 
### Incident at Monticello

### Written by Scott D Wagner

### Published by Scott D Wagner at Smashwords

### Copyright 2011 by Scott D Wagner

### Cover by Kane Woodward

'Oh so good to be oh so young. _'_

"Apparitions. The boy has apparitions." I remember my Father saying this to my Mother.

"His name is Daniel." More memorable, my Mother correcting him. Correcting him, and not just for this misname, she did more often than he liked. My first remembrance of the-boy-having-apparitions, was when I was a child of six. Or so I've been saying for decades.

Apparition was an adult word and I didn't have a clue. I didn't know what it meant, but I did know it must be important. Why else would my Dad define the word to my Mom. "Apparition: A supernatural appearance of a person or a thing." Since husbands in the mid-twentieth century were known to be much smarter than their wives, Dad had to define it to Mom. And I did know that my Dad was just about the smartest man ever. With his definition, I didn't think my Mom thought him so smart. I don't know... there was just something in her look.

What my Dad was brilliantly defining, what my Mom wished he wasn't, and what I was so very young indifferent to, was that something happening within me was atypical of... well, of all normal kids. And this atypical didn't figure itself out with adulthood.

This 'something' I grew up with. I heard hushed hints that it was abnormal. But it all seemed mostly good to me. I mean there was some bad. As I aged into and through adulthood, others struggled with it. For me it was quite easy. My near half decade had made this 'something' just another daily task. As simple as waking, walking, and talking. Though I did at times have issues with waking walking and talking, but it wasn't always because of 'something'.

In fact the abnormal was at times very good to me. A Business major by education, and a Corporate Chef by task, I had successfully written and published two Historical books. I gave a special acknowledgement to 'something' in the jacket of my second book.

So... Until just recently when Rojer asked me to visit him at Monticello, it was all good. It was there, at the home of our third President, high upon a rural Virginia mountaintop, did it all unravel. 'Something', turned into something!

### 'Girls are Icky.'

This tale is about history. More so, it is the mystery of this history. It wasn't history yet as it was all just beginning in the small town of Sparta New Jersey. Small then, now... well you'll see. We were living just up the road from Upper Lake Mohawk. Along with my parents Gordon and Suzanne, there were three brothers and four sisters. We the Rengaws lived in a two story colonial at 21 Sagamore trail. This dead-end road was my field of glory and failure until the age of fifteen.

It was the spring of 1969. A brown paneled truck pulled into the sloping driveway. As a nine year old, I watched from atop The Boulder. The Boulder, one of those monuments that children set as a meeting place, was large in our front yard. The Boulder was painfully important to me then, and need-to-know for you now. It was the same rock that a year earlier I had broken my right wrist on. Or off, as the case is. I snapped both my Ulna and Radius. Fellow nine year old Lisa Zambrano convinced me that if I jumped off I could fly like Superman. I did not. Thus my mystery of girls began. A mystery that I still have not solved.

I impatiently watched as the driver unloaded three large boxes. Wheeling the three questions into the house and receiving a John Hancock from Mom, the bearer of gifts departed. Standing it no longer I leapt off of the rock; not breaking my arm. I ran into the front room hoping to see what gifts had been bestowed upon the Rengaws.

Being more impatient than most nine year olds, I continually got; "Daniel, you drive me crazy!" I never understood her words; I was too young to drive. I'll tell you what made her crazy. It was having eight children.

Receiving the cursory; "Calm down Daniel!" Daniel meant business. Good Daniel was Danny; bad Daniel was Daniel. A philosophy of speech that she passed onto my wife the day of our wedding.

What I discovered in the boxes aided my life on a historical path mapped out by providence. At this point it was providence. What I perceived as the ultimate collection of all knowledge bequeathed unto mankind, was brought into my life; the 1969 World Book Encyclopedia. (I didn't really talk like that. I was only nine.)

Most importantly to me, included was the 1968 Year in Review. The single Mile Stone that marked my year-long travel of historical knowledge gained. The 1968 Year in Review reinforced me. I read it cover to cover and placed all the great pictures next to the stories. From the pages dripped all of the stories of the year. All of the triumphs, many of the failures, some of the famous births, and horrifically the infamous deaths. Namely, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy.

But the stories of the Apollo Astronauts were the magnetic field that held my fingers to the book. I read them as if I was there with them. I was fascinated by the technology and the men. Those super-humans that were risking their lives to make President Kennedy's dream come true.

I watched from the floor of my parent's den as Apollo 11 was forever slowly descending closer and closer to the lunar landscape. With unbroken attention I watched as the Lunar Lander Eagle dropped into The Sea of Tranquility. "The Eagle has landed," with less than 30 seconds of useable fuel left. A few hours later, Neal Armstrong stepped off the landing pad onto the face of the moon. "One small step for man. One giant leap for mankind." Although some dispute those as his exact words, I know what I heard. And they will always be chosen words to me.

### 'I Struck'

The sun, without us noticing had slid from its nested tree-top perch to a place that warmed us with the hottest of the day. The stifling light of July was broken only by the creeping shade of a passing cloud. My memory had made permanent this day, this date. The Sea of Tranquility floated the Eagle exactly a year ago today.

Swiping the back of my hand across my glossed and dirty forehead, my head streaked with a thin dark paste. Becky (Lisa Zambrano) laughed, pointed, and said; "You look like an Indian Tom." Huck (Will Kengla) turned to me and silhouetted Becky's laugh.

Today being not different from many, the three of us had been living lives read. Our adventure began mid-morning at Upper Lake Mohawk. My red leaky flat bottom boat was chained and resting on the shallow bottom. Left unattended for two days, this was always its resting place. Our played River-boat needed to be pulled ashore, flipped, and made ready for our crossing to the Island. This was easily done by three undeniable explorers.

Our duties were unofficially assigned. Becky manned the two quart Eight O'clock Coffee can. The can had been pushed and stepped into a half circle. With this perfect tool, she was the First Mate of Bailing. Huck was Ensign of Left Oar. Becky silently scorned at his apparent out-ranking. It was just the way it was to Huck and I. A girl could not out-rank a boy. Tom, me, of course was the vessel's Captain. My wheel on the bridge, was right oar.

Huck and I rowed with rhythm and fortitude. It was a game of strength; which of us could pull the boat off of its centered path. Huck being two years older and significantly larger, I struggled to keep pace. Once our path showed that I could not keep up, Huck eased his pulling. Unsaid so, he had won the game. The game that I would win one day. As we first played, and then went on, Becky steadily returned the intruding lake back unto its self.

Keeping a good pace we approached the opposite shore and the Island that rose from the water within 100 yards of the shore. The shore banked steep and high. Different days, many, we had ventured to scale this calling forbade-ness. It was jungle thick like. The ground was spongy with the discard of centuries. The dirt of the ground was hidden deep. Only the damp, once living, held our feet up. We all knew the threat of a Quicksand doom.

Tree roots rose and dipped back into the ground. Bushes and smaller living green, some with thorns, made passage a maze that could only painfully be cheated. Vines twisted along themselves and draped endlessly at shoulder level. Pines and Hard-woods, dead and alive, slapped their hands at us; further demanding a labyrinth honored.

This part of the lake was mostly without people. It was dotted by only two houses that stood where the marsh and an eased slope would allow. This recognized solitude of the Island made it perfect adventuring for young explorers. This same relative recluse-ness also made it an inviting place for teenagers.

The Island was not large. Perhaps the size of a football field. It was also shaped that way. It ran long and narrow. It was mostly sand; dirt and sand. Thin bushes and sapling trees that would not survive more than two seasons, were the Island's only permanent occupants. But during the warmer times, we and others like us, held this spot during the day. The night was often lit with the campfires of those older. Huge; the Island, like the lake, was huge in our over active imagination. Over active, the only kind we had. Is that not the indulgence of what a child is? Is that not how it should be?

Captain Tom yelled; "Ramming speed!" Our pace double-timed. Becky braced for the collision that would never come. With a gentle sand forced slowing, our craft slid smoothly onto the Island. Securing our vessel our Island quest began. It wasn't that we were searching for one thing in particular, but it was indeed always a venture.

All of our Island visits differed in our activates, but most included checking out the spent fire, inspecting bottles for notes from the shipwrecked, chasing frogs, occasionally finding and inspecting strange white translucent balloons, and trying to spear fish with pointed sticks. The fish didn't have a worry. And of course an Island visit always included running and splashing at water's edge.

Not finding any treasured balloons, and recognizing our always present urge to do something else, we decided that our time on the Island was at end. Re-taking our assigned stations we sailed back to port. I chained the boat and left it to slowly again find the bottom. We headed off for the something else. Stopping first at the Beachcomber, we purchased three for a dime strips of sugar dotted paper.

We passed through Our Lady of the Lake parking lot, cut through Reverend George Brown Elementary, and headed across the athletic field of Pope John the XXIII High School. We were migratory. None of us knew we were, but we always wandered on. Understanding without considering, we knew our final destination was going to be The Swamp.

Climbing the hill that back-dropped the diamond's infield, Becky was the first to sit. She disappeared into the tall thick grass that the spring rains and the summer shine had teamed to sprout. Huck followed, and I again. We three now lay comfortably on our backs. The thick and tall green cushioned and hid us. The sun had passed just enough west as to allow our eyes to gaze upward without restriction. It was only our rustling sounds that provided comforting awareness of each other's where-abouts. The long thick and near brittle blades of grass protected us. They were also always offering to slice open an un-cautious finger.

We'd entered a hovel that was too vast to even consider. A place that was not ours. It was the domain of the leaping grasshoppers, the hovering dragon flies, and the rhythmic crickets. Rare, and only found by accident, was the proud Praying Mantis. None were found this day. Such a stumbling upon always gathered many of the neighborhood's young investigators.

As simple as it is, perhaps its simple-ness makes it so, these moments that have long since fled from my life, were the most peaceful of my young life. Nothing, something, never interrupts me here. Now, amongst my far ventured age, this understanding brings about a missing. Perhaps there is only one moment awaiting me that will ever again bring such peacefulness.

