from wealthy, by rural Kansas standards.  But the money had been steadily slipping away, and after his grandfather's death almost half of the property, known as the Baker farm, was sold to pay bills.

Vance turned south onto Atchison Street, which soon began to narrow.  So tell me how you're kin to the Bakers.

On my mother's side of the family.  My maternal grandmother and Aunt Camilla were sisters, and they began life as Bakers.  It's a very long-lived name around here, but all of the male Bakers are gone.

The Ford Taurus moved slowly along what was now a winding lane.

That's your great-aunt's new house, coming up on the left.  It's undeniably an enormous house, especially if only one lady is going to stay in it.  I think Camilla told me that she's sixty-six.

That's right.  The youngest of three, and her extended family is essentially down to my mom and me.

I gather that her second husband left her a sizable amount of funds.  She bought back the full acreage, and there's been a flurry of remodeling to get your grandparents' cottage ready for you.

I appreciate her kindness.  When her husband died last October, it got a lot of wheels turning.

Do you want to see your aunt's new house first?

No,  Johnny replied as he closed his eyes.  Take me to the end of this lane.  Past the carriage house to the old garden.  I want to look at what's left of the peach orchard, and then walk into that room of mine in my grandparents'  place.  Then we can go visit Aunt Camilla.

Vance's car rolled past Camilla's new house on the east.  By now Atchison Street had ended and they were driving down a private lane that had recently been asphalted.  The road curved toward the west, and they passed the old carriage house where Vance had set up his operations.  On the right side was the longtime home of his grandparents, which for convenience was often called the Dorell house, taking its name from Johnny's maternal grandfather, Theon Dorell. 

The lane ended at a turn-around section, and Vance parked there.

All I can see is brush and weeds,  Vance remarked.  Would you care to tell me what was once here?

Johnny looked westward, from right to left.  "Yeah.  That pile of wood way up in the north corner was once a barn.  I played there when I was twelve and thirteen, and took some friends there.  Uh ... let's just say that there are things I could do in a barn when no one was looking that I couldn't do anywhere else.  End of comment, confession withheld.

"South of that is the old garden.  Then, right in front of us would have been the ancient house that my folks called the Civil War house.  It was a burned-out ruin then, and it's a weed patch now.  Looking past that, there ought to be a peach orchard here.  Maybe a few apple trees.  Something should be here ... not just weeds."

You want to walk up to your grandparents' place?  I understand it's yours.

I don't know about that.  Aunt Camilla can tell us.  Yeah, let's walk up.

Despite the tightness of his new shoes, Johnny walked up to the cottage.  He detected fresh paint, new carpeting and repairs on a wall.

He pointed.  "Air conditioning.  Now that is one hundred percent new."

Stepping inside, Johnny could not keep from recalling the many times his grandparents had been there, reading, cooking, doing things that they usually stopped doing, for him.

There's my old room ... my home away from home.  Man it looks little.  I remember it as larger.

You were smaller then.  That's the way people remember things from childhood.  Big then, not so big now.

A wave of emotion swept over Johnny.  I wish they could be here. Even one of them would help.  He brushed a tear from his eye.  Never mind.  Let's go talk to my aunt.

As they walked back to the dark red Taurus, Vance said, Tell me something about your dad.  I understand he had some health problems. How old were you when he left?

Twelve.  He went to California to make his fortune.  He died there when I was sixteen ... fortune unearned.

Johnny got into the car and looked at Vance.  There should've been a family here.  A family of my own with a wife and kids and a future.  Maybe it's only in my mind for the time being ... but I'm going to create something worthwhile out of this gloom-ravaged void, or die trying.

They drove to the new house, stopping only a few feet short of the magnificent two-story residence that Johnny had seen only in photos. The elaborately decorated colonnade and twin porches could best be described as rococo or Old South.  The pale lime paint was fresh and sparkling, and the smell of spring lilac drifted from an open bay window.  As he stepped onto the porch, the deep thump that echoed back to him suggested quality woodcraft.

Aunt Camilla rushed out the front door and threw her arms around him. He's here!  Lord have mercy, he's here!

Johnny hugged his aunt.  The parole board had a little mercy, too.

Finally she stepped back, with her hands on his upper arms.  Oh, Johnny, you look so fine!  I expected wrinkles and a worn-out face, but you'd pass for twenty-five anywhere!  Isn't he well-favored, Vance?

Father Time overlooked him, Mrs. Bronson.

Come in and see this new house I'm building.

She started to pull him along, but stopped when he reacted to a stab of pain in his right foot.

Wow ... these shoes are hurting.  I need to quit walking.

We'll send someone into town for some soft slippers.  And tomorrow, we'll have to buy you a ton of things ...

Johnny limped to the first chair he could find.  Maybe if I could soak in a tub for a while ...

We'll consent to that.  As they paused a moment, Camilla gave a brief recital of her accomplishments.  Two bathrooms finished, and three to go.

She turned her attention to Vance.  Trouble?  Like you thought?

Scads of it.  I'll fill you in while Johnny soaks.

After a half hour in the tub, Johnny received a pair of foam slippers  courtesy of Camilla's only full-time servant, Helga Yorgensen.  Helga had a pleasant smile  and a  Scandinavian accent.

I need one whole night to rest and sleep off prison,  Johnny told his aunt as the two of them enjoyed steak and baked potatoes for supper. Then, a few new clothes, and I'll be ready to visit with Mom and Mr. Whitfield ... Elston, I should say.  First names all around.

He's been very considerate of your mother's needs.  They insisted that I apologize for them ... their schedule with the university wouldn't get them back any sooner than tomorrow.

It's all right.  By tomorrow I'll be walking again.  Johnny's eyes roved from one expensive piece of furniture to another.  Aunt Camilla, this is a beautiful house.

Johnny's great-aunt offered a long-suffering smile.  The late Mr. Bronson knew that our time together was conditioned on his providing a nest egg for my golden years.  I'll just say that I was tired of blue milk and ready for cream.

He was a little older than you, wasn't he?

Twenty years older.  Take my advice.  Marry someone young and pretty.

I think everyone like that is already married.  He cleared his throat.  Aunt Camilla, will you work with me in wiping away the fraud and lying, to locate Jacob Millbrook's killer?

Johnny, for over forty years I've had my nose to the grindstone, glued to husbands who cared more about their next meal than my happiness. And now, finally, I've had eight jubilant months of financial freedom.  There's no sharper ache in my heart than my failure to help you and your mother, and that ache has continued much too long. Yes I'll help.  We've got worlds to conquer.  And if there's any way on earth to find the depraved conniver who wronged you so evilly, Vance and you and I will do it.

I  knew you felt that way.  I just wanted to hear it in your own words.

And while we're talking, we can conclude some important things. For openers, you recall from my letters that I bought back the seventeen acres your grandmother had sold.

Yes.

That land is titled in your name.  You own the western half with the carriage house, the old cottage and at least fifty defunct fruit trees.

Johnny's eyes widened.  I own all of that?

"It's completely yours.  I'll get you the paperwork, and