WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 17)

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104

Ty Hamilton

The next day, somewhere off the coast of Central America, I was seated at breakfast with a group of people, ranging in age from thirty to early seventy, give or take. We did intros, and I was glad to see that most of them wore lanyards with nametags. Apparently, they were all part of a group of writers who had signed up for the month-long cruise. This piqued my interest. “So, you’re all taking a vacation together, as friends?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” one of the women, a plump forty-something brunette with a pleasant smile—Courtney, according to her nametag—answered. “This is the first time most of us have met one another.”

“It’s a floating conference slash workshop,” said the man sitting next to me. His nametag identified him as Alex. I guessed him to be in his thirties, the youngster of the group. The horn of a wooden cane was draped over the back of his chair. He wore a floral shirt and khaki shorts. I tried not to stare at his prosthetic leg. “We attend some presentations,” Alex said. “Early morning, and again in the evening. And work on our novels the rest of the day.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I always wanted to do something like that.”

“Why not start now?” one of them said.

“You mean I could join your group, attend the presentations?”

“Well, not officially,” an older, slender woman with a prominent nose, no nametag, and an air of authority said. “Registration closed two months ago, well before the cruise began. But you can of course start writing at any time in your life. And we would be glad to share our thoughts with you if you have any questions.”

“I’ll give that some thought,” I said.

105

Ty Hamilton

And I did give some thought to the idea of becoming a writer. Now that I’d stepped out of Ty Hamilton’s life and into my new identity, I had plenty of time on my hands. Not to mention access to more money than I’d ever dreamed of having in the accounts Mulligan had so thoughtfully set up for me. I could reinvent myself. That was the whole idea to begin with, right?

Why not become a novelist? All I needed was a main character. A—what do you call it?—protagonist. And a villain. Gotta have a villain. And a plot. That’s all. Hero, villain, plot. I’d think about those things and jot down my ideas. After that, it was just a matter of sitting down at the keyboard for a few hours a day and typing. I read somewhere that Stephen King cranks out about a book a month, or something like that. How hard could it be?

But what would I write about? The only thing I know anything about is flying. Okay, that settled it. I would write about flying.

With regard to finding Mulligan’s mother’s maiden name, I tried searching online again. Figuring that regardless of which identity he used, Mulligan or Welch, the mother’s maiden name would stay the same. Why would anyone need to make up a new mother’s maiden name? I did a search on Michael Welch. There were several in the United States.

Long story short, I came up empty. I had nothing. Nothing but a hunch . . . What if Michael Welch’s mother’s maiden name was Mulligan?

I made the call. Answered Mulligan to the question. My hunch paid off. I told the credit card company I would be travelling, and would be transferring funds in a couple of days to cover charges in advance.

106

Ty Hamilton

The pain in my arm where the shotgun pellets had hit me was only noticeable when I thought about it. Or touched it. I had not done much of either for the past couple of days, and decided that I should check it again. Removing the bandage, I was thankful to see that it was healing quite nicely. I cleaned it out as much as I could, careful not to break open the scabs that had formed. I applied some dressing and rebandaged it. The wound was one of the few things that linked me to my old life.

I justified leaving my family by rationalizing that they wouldn’t miss me, considering the way they’d treated me the past couple years, and they would collect life insurance once I’d been declared dead.

I had done some research, and learned that, under Indiana common law, a person who has been missing for less than seven years is presumed to be alive. The person’s death is presumed to have occurred at the end of the seven year period unless there is evidence establishing that death occurred earlier. I didn’t care. Let them wait, after all they’d put me through. Or, should I say, after all they’d put Tyler Hamilton through. None of that mattered to me now any more than it would if a stranger had gone missing and was presumed dead. It was somebody else.

My family could file a petition for the court to make the determination that I had perished even though no body had been recovered and order the issuance of a presumptive death certificate. When the insurance paid off, Dianna could pay the mortgage and keep her stables. And Dallas Remington. It did not bother me that they would never know what had really become of me.

107

Ty Hamilton

Reposition Cruise Day 7

I’d been to L.A. probably a couple hundred times, conservatively estimating, during my flying career. I always liked it, but I could think of only one reason to disembark. I needed to find someplace to buy a new laptop and a USB wireless receiver.

I hired a cab, and made my purchases at an electronics store in a strip mall not far from the cruise center in San Pedro. I was getting more and more comfortable using Jared Mulligan’s credit cards. More comfortable being Jared Mulligan. There was one more thing to do before going back to the ship. Coming out of the store, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision, turned left, and walked half a block to a tattoo shop I’d noticed when the cab dropped me off.

The tattoo artist was hesitant. “You’re a marine?” she asked. “Aren’t you a little old?” She was early twenties, with at least a dozen tattoos and a pierced nose. I’ve never been into that, myself. Yet, here I was.

“Not me,” I said. “My nephew. We lost him last month. My sister asked me to do it to honor him.” I shrugged. “I love my sister, and I loved my nephew, so . . .”

“Okay, well,” she said, “What about your arm? It looks nasty. Maybe you should let it heal some more before you get the tat. What happened? Somebody shoot you?”

“Just a minor accident,” I said. “Skeet shooting with a friend. There was a new guy, a first-timer a few feet away. Apparently he needed some more instruction on firearm safety. It’ll be alright.”

“Just a minute, okay?” She went into the owner’s office without bothering to knock. A few seconds later, she was back. “My boss says it’s up to you.”