Still inhabiting a bug's world I pick a giant Cumulous and watch it inch across the light blue Jersey sky. Staying with it, watching it phase from a running rabbit with ears flowing backwards, to a pointed spear that gently morphs into a rounded dull anything. Blue filled holes slowly collapse upon themselves. Other holes of blue open. Their fibers stretching, tearing, and discarding the puff; cotton balls gently push away. Whatever I found it to be, it became whatever I left it to be.

It is unspoiled that youth is wasted on the young. These youthful moments of still-photography in motion are the solace born of purest simple. My ability to, this senseless act of doing so near nothing, was long ago taken away from me. Stolen by the adult curse of need not do nothing. The need of not to do simple. Child-ness; an art long lost. Why do we cast off these never to return moments? But I digress. (See... right there! I understand that I've rambled. I understand that it is no longer productive for you the reader. Thus I feel the need to apologize for simple.)

Did they not know when they put this fence up last year that we would not be able to get onto the ball fields? They, whomever they are, why would they do this? These fields that were the setting for endless seasonal sport and youthful nonsense. These were our fields. Why would they fence us out? Us, all of Sagamore Trail, all of the kids that were a short walk away, we did not understand. Why would they do this? We, did not like they.

Moving on again, we slipped through one of the four holes that we had tunneled under the fence. These strategically placed openings were dug at our favorite entry and exit locations. Like ever dutiful woodchucks, we cared for and cleared these holes as soon as they, someone, dirt'd in our tunnels. They, someone, were ghosts behaving badly in the black hours that ghosts behave badly in. They were never witnessed doing their Tom-foolery.

Will, arms extended and waving for balance, was the first to pass over the creek. Decided by the wisest, the older kids, this was the creek that created The Swamp. Because we were told this, it was true. But still we needed to know more. Every so often Lewis and Clark would set off exploring for the source of this creek. As in Meriwether and William's quest, we also failed. However, like them, we also discovered so much more.

Lisa followed Will and I across our bridge; a giant tree that had been intentionally felled by the Mohawk Indians. This we were also told. As the entire day was, a game was associated with The Swamp. The Swamp, though no one would admit it, was a scary kid place. However, it was also a magical kid place. It held tadpoles that would eventually hop and give you warts. It was common to see deer, fox, skunks, and many other curious critters. However, there were also leeches and snakes. Occasionally a kid not from the neighborhood would tell of seeing a giant alligator. I'd never seen one. Oh yeah... there was also the possibility of being taken and eaten by the New Jersey Swamp Devil. I had never seen him either. But the old man that lived at the dead-end of Sagamore trail had

The Swamp Devil was always sneaking just one snapped twig away. But the Taker of Children, is not where my biggest fear never rests. For me, the creature that only evil incarnate would have placed on earth, crawled constant on my attentiveness. The hiding, lurking, surprising, slimy snake. All the serpentine belly travelers are the scourge of the earth. True in New Jersey, truer in The Swamp, the Cottonmouths and Water Moccasins are those that are viper'd and supposedly threaten the greatest harm. However, I know of a boy who is no longer here. I was told this; he was stalked, surprised, and scared by a Gardner snake. Instantly his heart stopped. Snakes, all snakes, hide waiting, hiding and waiting for me. I know it, you know it.

The main body of The Swamp, the flooded area, is several hundred yards long and wide by half. Its length runs north to south. Today and always, the game runs towards the South.

Mostly, the depth of the dark brown leech infested water was around one foot. It was deeper in some spots. Which is where the snakes are. It was shallower in others. Which is where the snakes are. The bottom beneath the water was jet black mud that had been created by decaying dinosaurs. This sludge mired to the center of the earth. Willy told me so.

Standing on the edge, the last of the ground that was firm enough to support my Redball Jets, I stared ahead planning my path. Planning was everything. Lisa was to my right; Will to her's. As I was, my two competitors were planning their path as well. This was the beginning of the game. A game that all the kids knew could bring death. It never had, but it was always out there. Minor cuts and bruises were not uncommon. I did know of a broken ankle and a dislocated finger. Unless these game injuries had happened to you, they were kid minor.

For a rookie looking out at the swamp for the first time, it appeared to be nothing more than flooded woods. To veterans, us, The Swamp was so much more. Dark and always so, even when the sun was bright everywhere, The Swamp's colors where always dusted with gray. Under a translucent umbrella. This was to hide the Swamp Devil. And no doubt the snakes.

The dark that shouldn't have been was left only in our thoughts. It was never spoken of. It was our not wanting to understand its creepiness that left it forever unmentioned. Rolling a rock to see what was on the underside, the rock that was The Swamp we left untouched.

Scattered throughout in an irregular speckling, the dark water pushed up tiny islands. Many more than we knew, but surely it was in the millions. Islands small and irregular. Most held planted a small tree. These tree's roots lifted clear of the water and mated into a platform that foundation'd the island. Roots that were covered and packed with a soil that was not recognized by us. This soil, or whatever it was, was covered with a deep green moss-like something. Spongy, the islands would ooze water when stepped upon. The trees were mostly dead. Only broken and often sharp branches extended from the tree. What we didn't know as ferns, lazily draped them. Scarecrows that had outlasted the autumn and held only the remnants of tattered clothing.

The game was simple in its concept and challenging in its execution. When Will yelled Bonsai, the race to the other side was on. The oldest of any group was the starter. The first one to reach the Skunkweed patch on the solid side was the winner. That is the only rule; simple. There had in the past been protests. But none in the history of Swamp Hopping had ever held up. First one to break open the Skunkweed was the day's Swamp Hopping champion.

This rule is the only simple involved in Swamp Hopping. The ultimate goal was a clean winning run. Clean never meaning clean, but dry. It had occasionally been done by each of us, but not often. Getting to the weed patch quickest was winning. Quickest was jumping and sticking the island. Two, three, four, leap combinations. Long leaps with tree grabbing and spinning to stop momentum. Quick direction changes. All were basic Swamp Hopping fundamentals. Honed and not fundamental, was path planning. This was a skill mastered only by the elite. Planning often determined the winner. It was easy enough to choose your first dozen or so islands, but mid-run decision making was success or failure. Continual motion while surveying was success. Stopping to survey meant probable failure. Our Swamp Hopping elders coined the phrase; "He who hesitates is lost."

"Bonsai!" Will screamed. I was off with a quick triple combination. Never touching heal to islands it was surgical in precision. Next a long jump, a tree spin, a small left, a double tap forward, right, double forward, left, left, and a long jump onto an island without a tree for a spin. Having to jump hard right next, I had to stop. Both feet landed hard and dug deep into the absorbing disk. My knees bent and locked. My arms flailed like windmills. Bending hard at the waist I fought momentum. Inertia's finger heavy between my shoulders gently pushed me towards a wet place that I didn't want to go. Straining hard momentum was stopped. It wasn't. It was. It wasn't! My right Redball twitched a lift. I stopped it. It stopped. It did. It didn't. The point of no return passed. My right foot twitched again and didn't un-twitch. Off to my right heard a small splash. A longer and louder one quickly followed. I knew what had happened and who it had happened to. My sneaker sock and foot slapped hard onto the water and disappeared eight inches down. Black dinosaur remains rolled to the surface circling outward

"Snakes!" I yelled with not one in sight. Now... as much as I was afraid of snakes, I was more afraid of going home with only one shoe. If that happened, it would be again.

Being a veteran of island hopping and experienced in my current situation, I knew a quick jerk of my foot would leave my right foot with only a soiled sock. Easy, easy, the toe of my shoe fanned the muck left to right. Slight at first, gradually making a larger and larger Snow Angel in the mud that was trying to vacuum away my Jet. History had taught me that a gentle heal-toe foot rocking would prevent a long bad-anticipation trip home to an angered mother. Feeling for attached canvas, I carefully and wishfully pulled upward a toe raised foot. A sound of sucking followed by a popping release loosed my foot. A black liquid cloud surrounded my foot to the surface. Clearing the surface there was only black. Dipping back and swirling, I raised it again to the island. "Yes!" I yelled with jubilation as red peaked through the black. I dip-swirled, dip-swirled, and dip-swirled. The wanting to cling mud melted into the murky water. It should be without saying that I did this only after first scanning for stalking snakes.

My moment passed and I looked in the direction of the double splash. What I saw was expected. Lisa stood in disbelief upon one of the larger islands. The once light red hair on the top of her head was soaked darker. Beaded water ran down her face dripping from a dimpled chin. Likewise, the entire front of her down to the soles of her feet was wet. From knees to feet and elbows to fingertips, mud painted. Looking to me with sadness that we all at least once had shared, dejection leaked wet from a sullen face. Lisa's fingers were rigid, her arms were forced down and away from her waist. Her eyes dropped to her feet. "I lost my shoes." She said this with scared sadness. Blowing water from her lips she bent to the water. Rinsing her arms she began to cry. A scared little girl coughed two quick crying breaths and determinedly halted her outcry.

Feeling bad for her and not knowing what to say, Willy caught my eye. He was still on a clean run and nearly 15 yards ahead. Turning left, south, a path was planned and I was off. Hopping, leaping and spinning, I looked at Will who had increased his lead. If he did not miss-step he would win. More importantly, I would lose. So I continued on a steady but careful path. I was not conceding the victory quite yet. In one last effort to distract and slow him, I yelled; "I'm catching you Huck." He did not distract or slow. He did briefly laugh. Seconds and then a minute passed. I tried a second last effort to distract and slow; "Will! Will! The Swamp Devil is right behind you." He quick stepped a three island tap tap tap and leapt to a tree'd island. He executed a standard spin. In doing so he saw it to be a lie.

I gained only yards as he quickly planned and started again with words very fitting; "You're a jerk Danny." Laughing at his fitting and completing a quick 10 island run, I was only 9 yards behind. But his lead seemed safe as he only had about 20 yards to go.

Still I tried one last last last... well, you know. "Will-"

"Shut up Danny I'm not falling for it."

"No Will I don't see Lisa!" Will double strode and stopped. He turned looking back.

"Lisa!" he yelled. The Swamp yielded nothing. He yelled louder; "Lisa! Lisa are you okay? Are you coming?" I was still moving south and I was listening.

There was a brief pause and then I heard a distant reply. "Yeah I'm coming." Again a brief pause. "I'm alright." She didn't sound self-convinced.

Realizing that I had pulled even with Will, I stopped and looked to him. He looked towards her and then back to me. We both looked towards her. With typical Swamp Hopping noises she closed distance and then broke through into view. I broke towards the finish. "You're cheating Danny," Will said as he singled doubled and leapt. I was in the lead now with just yards to go. I could hear Lisa talking to us and Will yelling at me. "Cheater! You're a cheater Danny!" No mistakes Danny and you got it. Left, double small, south again, two easy ones and one giant leap to semi firm ground. I bolted with just five yards to the Skunkweed. Running full out; one step, two steps, three, my left foot was pulled back with a jerk that hurt my toe and strained my hip. From my waist up to my face, I slammed into the damp softened soil. Soil entered my mouth as I slid for several feet. With my feet up over my back, I seemed unable to move. Not seemingly, I was unable to breath. Sucking to replenish the air that had been hard forced out brought pain. In that instant, I was dying. Seconds passed and I was still alive. The pain and fright was easing as I rolled to my back. A foul burning smell filled my nose. It was a loser's essence of Skunkweed.

Slowly sitting, slower turning, and quickly spitting, I saw Will standing in the weeds. He stood proud with his arms folded and held high to his chest.

Lisa sounded coming up behind me; "What happened to you Danny?" Still sitting and breathing better, I turned to search the path of my result.

"A tree root," I said. I turned back to Will.

He was in his glory; dancing and singing. "Oh yeah! You tried to cheat. You tried to cheat. But cheaters never prosper." He repeated this twice more. I had to take it. It was simple. Well, at least a snake didn't get me.

Lisa jittery, stood looking at me with unease. Wiping the water that remained on her forehead, she was uncomfortable and forced a smile that reflected this. Her playfulness had long since melted away by the fire that would be trouble at home. Wishing for a mystical saving, she looked to her feet to see if the Good Fairies of The Swamp had gifted her with a new pair. My knowing of her certain punishment, I tried to hide from my face. My mind's face hid little. What she was feeling I had also felt. But I knew what she was feeling was a deeper darkness. The difference I didn't know, but there was one. My home was not the same; not the same as hers. How it wasn't I didn't understand. But both Will and I understood. Lisa was guarded of her home life. She rarely spoke of her home, her parents, or her older brother. All I knew was that she would disappear for weeks at a time. She would be disappearing now for sure.

Her home, no, mine was a home, here's was a house. She never called it home. Her house was not where she wanted to go, but she had to. I guess she figured it might as well be now. Shoeless, muddied and wet, she went there. "I gotta go. I probably won't see you for a while." Selfishly this made me mad. I worried so about her when she was not with us.

Willy and I held different places in Lisa's life. Spiritual strength and organization is what she sought from me. Strength, strength and physical protection, is what she sought from Will. If a ten year old has one, Willy was her boyfriend. I was... well I'm not sure what I was. I only knew that she looked to me for something. Perhaps it was comfort.

Willy, who was still standing in the patch of Skunkweed that was burning my nose and squeezing my temples, raised his left hand and pointed. His palm had lost skin and was bleeding. A common spin-move injury; a badge of victory. He said; "Lisa go to the old man's house and wash off the mud." She glanced in the direction of the house and then back to me. Her look was asking.

"Go ahead. It will be okay Lisa. The old man won't mind." I said this placing my hand on her shoulder and gently turning her.

"Use the hose it will be alright," Willy added. Without hesitating or saying a word, she headed off. Watching her shoeless feet carefully pick her way across the leaf coated floor, I wondered if she would use his hose. Lisa was not real comfortable with the old man that lived at the dead-end of Sagamore Trail.

We watched as Lisa melted beyond a row of Pines. "Come on Will." I started running south. Leaving The Swamp for another day.

"Where are we going Danny?"

"Come on Huck."

Wandering, we traveled ten football fields south and covered three times that in ground. Flora was picked and flicked. Fauna was startled. We kicked things. We scared off a deer and a fox. A skunk that was not in a playful mood scared us off. This wasn't our first skunk rodeo. Like a deer that had suddenly caught a scent, Willy halted abrupt. He strained his neck and started scanning the woods. "Where are we Tom?" I realized we were in a new place. Someplace I had never been before. I, we, had never gone this far before. Looking to the sky I found the sun.

Knowing it was well into the afternoon, I pointed in the direction that the sun was leaning. "That is west," I proudly proclaimed. "So to go back we have to go north." Again proud, I pointed north.

"Let's turn back Danny." Off I ran again in the same direction we'd been heading.

"Come on Huck just a little further."

"Alright Tom but just a little further." For reassurance of his words I listened and heard his running behind.

My running slowed as I was looking and listening. This was all new and I wanted to take all of it in. The woods had gotten very thick with young and old trees alike. Huge and probably millions of years old were some. Zeus suddenly dropped his shield that had been holding back the brightness of the sun. The shaded ground that had presented only a mix of brown, popped a synthesis of colors. Colors both softest and brightest. Greens, yellows, and reds; all blended within a summer's presentation.

The only one that could, had reached down and plucked all weeds from this spot. A near perfect circle of crabgrass that was everything wooden, had been pulled. But one intentional tree had been left behind. One of distinction that was holding court centered in this meadow'd clearing.

Holding on the edge, the distant edge would have been reachable with a well thrown rock. The complete brightness that was soft to my eyes held me awed. Will held motionless a step back and off my left shoulder. Wondering if I should, I eased forward. Gently, my steps were careful not to harm the lives of this oasis. Not wanting to alarm it, I approached the tree slow and steady. The hunting skills that I had just begun to learn, asked me if I was downwind of it.

Young profiling; it was between eight and one hundred feet tall. The sun had bleached it into a white with just a hint of its original brown. Black, its deep grain ran the length. Resting just feet away, as if gently placed there, was its upper portion. The placed was three times in length. Only rounded nubs remained where branches once had. The downed portion looked to have been ripped from its base by a winded force. Although it was certainly the same tree at one time, it was not white. Dark, near black, it shined from decades of waxing. Heavy, it was cemented to the ground. A solid rock of wood. My thoughts flashed to the black table-tops of Science Lab.

Willy finished his approach to the standing white and reached to it. Almost hesitantly, he placed his palm on the trunk and slid his fingers in an arched feeling. "Danny it's really hard. It feels like stone. Like marble or something." Having to see for myself I did. Will was right, to me it felt like glazed bone.

"What?" I asked of him, turning to him.

Shrugging, Will replied; "Nothing. I didn't say anything." I knocked on it; thump, thump, thump. The sound was that of a base drum. It was booming and not that of a thick tree.

"What did you say?" again I asked.

"Danny I'm not saying anything!" My look to him was a child's warning.

"Stop messing with me Willy." His face was blank and his lips were apart slight.

Still with doubt, I watched Will's mouth while circling the tree. "Whoa! Willy look!" Will jumped with apprehension, joined me and dropped to his knees at my side

"Indians!" he said looking up to me. Knocking him over with young exuberance I dropped to my knees and poked head-first into the hole.

Beginning a foot from the base of the tree, there was a hole big enough for two of me or one large man. The opening was definitely man-made; still displaying chops and gouges from a Tomahawk. With my left hand I grabbed Will's right shoulder.

Confirming, I declared; "Indians! The Mohawks it had to be." Willy leapt to his feet and danced a circle around the tree.

Lifting his knees high, leaning far back and then farther forward, patting his palm to his mouth, he Indian'd. "Aay aay aay aay, oh oh oh oh, aay aay aay aay." Willy danced as I investigated. My hands holding the bottom of the opening, I put my head back in and looked upward.

"It's hollow Will all the way. I can see all the way to the sky." Between the muffling of the tree and Will's hollering, I didn't think he heard me.

Up over and in, my shoe water-squished as it landed on the cement like inside. The other joining its mate, I rose into a slow careful stand. My little mind told me I was the first non-Indian ever inside this hollow tree. I whooped a momentous yelp.

There was a lot of room for a ten year old; plenty of room for a man of almost any size. Looking at the inner walls, it did not look like the Mohawks had hollowed it. There were no gouges or slices of a Tomahawk. The walls were smooth and even. Nature had done the hollowing. I was disappointed; no Indians.

"Will there are steps in here." I felt Will's head brush my leg as I counted five wooden boards nailed to the wall. They were aligned and heading to the clouds. They looked like two-by-fours, but a bit odd. All five varied slightly in size and shape. Each one was nailed with six nails. The heads of the nails were all broken off flush. For a kid, they were spaced pretty far between.

"I'm going up Huck." The second board, which would be my first hand hold, was just out of reach. Jumping, my hand slapped and then slipped from the board. Again jumping, slapping, and this time grasping. My left hand settled firmly next to the right. Pulling myself up I gained a foot hold. Testing the steps I pulled and bounced. They were cemented. Nary a twitch. As if a branch, the boards were the tree. Each was cold boned.

Will's eyes thoughts and words followed me upward. "Wow this is cool Danny." He must have then withdrawn from below as the words I now heard were barely audible. Continuing my strained climb; step three, step four, one to go. The tree's broken top edge was my last rounded handhold. Pulling and pushing I broke into the flooded light of the sky. So it should have been. My face tingled with a chill and not expected summer warmth. My eyes were fooled; neither dark nor bright triggered sight. Blindness was replaced with only sight of my mind's eye.

Melted shadows in a fog that had no color floated with a singleness. Shapes were trying to define themselves. Glints of silver flashed and were gone. The shapes defined were men. Glints, now more than flashes, were bayonets, hatchets, and flintlocks. In hand to hand combat, the Red were slaughtering the Undistinguished.

The massacre at a distance was suddenly wiped away by a face that was filled with terror of finality. Painting the picture in my mind was a man's face that I understood to be seconds from not being. It was a young face that was bearded and haired by dirty blackness. His sun browned skin was made still deeper by sweat dampened soil. A deep gash ran from the middle of his forehead, across a closed left eye, and trailed down an exposed cheek-bone. From it blood flowed without end.