It was my first tattoo, and it hurt. Maybe because my arm was already sore from the buckshot wound, I don’t know. It just hurt. But now I looked enough like Jared Mulligan that no one would question.

The girl gave me some ointment and verbal instructions on how to care for the tattoo wound until it was completely healed. “Sorry about your nephew,” she said as I left.

In the cab, on the way back to the ship, it occurred to me that maybe it might not be such a good thing, this tattoo. Great time to think of that, eh?

The rest of the time in port I spent back in my cabin, copying files from the desktop computer and sending them to myself via e-mail, then downloading them on the new laptop. And, for fun, I began jotting down ideas for the novel I was going to write.

Using funds I had accessed from Mulligan’s accounts, I made the advanced payments on the credit card accounts. I was good to go.

Right on schedule, the ship left the dock. Next stop, Tahiti. I was no longer Ty Hamilton. From this moment on, I was Jared Mulligan. I opted for room service and turned in early.

108

Jared Mulligan  (Ty Hamilton)

It was a nice day, and I could think of nothing that appealed to me more than sitting poolside, soaking up some rays, and scribbling in my notebook with a bourbon and Coke on the table next to me. I’d been at it for a while, jotting down notes of ideas for my characters and some scenes I’d like to include. I still was struggling with a plot—something I would enjoy writing enough so that I would stick with it to the end, and would appeal to readers.

“Jared, I see you got a new tattoo.”

I stiffened, surprised by the observation from someone I’d only met once. Mid-thirties. Kind of cute, a bit on the plump side. Nice smile. I didn’t remember her name. Fortunately, she still wore her lanyard. “I uh, I’ve been meaning to do it for a while, Courtney.”

Her novelist’s curiosity was piqued. “You were a marine?”

I draped my towel over my shoulders to cover the tattoo. Before I could answer, we were joined by another member of the writing group. The guy with the cane and prosthetic leg. Alex, I think his name was. He shook my hand.

“Hey, what’s up?” he said, leaning in to give Courtney a peck on the cheek.

“Jared got a new tattoo,” Courtney said.

“Cool! Let’s have a look,” Alex said with a friendly grin.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just something I’ve been meaning to do for a while.”

“Oh, come on,” Alex said as he reached for the towel, moved it to expose the eagle, globe, and anchor.

His facial expression changed immediately. Gone was the friendly grin, replaced by piercing eyes and a clenched jaw. “Marine, eh? Well, Semper Fi!”

I shrugged.

“How come you didn’t get it before?” Alex said. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. Alex wasn’t about to let up. “If you really were in the Marines, why didn’t you get the tattoo back then?”

“Look, it’s not—”

Alex looked at Courtney. “Ever hear of the term, ‘Stolen Valor?’”

Courtney shook her head ‘no’.

“That’s when someone makes false claims about being a military hero,” Alex glared at me as he spoke. “They sit on their asses and watch the war on television, and I come home with this.” He rapped his prosthetic leg sharply with his cane. “What did Jared here tell you, Courtney? Was he a tunnel rat in Nam? Or, maybe pinned down behind enemy lines while on a special ops mission during Desert Storm?” Obviously, my tattoo had struck a raw nerve with Alex.

I could feel my face turning crimson with raw emotion. Anger at Alex for pointing out that I was a fraud. Humiliation and shame because I knew he was right. I said nothing. What could I say?

“He never said anything,” Courtney said, eyeing me suspiciously now.

Alex grabbed my drink and threw it in my face just as the ship photographer walked up and snapped a candid photo of what he had assumed to be a group of friends enjoying time together. “Oh,” the photographer said with his Aussie accent. “Quite sorry to have intruded.”

Alex turned toward him, then back to me. “To hell with the world!” he said, then left us there.

I looked at Courtney. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing. The photographer had already executed a hasty retreat. I excused myself and went back to my cabin.

109

Jared Mulligan

Four days after our departure from Los Angeles, we were roughly half-way to Tahiti. After the incident with Alex, I just wanted to be alone. I spent the day in my room or outside on my balcony, alternating between working on my story and surfing the Internet.

Online, I saw what I had been looking for.

Missing Fisherman Found Dead in Coldwater River

Page, Indiana —

A fisherman missing for three weeks has been found dead in the Coldwater River in Page County. Tyler Hamilton’s body was found in the water near the Willow Grove launch. A local resident had found Hamilton’s empty boat in the river two weeks ago, nearly a week after his disappearance. Hamilton’s body was spotted by a passerby from a bridge near the launch.

An initial investigation indicates the fisherman died of accidental drowning. No further information was immediately available. Page County Coroner Perry Winters said an autopsy confirmed initial indications that the death was due to accidental drowning.

The search for the fisherman was initiated after he failed to come home from a day on the river. Other fishermen found Hamilton’s truck and trailer, but no one around. The incident occurred about half a mile south of the Willow Grove boat launch on Coldwater River in Green Township.

The Page County Sheriff Department stated there were no indications of foul play.

They did an autopsy, but found no signs of foul play? Seriously? Mulligan hadn’t drowned, I’d shot him. How could they miss the gunshot wounds? Was the coroner incompetent, or had they found someone else? Someone other than Mulligan?

They identified the body as me?

And, why has there been no mention of the death of Sheriff Bridges? Hard to imagine they hadn’t found him by now.