This man, soon to be guided by his soul, searched for mine. His eyes pierced, his words fell into a bottomless Well of this time's indifference. Over the slowness that would be a lifetime, his words slowly surfaced. They would float calm in a basin of my acknowledgement. Years to follow, time to ponder, words I would struggle to place in any known space.

Triggered by this sudden face of terror, my left had released with a flying backwards elbow. It hit a hardness that sent electricity flowing to fingertips. With unstoppable momentum my back followed. Instantly I understood that my remaining handhold was no more. This touched me with the face's terror.

Starting my sliding fall I slapped at any handhold. My fingers bounced from each grasp. Banging hard upward off of a step my left foot tossed my hips upward. I waved air one more time. My head struck.

### 'It gets old being not so young.'

There is a virgin layer of new snow; covering the back porch and beyond. The Colorado Snow Gods have blessed the Front Range with four inches of crystallized water. As I stare out the sliding glass door, the foothills look as majestic as they ever do.

It is about eleven p.m. on February 6th, 2011. In order of relevance: my daughter Sarina's 25th birthday; Super Bowl Sunday: and what would have been President Ronald Reagan's 100th birthday. Order of relevance determined by Sari of course. I would never dispute her determined relevance; at least not within her ear-shot. I'd learned 25 years ago not to poke the bear.

Sleep eludes me as my mind swims against the current of the day's happenings. Our guests started arriving two hours before kickoff. Sorry... two hours before Sari's party. It was a not so small gathering of friends and family. My eldest daughter Rebecca and her husband Wade were the first to arrive. Sari and her fiancé Kent followed shortly after. Sari's friends were still filtering in. Oh, Kent, I call him Stick. It's not important why, story for another day.

The welcoming conversations morphed into settled party banter. Initially it was centered on mine and my beautiful wife's health. Did you see how I got that beautiful in? Not a good move, a great move. Pami has heard this story more times than she can stand. She knows it as well as me. And now with the compliment in, she'll read no further. This is a good thing because... well you'll see.

Three months earlier Pamila had given me a kidney. She was offering and I was accepting. Do you think I married her for her beauty? No it's okay... I told you she won't read this far.

So after my Creatine levels were discussed more than most understood, after my urinary output had been covered far more than anyone wanted, a non-clinical party atmosphere settled in.

All of our guests appeared to be in normal festive behavior. Well not all; there was this one curious little fella. Curious; let me now introduce to you that these kind of adjectives may only be relative to me. You'll soon understand what I mean.

He was quite a nervous man whom I'd never met before. Tobias's presence was both unexpected and intriguing to me. Apparently he was the other half of one of our guests. That guest was a friend of Pami's, and he was definitely not the better half. Tobias was kind of a creepy person. At least that was my take. If Central Casting had their way, Tobias would be a Peeper watching housewives do the dishes. This Profile was my initial attempt of Tobias. Profiling is a game that I'm not proud of, but always play. I'm not a Profiler, but I do play one in text.

Upon his arrival and subsequent introduction, I observed a sight never before present in my home. Peeking from underneath Tobias's jacket was a gold and green sport's jersey. In what seemed like slow motion, Tobias peeled away his winter coat. In my home, on Super Bowl Sunday, there it was, a number 4 Green bay Packer jersey. Brett Favre! Tobias was a Cheese-head! A Brett Favre Cheese-head. A collective gasp filled the room.

You see I spent my High School years just outside of Chicago in Palatine Illinois. I know every word to the Super Bowl Shuffle and which players sing which lyrics. I also believe Mike Ditka is a God. I mean don't you?

Springing into action Rebecca quickly covered my framed autographed picture of Sweetness. The greatest Chicago Bear ever; Walter Peyton. It looked as if we were a Jewish family sitting Shiva. Super Bowl Sunday was aflame and quickly spiraling downward.

The festivities had taken a turn that I could not immediately follow. Disturbed, probably forever, I not so politely excused myself. After a cold washcloth to the face, having taken a Xanax, and with remembrances of the '85' Bears celebrating a championship, my heart rate had increased enough to return.

Pami deftly greeted me with a plate of guacamole and chips. She guided me to and placed me in my Happy Place recliner. As I mumbled into guacamole she provided aid and comfort. Soft and comforting she was. "Danny. Danny look at me." My eyes translucent with un-precedence tried to focus on hers. Lightly rubbing my shoulder she promised; "It will be okay."

Without a lot of conviction I echoed her; "It will be okay."

Trying to rationalize these unprecedented events, I ate guacamole and chips. If only to not receive the wrath of an angry Sarina, I had to deal with this. This can of corn that was now my day was dented but still edible.

Without provocation and with unrecognizable rational thought, Tobias pushed the day's early momentum toward a slowing. However, this time I was not the to be affected. It was all others present. Oral repetition was tempting to turn the party's weather from brightly excited to overcast dreary.

Halfway through the National Anthem, beady-eyed Tobias approached me and said these words; "I hear that you had a remarkable incident at Monticello."

My wife's knees flinched and nearly gave out. Wade jumped to his feet and made a declaration. "I'm going to the Morrison Inn to watch the game. Who wants to go with me?" People started gathering their coats. The beehive had suddenly burst into flames. Drones and Workers were fleeing.

In a calming attempt the Queen buzzed louder than any. "Everyone freeze!" Everyone did. Sari continued; "This is my birthday party and no one is going anywhere! We are going to eat, drink, watch the game, and have a damn good time." Stick looked a fiancé terrified as if he were the engineer on a runaway train. Most important to his safety from an angry Sari, he had no idea how to stop this impeding crash. Sari spoke again; "Dad if you and your new buddy want to discuss Monticello you need to go to your office or... or anywhere but here!" Sari pulled a cleansing breath and attempted a more comforting tone. "Now... everyone start having a good time." At this point you need to know that Sari had both a firm grasp on her father's sarcasm and her mother's temperament. At this point you need to know that the word sarcasm has been understated and the word temperament has been tempered.

After a slow moment of awkward, the conversation slowly returned to party frivolous. People started to eat, drink, and have a damn good time. I was sitting in a guacamole eating limbo. My path to follow was unclear. Amongst the chronicled history of Daniel Rengaw, an unwatched Super Bowl had never been documented. But on this day, history would turn a new page. I set the DVR to digord the game.

Digord is a word that I Smith'd and will tell my grandchildren of. Digord: a hybrid of Digital and Record. I have a standing bet with Pamila on the word. If we hear anyone use the word digord in any tense within the next five years, I win a dollar. One year has passed; no digord, digording, or digorded. Only Stick uses it and he doesn't count per the bet. You see, I use his word 'Glutons'. Glutons: the compounds that cause Cilliac sufferers to have an allergic reaction.

I looked up at Tobias, slowly stood and regrettably said; "If you wish to hear about Monticello come with me." Regrettably, it certainly would be for him. "And take off that blasphemous jersey!"

Did I make the right choice? Did I choose the right path? Probably not. But I couldn't help myself, I was an addict that couldn't control my desire to tell the story of the Incident at Monticello. My choice, it never was one.

All of my family and friends had heard this story in detail many times before. Tobias had made the greatest breach of etiquette ever witnessed at a Super Bowl party; he asked me about the Incident at Monticello. A story that would easily outlast the Super Bowl, post-game, and late night news. The Incident at Monticello was about to unfold within his ears. The following is the story that I told to Tobias and will now share with you.

### 'In the beginning...'

For you, the story begins in 1755 and ends in 1790. Genesis; the first book of the historical text America. Those thirty five years when the architectural foundation of America was planned, designed, and built. As in the Old Testament, there were many more books to be written, but this was the beginning.

The American Genesis; these thirty five years in our short history were arguably the most important and interesting years in American sovereignty. The years from the infancy of the French and Indian war, through the American Revolution. All culminating with the Great Compromise of 1790.

The architects were The Founding Brothers. These, so labeled by Joseph Ellis, were all in place in 1755. Some, like James Madison and James Monroe, were still young boys. Madison being only four years old. However, none could foresee the tumultuous path that their lives would travel.

Others, like the nine and forty Benjamin Franklin, were coming into the prime of their colonial political lives and had already accomplished so much. It is safe to say that there were few like Benjamin. Yet there were others of his age to control the spice and vinegar of the young Founders. Mentors if you will. But again, few indeed like our own Benjamin. Franklin was the elder statesman, the unbreakable diplomat.

My historical mind's-eye, seeing through my optical eyes, takes in Doctor Franklin thusly. Now seventy years of age and in Philadelphia during the meetings of the Second Continental Congress. Leaning back in his chair, sweat from the stifling heat slowly rolling down his cheeks. Watching, listening, and contemplating. He does not speak; he only observes. Then amongst murmurs of expectation, a hush falls upon the previously tumultuous room. Franklin slowly rises. In as few words as possible, he ingratiates the room with a plea for serenity and thought.

John Adams, nine and thirty, a lawyer and farmer from Massachusetts, was attending the Continental Congress as well. Mr. Adams, our first Vice President and second President, was a fiery revolutionist. Or so was the part that he wished to play.

During that first meeting of the colonial delegates, Adams was a fiery and determined orator for the cause of independence. Thus, the cause of revolution. On a Philadelphia summer night, Adams and Franklin had cause for a private meeting. The two met in the unofficial gathering place of the first Continental Congress. It was a tavern not far from Carpenters' Hall called The City Tavern Restaurant. The private discussion between the two men exacted the moment. A tiny sliver from the historical pie.

A rare awkward pause inflicts the conversation. Dr. Franklin leans over towards Adams and says; "Mr. Adams. Men thinking aloud are responsible for much of mankind's misery." Adams stares into Franklin's eyes with the words swirling in thought.

"Surely, good advice Mr. Franklin. However, it is advice that I will respectfully decline at this moment in time."

In 1755, Thomas Jefferson was a young man of twelve years of age. He was learning to be a Virginia tobacco and corn farmer; as well as a future estate lord. Something he never learned to do profitably. On July 4th 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, he passed away deeply in debt. Ironically, as is our federal government today. Irony that would not have been lost on our third President. A reality he tried to repress his entire political life. If Plato were to describe Jefferson's life, he would express a need for emulation. Jefferson walked a spiritual plane unfound by most; truly, he had great wealth.

Probably, among the authors of America's Genesis, only Franklin lived a more diverse life than did Jefferson. And as I understand, only Washington meant more to the new republic. Surely John Adams would debate this. And surely Adams would have a strong rebuttal. I venture few people to this day, can say that they have done more with their time on earth than did Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson lived an incredible political, educational, diplomatic, and self-disciplined life. In creating our country, none more, and few equal.

Thomas Jefferson's quest to educate, to educate the people of what he called 'His Country', Virginia, probably was unmatched by any of his Founding Brothers. He worked endlessly to establish a college in Virginia. It eventually became a dream fulfilled; The University of Virginia. Jefferson was a Founding Brother, and a Founding Father of this institution. Jefferson's thirst for knowledge went unquenched during his lifetime. He studied and mastered: math; science; botany; anatomy; and other academia.

In his search for mystery revealed, the western frontier, Jefferson commissioned the Lewis and Clark Expedition. A water passage to the West Coast was its defined goal. This goal went unfulfilled. However, Jefferson knew before its inception that the expedition would be so much more. The documented information that Meriwether Lewis and William Clark brought back, was immeasurable in its usefulness.

In Exodus, the second book in America's Historical Bible, the King George version, George Washington is the prominent icon. Perhaps not the scribe, but certainly the chosen one. America's Moses. America's deliverance was never promised by Washington. But the land of promise was delivered to Americans.

In 1755, Washington was a twenty three year old lieutenant in the Virginia militia. Washington had an insatiable wander lust. Washington's desire lay in the unsettled western frontier. The western frontier at that time was anything west of the Appalachians. His employment with the British army seemed an ideal way to satisfy his craving. Unfortunately his military experience was short lived. He was sent into the Ohio Valley by British General Braddock. Washington's mission was to regain control of strategic forts from the French and the Ohio Indians. Washington's troops were repelled. His desire for a commission in the British military, and his participation in the Seven Year War was over.

All the players for this story are now on the ball field. They were practicing their skills and working towards Opening Day. That fateful day in early July 1776. The cast is plentiful; all unknowingly waiting to perform and design an America.

I have touched on the Leading Men that make up the smallest cornerstone of this story. But I do not in any way wish to ignore the others that contributed to destiny. The many others that my mind has met. However, to depict those thousands would be reminiscent of Tolstoy. I do not have Tolstoy-like-skills. I will leave their depictions to the Historians that have so long studied them. The words chronicled within this writing are more of who I've spent time with than it is of history defined.

### "Ask not, what your county can do for you; but what you, can do for your country."

### John Kennedy

Thanksgiving Day, 2009

My 28 pound turkey was slowly roasting in the oven. I perished the thought of a hen less than 25 pounds being presented on my Turkey day table. It would be just a baby! Dr. Benjamin Franklin would be proud. He was in favor of the Turkey being declared our National Bird.

I also had logistical and tactical plans for all the other delicacies of the day. Plans that deployed them all at the exact time to insure the victory of the meal. It seems that early in my twenty six year marriage, Turkey Day became my culinary cause. Except for the baking. Baking was my wife's domain, and that was fine with me. Possibly because I did not have the baking skills. But mostly, she makes a killer Pumpkin and Pecan pie. I hate baking and that works out perfectly. My wife has forgotten more about baking than Rachel Ray ever knew. Pamila is from Kringle Country and learned baking from her Grandmother. I can't keep this girlish figure without Pami's help.

Sorry mom, when you stopped mailing all of those amazing Christmas confectionaries, your title was stripped. My therapist says that I have issues with the stoppage of her annual treats. I simply don't understand how retirement in Florida equates to no more: Date Nut Rolls; Hershey Kisses Cookies; Lemon Love Notes; and other morsels of delight. I also blame my seasonal neurosis on my Aunt Betty; my mother's former baking conspirator. Serenity now. Serenity now!

I like to think of coffee as my singular vice. My family may beg to differ. Having consumed more caffeine than I should have, it was time to take Mervin (Bubba) for a walk. Mervin may not be a classic dog name, but if you ever saw him, Mervin is perfect. Bubba is a Portuguese Water Dog. I know what you are thinking, but the Obama's got theirs because we had one; not the other way around. Bubba looks like a black miniature Sheep Dog. Of course the Whitehouse dog is continually groomed and all pretty; Mervin is not. My daughter Rebecca claims Mervin is Rastafarian.

No walk would be complete without a stop at the park for his usual business and a game of Chuckit. Cat people don't know Chuckit. A cat would never play this beneath them game. Chuckit is a plastic stick with a claw on the end. A tennis ball is inserted into the claw, thus enabling one to throw for great distances. Much like a Jai Lai player can. My dog will play Chuckit until his cardio system no longer allows. Mervin needs Chuckit, like Americans need television.

His legs wobbling signals the end of the game. Mervin wants shaded rest. Resting, shading, panting, and praying I don't fetch the ball myself and Chuckit again. If I do so, he must fetch it. He can't not.

Arriving at the park Mervin is greeted by two of his buddies. After the usual greetings and mandatory butt sniffing, they go their separate ways. Shortly into our cycle of toss and fetch, my cell rings. Identifying the caller as Rojer Ousten, and not wanting to cut short Chuckit, I let the call go to voice mail. Rojer is someone that I usually video conference with. I can't pass up that digital playing.

Mervin completing all things related to a park visit, we head home. On our way I send Rojer text explaining that I will 'IM' him when I get home. Being not the best texter, and not wanting to fall into an open man-hole, my message was broken Greek. But I knew the message would be received and understood.

After my near death experience with texting, I am kind of curious why Rojer would be calling me on Thanksgiving. It did seem a bit out of character pattern for him. Rojer Ousten is an old friend that I have known since High School. We've stayed close through the years. It is not unusual that we speak monthly. Although, I don't ever remember a conversation on a holiday. I know and you need to as well; Mr. Ousten is the smartest person I have ever met. Not the most knowledgeable, but definitely the smartest.

Rojer is the fifth of five boys begot to Uta and Clark Ousten; second generation Scandinavian immigrants. Rojer's four older brothers lived on 'The Farm'. The two of us, spent a lot of time at The Farm. This farm was not like most in northern Illinois. There were no farm animals on the farm; only cats and dogs. There were no crops either. Well, only one, and it was not a cash crop. It was for personal consumption only. Rojer and I would often go to The Farm, partake of the one crop grown there, and talk history.

Rojer is six feet tall, a former football player and built like one. He has reddish-brown hair and sports a full beard. If this beard was ever trimmed, it wasn't often. He has kind of a square face and wears John Lennon eyeglasses. Rojer is a country kid in both mannerism and appearance. His parents were God fearing people that liked to listen to a police scanner. I thought it creepy that they often knew where the big High School parties were. Even when we didn't. Sometimes we would pump them for information without them knowing; at least we told ourselves that. There were times when I felt guilty even if I hadn't done anything wrong and I would refuse to go into their house. I guess I did not want to know exactly which way God was going to smite me if I didn't behave.

Rojer loved to talk history, and so we did for hours on end. He had an almost eidetic memory which I was very jealous of. He usually only had to see or hear something once and it was permanent. Unlike me, Rojer was what I called a New Age Historian. Most of his knowledge was from the 20th century. It wasn't that he didn't care about other times; he simply didn't care about acquiring that knowledge. Rojer never forgot anything he heard, saw, or read. But he didn't hear, see, or read a whole lot. I have a theory on this; I think it had something to do with The Farm.

Anyways... we would talk history endlessly. From me he would learn history that he couldn't learn elsewhere. From him I would learn written history. Even though Rojer was brilliant, he chose not to attend college. Throughout his life he has had several interesting jobs. Currently, and for the past four or so years, he has been the Curator of Thomas Jefferson's home at Monticello. I would take my dog back to the pound and leave my wife to have his job. Just kidding; I would miss my dog. (It's okay, remember, she won't read this far.)

Arriving back home I basted the turkey, made sure Mervin had water, and kissed my wife Good Turkey Morning. Punctuating all with a; "Gobble Gobble Gobble." Leaving her with my annual holiday jargon, I added; "Rojer called while I was at the park. I'm going upstairs to video with him. Back in a few." I headed towards my office amidst soft mumbling from Pami; something about Rojer and The Farm.

I ascended the stairs full of anticipation. Was a digital mystery about to be presented me, or did my old friend simply want to wish me a happy Thanksgiving? Entering my office tranquility comes upon me. A perpetual tranquility; my Friendly Confines.

Wrigley Field; where every Cub fan brings hope eternal. Where every Cub fan leaves dreams again dashed. The North Side gathering place for eternal optimists. Gather there at least once; something every baseball fan should have on their Bucket List. I recommend the left field bleachers. A day in the sun with the Bleacher Bums, a day forever etched. (Leave the little ones at home.)

My Office, the only place that is all mine. Pami's fingerprints are on every square inch of the house, except my place of solace. She wanted it that way, and I loved her for it.

Sitting down I warmed up the computer. At the end of every family dinner, my father would clear his throat and decree; "Daniel, go warm up the television." So it is said; so it shall be. (If you are under 40 you probably have no idea what I am talking about.)

As if I was sending a coded message to Europe during WW II, I IM'd the following: 'Adams' friend, is in the nest at Quincy, put some digis into your magic box.' Rojer knew where Quincy was and who Adams' friend was. I chuckled at myself; thinking me clever. My wife would say; "Only in your little mind Honey." I am quite sure that she is right.

Leaning back in my chair, I waited for the digital highway to come to life. In a sentimental mood that always takes hold of me on this holiday, my eyes search The Wall of Memories. The wall behind my desk; a collage of family memories that I wished never to depart me.

A single picture opened the floodgates of memory; a black and white photo of me taken in 1973. It was a picture of me standing with my back to the camera. I was standing at the base of a grassy hill. The grass, a dark green and freshly mowed. Standing amongst endless rows of flawless white headstones. I remember thinking how the rows of limestone reminded me of music; rhythmic and flowing.

The hill was six feet from base to peak. A small group of blossoming Cherry trees covered the right side of the hill. A gravel vehicle path ran halfway around the left base of the knoll.

Viewfinder to my right eye, I held a Kodak Box Camera; framing a black and white snapshot. Looking very 1973 hip in blue and white striped pants, and a long sleeve button down shirt; also striped. To accentuate the wardrobe, I wore a Henry Blake fishing hat; minus the fishing lures. I watched as a choreographed military burial was taking place.

Idle on the path were numerous cars, two limousines, and a somber looking Hearse. A full military honor guard, and casket bearers, were choreographing an oft rehearsed, and too oft performed ceremony. As had been done thousands of times past at this sacred place.

Seven rifled warriors, with ordered instructions, fired three volleys. "Order arms; left face; forward march." The seven, departed around the base of the hill. After removing from a covered casket and folding, Stars and Stripes was presented to a seated young woman. A small boy too young to be now left alone was at her sullen side. The casket was slowly lowered; delivered to its finality. 'Taps' sounded from the crest of the hill; a single bugler standing in the Cherry's shade.

With the ceremony quietly concluding, faint music was heard from a source not seen; approaching me from beyond. The soloist was barely audible at first. Then with slowly increasing volume, I heard the unmistakable sound of Bagpipes. Gradually showing himself, a man in a Scottish military uniform. His dress complete of Kilt, tassels, epaulettes, and military ribbons. He slowly circled to his right towards the gathered mourners. All the time squeezing out Amazing Grace. Surreal amongst fog from nowhere, he continued around the knoll and disappeared. The finality of the sound that is Amazing Grace on the bagpipes faded from my ears. But still, my boy soul hears its haunt.

These thespians forever stirred a hidden part of who I'd become. I never forgot My Funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. Eight years to the month, I was on my way to San Antonio Texas. Basic Training; United States Air Force.

With the yellow-red glow of the Tubes, and a Tsunami of digis crashing the coast that is my processor, my PC sparked to life. "Thomas? Mr. Jefferson." The called name came from within.

"Huh?" Me clearing the fog of Arlington.

"Damn Danny you daydream more than anyone I know."

"What the hell do you know Rojer you still think that the Bicentennial was the day the Declaration of Independence was originally signed."

"Ouch! Nice Danny thanks! You're just jealous."

"Jealous of you?"

"No! Jealous of where I'm sitting." Which I was.

I could tell by the authentic 1804 map that was over his left shoulder, Rojer was in his office. The map was one of three that still existed; it was created post Louisiana Purchase. I recognized it from my two previous visits to Monticello.

His office and living facility was located in a former slave house that was only thirty yards north of Jefferson's home. The Main House that was of Monticello. One of two slave houses still located on Mulberry Row. One of seventeen original houses.

It is believed that the building was once occupied by Jefferson's household slaves; including Sally Hemmings. Miss Hemmings, being Jefferson's mistress of some thirty seven years. Reportedly, proven by DNA testing, mother of at least one of Jefferson's children. However, it is believed that Sarah (her birth name) and Jefferson, begot six children; four that survived child birth.

Rojer's living area had been refurbished. His bedroom, office, and kitchen, all included heat, electricity, and indoor plumbing. Note: I did not mention air conditioning. Apparently there was not an ascetic way to install a compressor while leaving the outside very much as original. Visitors were welcome into the building. Therefore the accessible part of the interior was kept in what was perceived to be the original condition. Rojer's living area was creatively hidden from the public.

Rojer looked much the same as in High School. Thirty years older, but he looked good. He always tried to stay healthy. He was after all a former Eagle Scout. Something Rojer was very proud of.

His beard was as short as I had ever seen it. It was peppered gray and well groomed. His hair also short and graying. Still with the Lennon glasses. Despite these spectacles that he would never abandon, he looked very business-like. I'm sure he would tell me he looked too much like 'The Man'. He still had a Hippie philosophy in him; a Hippie that he never was.

"Danny..." There was a change to his tone. Rojer definitely had something cluttering his brilliance. He paused; I was attentive; he continued; "I want to run something by you." I still did not speak, feeling he needed to open up. "Four days ago something happened here. On Sunday morning. You know that the main house is not open on Sunday right?"

"Yes Rojer."

"Well around 10:32 a.m.-" 10:32 is 'around' for Roger. "I went into the main house to check on the place. We'd had a really bad thunderstorm the night before." I was listening patiently, waiting to see what had Rojer's emotions spiking. "As I walked through the house it all seemed to be as it should. No apparent damage. I walked through the living area and entered the Study. You know Danny you've been here."

"Yes Rojer I have." I answered trying to ignore his nervous question. Yet another sign that he was flustered. Hoping to harness his emotion, I bridled a question.

"Rojer, how many different men have been President?" For years I have been asking him this exact question whenever his concept of reality was being challenged. This seemed like one of those times.

"Not now Danny!" Apparently it was not one of those times. He looked frustrated with me.

Glaring hard he scorned; "As I was saying... there was no apparent damage. Then as I circled the outer part of the room, the Study, something caught my eye. On Jefferson's writing desk... you know the upright desk with the stool." Rojer paused. I waited. "I took six steps to the desk and found some papers." He paused again as if I knew what he was talking about. I did not, but I wanted to.

"What do you mean some papers? I do remember that there is some old looking paper on the desk. In some sort of antique wooden tray."

"Yes!" He boomed loud and then kept booming; "But the paper is always in the paper cozy. Always Danny." He sat back and then came to the camera again. "Danny. There is something else. There was writing on the paper. Writing that shouldn't have been there."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything stop asking that. Sorry Danny. Hell I don't know. But there are three pages with writing on them." Rojer's face went sullen and his words silent. He was expecting me to dissect his words.

"What else Rojer?" He just looked at me. "Go on Rojer."

"Danny... and damn it Danny don't you laugh at me." His expression went to confused. He needed me to guide reality back towards him.

Worried with what I would do with his words, he chose them Rojer carefully. "The papers, you know, on the desk, the ones on the desk, well... they were dated 2009 and signed by Thomas Jefferson." Before 'Jefferson' had cleared my ears I knew I was in big trouble. It was very clear that I was not to laugh. But it was more clear that this would be impossible.

His eyes were fixed and inspecting. Filled with an emotion that I was not to display, I was in big trouble. Realizing that a few pieces of paper with Thomas Jefferson's name on them had Rojer in a state of great anxiety, I knew this would be a blow of epic proportion.

My lungs filled with molten lava and headed up my esophagus. My cheeks filled with sulfuric gas. I was going to erupt like Mount Pinatubo. Pressure built; I looked into his confused eyes and released.

The toxic air rushed from my cheeks; I was trying to expel my lungs. It was too late I knew, but I escaped from the camera to my right. But not from the microphone. Like a Congressman caught with his pants on a hotel-room floor, I was busted. I knew Rojer's response would be swift and punishing.

"You son of a bitch! I thought you would be the one person that would understand. Damn it Danny you're my friend. You couldn't tell that this was bothering me?" Around 10.5 seconds elapsed. (As Rojer would say.) I took a deep breath but it didn't matter; my weak attempt at hiding my emotion was futile.

Still, I returned to my seat and forced out; "I'm sorry." Head down, wiping my eyes; "I... I... I'm sorry Rojer. Really sorry." Trying to suppress my laughter, I was momentarily lost to any conversation that might have been.

"Thanks! Thanks Daniel." Uh oh, I got a 'Daniel'. I often get Daniels from my wife and use to more often from my mother, but I don't think I ever got one from Rojer.

Punishment had been very swift and I was certain it would get harsher. "Rojer I am sorry. But I'm not sure that I understand what is bothering you so." My face now not so warmed tight from laughter, I searched weak in an effort to find his worries. "What bothers you so much about this... this whatever? This letter? It seems obvious that someone is having some fun with you."

"Danny-" ('Danny' is better.) "I am the curator of this place. I work for The Foundation."

"Yes you do Rojer." His slight break told me my tone was not appreciated. But come on! You! You reader. What would you say?

"Danny don't you understand that I can't explain how this happened. Where the document came from or how it got on his writing desk." I thought he was pausing, but my previous unappreciated-ness caused me slow to reply.

"Well you didn't do anything wrong Rojer. It just seems like maybe an employee is getting your goat." I chuckled briefly. "Rojer, sometimes, just sometime, you do kind of attract goats." He didn't chuckle, he didn't anything.

"Danny don't you see I can't explain why or how this happened."

"Look Rojer... who do you have to explain this to? Who knows about it? Just take it easy. If the prank pullers know that you are this upset they will enjoy it even more. Don't give them the satisfaction Rojer." He seemed to be calming down. The reddish tint on his forehead was fading.

Rojer considered my question. "Only a couple of employees know about it. I don't think that you are right about them Danny. The reason that I say that is because there is one more thing." He slowed his thoughts to words but continued. "The three page letter seems to have a tone."

"A tone?" I asked.

"Well maybe not so much a tone as a message. A philosophical political message. It seems to me that someone is trying to make a statement."

"Roj-" I paused slight to choose good words. "What do you want me to do? How can I help you with this? I'm not sure that I-"

"Danny all I ask is that you look it over. That's all! You've read more dead presidents' letters than anyone I know. Especially TJ's. As you like to call him."

In my best soothing voice, being careful not to offend him again; "Rojer, Thomas Jefferson died on July 4th 1826. He didn't write you a letter four days ago."

"The letter's not for me. Just look it over please. I'm sending you a copy overnight. Look it over. That's it. That's all I'm asking."

Trying to let him know that I was taking this serious, I said something New Age. "I will ask not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you." His face lit up like a boy with a new puppy.

"Thanks that's all I ask. So when you get it look it over and get back with me okay." Rojer appeared to be finishing his request but then there was; "Oh yeah I forgot. There is one more thing. There was a passage in the letter that I recognized. The last paragraph is a quote from a Reagan speech. Around thirty two days after Hinckley shot Reagan, my boy Ronnie gave a speech to America and to both houses of Congress. In that speech-" My turn to cut him off.

"How do you think a paragraph from a Reagan speech got into a Jefferson document?"

"I don't know maybe Reagan wrote the paper." I'm still trying to figure out what that meant.

"Rojer! Reagan! Also dead."

Not wanting to inflame his forehead again I said calmly; "Okay Rojer. I look forward to reading it." This may have been a white lie.

"Thanks buddy you're the best. Give me a call when you're done."

"I will and remember, don't let them know that they got you. And Rojer... I wouldn't mention this to anyone." Rojer's face displayed a confused questioning.

"Goodbye Danny."

As quickly as his face had found me at Arlington, it returned to Monticello. All of the digis drained from my magic box. A few reflective seconds went by with me looking through a Rojer-less screen. I took a breath, chuckled, and moved on with the day. Turkey day.

### "All we need to do is act, and the time for action is now."

### Ronald Reagan

Turkey Day, Plus One.

Waking early; the anticipation of pumpkin pie for breakfast a possible cause. Isn't that what Thanksgiving is really all about? Or was it the abnormal warmth in our bedroom that was the cause of my early wake. My hearing told me the furnace was running unabated. The 76 degree telling thermostat told me that it had been for some time.

Legs stiff from sleep and from being fifty one years old, I started my morning ease down the stairs. With every step I felt the temperature dropping. Reaching the last step, it was appreciably cooler.

The chill of a November Colorado morning seemed to be emanating from the kitchen. I tentatively turned towards the flow of cool air and walked through the living room into the kitchen. My eyes were alert and scanning for the unknown. Looking right, concern tightened my throat and stiffened my neck. The kitchen door that yielded to the out-of-doors was almost completely open. Seconds passed, and as they did, my concern for imminent danger changed to concerns of my doings. A feeling of wonder; had I done it again?

Easily edited by fractions of sound, the early morning silence was broken by the upstairs shower. With wonder starting to fade into certainty, I pushed the door closed. The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the air. Thanks to the Coffee Fairies and our 21st century coffee brew system. Pouring myself a cup I head to the den to check cable-news. I am hoping the world is the same as when I went to bed. It wasn't always.

My wife is stirring in the kitchen. The usual sounds of cupboards closing, refrigerator door opening, and the replacing of the coffee pot, tell me so. Interrupting a report of a poor Opening Bell, her silhouette catches my peripheral vision. Taking a slow sip and then looking in my direction, she informed; "You know you did it again. You were up and about. I thought I heard you outside." Any wonder still pestering me was gone.

"What time was it?" I inquired.

"I think it was one thirty or so." Pami took another sip. "I started down to corral you but you were headed back up the stairs. Passing by me you grabbed my hand and shook it." She took a noticeable breath. "You got back in bed, mumbled something, rolled onto your side, farted, and fell back to sleep."

Looking up at her, I said mostly to myself; "I was afraid of that."

She took a slow sip and stared at me. Gently and probably only to be wife polite, she asked; "Well? Who were you with?' I didn't answer. Being wife understanding, she knew I wasn't ready to share. Pamila turned from me and continued her morning routine.

I started Sleep Walking when I was a young child. It use to scare me to tears; rather traumatic for a child. When I first started straying from the security of my room, I always had a dream-like understanding of what was happening. When I went down the stairs, there was a sensation of jumping from the top step. As if floating, my body would slowly drift towards the landing. Suddenly a dream turned to a nightmare. I was going to crash through the large window at the bottom of the stairs. This is when my parents usually became involved; wakened by terror screams of a scared little boy. Luckily though, during my forty eight years of early morning Zombie patrols, only minor bruises and cuts were received. I wonder if my luck might change at some point. No worries; I want pie!

After coffee, pie, and Mervin's daily, I head into town. Even though it is the day after Thanksgiving, my grocery list is extensive. What could we possibly need?

Every year of our marriage, the day after Thanksgiving, I've heard; "Thanksgiving is over!" Not that Pami dislikes Turkey day, just turkey leftovers. She loves the day, the family, and playing Euchre. But in her mind, turkey is old the day after. Not me; bring it on.

Entering the local King Soopers grocery store, I head instinctively to the produce section; a learned instinct. While scrutinizing the Roma's, searching for that perfect tomato, I hear; "Daniel!" Turning away from my quest, I see Greg Tillman. Greg is a former neighbor that works for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. He is a Department Head in charge of the Forensic Investigation Department; this you need to know. But more important to me, I know that he has always been warm for Pami's form. Never determined, very passive, but a man knows. I knew; I've known for a long time.

"How are you Daniel? How is lovely Pami?" There it is!

Ignoring the question; "So, state employees don't work the day after Thanksgiving?" My words were added to by the mandatory Man-law slap on the upper arm.

"No I'm off this weekend. Unless needed of course." He wanted me to know how important he was. "I see you are off as well Daniel." He was trying to get a counter punch in. Stupid bastard, he knows I'm a 'Form 99er'.

Already our discussion was growing tedious to me. I returned to my fruit. He picked up on my body language. In departing, feeling slighted, he attempted a countering slight; "Tell the wife I said hello."

"Yeah I will. Good to see you Greg." Trying to confirm what I had heard, I looked at his ring finger.

"Tell Barbara I said hello as well." Pretending that I was unaware that his wife had left him a few months earlier. Oh yeah! A first round TKO. No reply from him I smiled slightly and turned away. Enjoying the victory in my mind, my smile grew to a soft chuckle. Have a nice day ass!

y list complete, I checked out, drove home, and brought my gatherings inside. I prayed it was a task well done. Countering my groceries I heard Pami making her way to inspect my deed done.

When she was within ear-shot; "Greg Tillman said hello." Now... you may be sensing, if not, you will learn that I don't often keep my feelings cloaked. Pami certainly knew, and she certainly knew of my feelings towards Mr. Tillman. Therefore, she let his second-hand greeting slip away.

"Your overnight envelope from TJ arrived." She diverted. It was only subtle sarcasm; she was building a foundation. "It was delivered by a truck; not horseback." Wait! She's not there yet. "It is amazing though... that someone over 180 years old still has time to write you." She left me with a Pami-evil laugh. I smiled; only after she was gone of course. It was pretty good.

Trying to steal her momentum; "Sarcasm is not appreciated!"

"Learned from the master!" Theft denied. Her exiting barb assured her victory. Okay, so I'm one out of two for the day.

Groceries stored, I walk into the dining room and step to the mail basket. Yeah, we have a 'Mail Basket'. It sits prominent on a small hutch. The mail basket is where the mail goes. It doesn't go there! Or There! It goes in the basket! It always goes in the basket. My beautiful Bride's neurosis. This one is not mine.

As always, the package was there. Picking up the envelope I proceed to my recliner and begin my investigation. Grasping the cardboard envelope I pull the tab. The perforated strip smoothly yields. Clearing back the flap I reach inside and withdraw the contents. Included with the three pages, is a small piece of paper with one hand written word: Thanks.

Giving the three pages a cursory view, I confirm three copies of hand written pages, dated November 22 2009, and signed by Thomas Jefferson. Nothing strange about that.

Rojer told me the original document was penned on the same paper that was on Jefferson's writing desk. The paper in the Cozy. Paper Cozy?

This same paper was also available for purchase in the gift shop. Rojer had once explained to me how the foundation purchased a special paper for display in the study and to sell to visitors. The manufacturer used a special process to produce the desired texture and appearance. It had something to do with spraying the paper with vaporous sulfuric acid, and then flash drying it. It really worked well. It did indeed look like paper that someone would have used in the 18th century.

Rojer complained about the expense. They had to purchase fifty cases at a time. The gift shop sold it for $2.00 a page. I kind of liked it, having purchased ten pages myself. Never using it of course; waiting for the perfect opportunity.

The document was hand written with what appeared to be a fountain pen. There were even ink drips on the paper. I surmised them to be a very determined attempt to look authentic. However, 18th century documents were written with a quill. Fountain pens and metal tipped pens did not exist yet.

Still though, I was ecstatic to finally get a new letter from TJ. I began reading.

.........

November 22, 2009

These larvae, being these thirteen sovereign colonies, have morphed into the most beautiful butterfly seen in any ecosystem. Not an environment on any continent withstanding. The social, economic, and government, hath never been brought forth by any culture. Providence allowed a Pacific, Northwest, and continental republic of proportions never realized or challenged. These United States of America, hath brought envy, and desire to emulate. Those opposed, desire wrath and Jihad.

Again, providence directed: the perfect time; the unyielding land; the men of unquestionable character; all within the grasp of declaration. Circumstances, divine guidance and perceived luck, have created a culinary feast. This being a democracy of plenty. Nearly perfect to those who conceived. The astrological forces which created our universe would marvel at the dynamics which forged our country.

Yet, a country with such a vast population, grand fountain of resources, and unlimited knowledge, stands weakening on the edge of an abyss. The laws of gravity are working to determine our fate. Unless actions are taken to avert our plunge, we will disappear into obscure insignificance. Diamond to carbon. The so oft fate of cultures studied by archaeologists.

My brothers dreamt of a republic invested in all of its citizens. These that battle for liberty, are 300 million in count. Dreams of the federalists, have come to application, and become an anvil upon the shoulders of America. Fathers' grandest foresight could not foretell such a population.

A seed that is the federal government was planted, incubated, sprouted forth, and has grown into a healthy plant. All persons of knowledge now see it as a plant needing to be thin cut.

This encumbering cost of protection, service, and care, can not be sustained. Taxation of its people, can no longer pay for their liberties. Government that serves well serves least.

If debt is evil, our republic's debt, be the Devil. The deficit is the temptation, be it we do not eat, for God will surely smite. Trillions of dollars in deficit, is a plague trying to take the life of the country. Like fruits and vegetables, an economy that is not growing, will soon wither and die.

Leaders that have become melancholy, and fallen into a sleep of passivity, must be awakened by its citizens. The people, the loud majority, must demand proactive resolution. It is the responsibility of the governed to hold that government in faith; so as to fulfill that faith.

The now and the future must be determined, guided, and nurtured. This path that is much littered with stones and covered with holes is a path to be traversed with the guidance of SDW.

Deliverance upon this path may at times be a slow plow, but a strong team will complete the row. This path, will lead us to our destiny. Destiny, can not be determined, only ignored or directed. The choice is to be made.

" _We have much greatness before us. We can restore our economic strength, and build opportunities, like none we've ever had before. All we need to begin with is a dream that we can do better than before. All we need to have is faith, and that dream will come true. All we need to do is act, and the time for action is now."_

Thomas Jefferson

Reading pseudo Jefferson's words once, again, and still once more, I had a general understanding of the content and message. The letter was written with care and thought. Someone, with writing skills and knowledge of TJ had penned it. This I had no doubt. Although sections seemed forced and overly dramatic, it had a poetic and rhythmic flow. Parts seem to be 18th century literature. There were nuances of the era, and it was written with style and stoicism. Other sections are written with a defined sense of facts. Very much the style of our century. The writer's use of current concepts such as trillions, Jihad, and a 300 million populist, show new millennium knowledge. Thus giving credence to a recent creation.

Thomas Jefferson was the author of over 20,000 letters during his lifetime. Not completely unheard of, as writing letters was the social network of his peers. Having read nearly a third of those letters, penmanship on this document did seem to resemble that of Thomas'. The text, did say Thomas Jefferson to me, however there was the implement thing. All writers of that era used quills. This document was written with a flat tipped fountain pen.

A Jeffersonian vocabulary did seem to emanate from the ink; in places. However, some words seemed to be from a different Wordsmith. They were new millennium, and un-Thomas like.

My unprofessional professional opinion was that this was written by an emulator. Someone trying to copy Thomas' penmanship, style, and vocabulary. The author was a person of skill and knowledge. No doubt a Jefferson study.

At the end of my truly unprofessional profiling effort, there is only one irrefutable fact; this document was written, dated, and delivered, less than a week ago. As my wife had passed on to me, Jefferson has been dead for over 180 years. Still, on the historical side of my brain, the neurons were pinging like a nuclear sub trying to set range and fix location on a bogey. A bogey of historical stealth. I was intrigued.

My thoughts were of questioning. Who was the scribe? What was the author's point of reference? Who is the intended audience? And most curiously, who is SDW? Should I assume he is the author? Should that be a starting point of logical thought?

None the less, I had a copy, of an original, of a unique Thomas Jefferson transcript. The signature said so.

I slid the document back into the envelope and headed up to my office. Passing my wife in the hallway she tossed me insincerity; "How is everything with Mr. Jefferson?"

"He seems concerned," I replied. She made that leaking air sound. A Pami sound. An often sound.

Gently tossing the envelope onto my desk, I turn to depart. Two paces to the door a feeling of carelessness overwhelms me. My legs won't move forward, motor skills lost. My exit mentally unacceptable, I turn back towards my desk. A surge of sensibility made it very clear; I had to save the document from a potential household disaster. Spilled coffee or worse; a mistaken feeding of the Spinney Toothed Shredasaurus. Opening the cramped, bottom-right drawer, I file it under 'CURRENT'. If bad Karma was afoot, I am sure that my soul felt its chilled breeze.

R-hour was here; it was time to call Rojer. Knowing that this debt would soon come due, I had been thinking about deferment. I had no sensible answer for him. I knew he was expecting me to part some Mystic's answer upon him. But I was without one. I did not have a tactical plan. An attack now would certainly lead to high causalities. Wait a minute, General Washington pulled it off on Long Island. Facing certain annihilation, he pulled off the most tactical retreat of the war. Thus saving his troops to fight another day. I to could fall back and regroup.

So that's what I did. With planned ignorance I did not call Rojer. Not that day, or the next, or a fortnight. Waiting for Rojer's response to my indifference was a brutal wait. Expecting a frontal assault and never receiving one, was a test of my nerves. Providence delivered me to safety. Rojer did not call.

I felt bad about not calling him, but I hoped it was the prudent choice. I imagined Rojer confronting reality and mastering his thoughts. Allowing him space and time, I hoped he would regain whatever dignity he might have felt lost. Rojer I knew would call if and when he was ready.

### "Only stupid people don't change their mind."

### President (Wild) Bill Clinton.

January 14, 2010

Leaving our home, we start a journey to Rebecca's home. A trip we expect to take just short of an hour. Our arrival time, if it was to be a socially courteous one, was seven in the evening. On the night's agenda, a quiet dinner followed by a not so quiet Euchre encounter. My family playing cards would never be described as quiet. The decibel level can toy with intense. Playing with Wade and Rebecca, Euchre becomes a baffling of wits. How shall I say this? It probably won't matter, feelings may get ruffled. So here it is; Wade sucks at cards. Not tactfully placed but accurately put. My daughter did not marry him for his mastery of: Right Bauer Left Bauer. Wade's loose grasp of the game's nuances, lead to frequent questions by his mate. "Why did you trump my ace?" This question always tests my laughter control. This being just the tip of frustrations expressed by all on Euchre night. Yet, without any commonsense, we all look forward to this quality time. And then to its eventual thankful ending.

A little marital advice; "If your marriage is struggling, don't take your partner as your Euchre partner."

As Rojer says; "I daydream more than anyone he knows." A quote I don't deny. This undeniable is even more pronounced when I travel in a car. Because of my mental wandering, Pami won't let me drive while she is in the vehicle. "You're dangerous!" Claims she. This kind of worries me. This coming from someone that works in a Senior Living Facility.

This trip is no different. I climb into my safe zone in the passenger seat. It's Time-Out for me. We depart the driveway and this sends my thoughts away from all conversation.

Knowing this is a rude habit, I do work on having better car etiquette. However, on this trip I was resolved to the fact that there would be little if any etiquette. The marital wrath that my easily chosen resolve would bring, I also understood.

For the seven weeks since reading 'The Document', as Pami not so reverently calls it, my thoughts have never been far from it. I have spent hundreds of hours re-reading Jefferson's documents. Documents I have accumulated over the years. Many from the Library of Congress and assorted colleges. All of these are photo-copies of original hand written documents. Of course, they all have to be purchased. A continual gentle disagreement that I won't share with you. Not at this time. But I will tell you that I never initiate its gentleness.

Thirty two binders of varying sizes, crammed with Jefferson's documents, sit on shelves in my office. Of course, they are in chronological and alphabetical order; depending on the recipient. Is there really any other way to organize them? My son the marine thinks this anal. I sent him the following e-mail.

Derron,

Because of the order that I have Thomas Jefferson's written word filed; I have chronological access, to exactly the documents I need. All for a special project I am working on.

Dad

He responded:

Dad,

That's great news!

Derron

I sensed sarcasm.

From my library, I've taken examples of TJ's penned literature from eight different decades. The 1750s through the 1820s. Thoroughly did I compare them to The Document.

Although the word anal does not sit well with me, (Pun totally intended) I think you have to be anal... I mean organized, to keep good records. Thus, be able to do this kind of evaluation and investigation.

Spending countless hours comparing penmanship, vocabulary, and writing styles; analyzing which part of Jefferson's life best compares to The Document; after tedious reviews; I believe Rojer's Jefferson writes most like the last decade of the real Jefferson's life. Please, don't ask me how I came to that hypothesis. I will be happy to explain my deduction, but you really don't want that. No one does. Just suffice to know; this is my semi-expert historical geek opinion.

The front end of our car softly bumps on to our arrival driveway. This brings me back amongst the aware. Arriving at my daughter's house, I don't remember uttering more than responsive words to my wife. I do remember Pamila speaking, but of what I do not know. My lack of car etiquette on this trip will surely surface again. I don't know when, or what marital punishment will be inflicted, but I am sure my Love will store it away, and deliver it when maximum damage can be done.

I apologetically turn and look into her eyes. The weak initiative is wasted. The gear shifter on the floor is engaged with abuse; her door is opened with deliberate temperament; she punctuates her cause; "We are here!"

In one last attempt at fending off further retribution; "I'm sorry! Love you Honey!" This futile attempt at gaining forgiveness falls on intentionally deaf ears.

Starting up the stairs to the house, I take her hand in mine. It was greeted with less than abounding love. She of course had the upper hand. It's all good; she loves me. I've never really been sure why, but she does seem to.

Snow was starting to fall and add to the remaining un-thawed inches. We knew a small storm was heading our way and we planned on staying the night. The door jarred open in the right hand of Wade. He flinched, startled by his unexpected opening. Awkwardly he glanced into my eyes and then away. His greeting stumbled uncomfortable awkward and forced. I don't know; maybe it was just my perception gone awry. "Hey! Come on in. I'd give you a hug but I seem to have another cold." I've noticed that Wade gets colds and other common illnesses more often than most.

Looking at his mother-in-law, his greeting continued not flowing easily. "Everyone... well almost everyone... I'm right here. Their all upstairs in the living room." He would not look at me. I looked hard at him wondering what in the hell was wrong with him. I gave a questioning look to Pami. She knew I was asking about who is everyone? Turning his comment into my inquiring thoughts, I stepped into the foyer. "Let me take your coats." He couldn't play cards but he was courteous. I could learn from him.

We removed our artic garb, stowed our gloves, and handed our apparel to Wade. Curious, I listened for voices coming from within and above. There were muffled sounds of stirring, but no voices cascaded down the staircase. Everyone was not presenting a clue to identification.

Wade motioned up the short stairwell that led to the living room. Eager to understand everyone I didn't hesitate. Probably again rude but not enough for future wrath, I left Pamila to fall in behind. Striding quick my senses were searching and still not finding. My eyes crested and picked up familiar faces. Sari and Kent, Rebecca, my local best friend Dennis, and Tina. Tina was lucky for Dennis to be his wife. There was one I didn't know. Standing alone, looking directly into me, a face I didn't remember ever meeting. A woman. She was very short. She was, I'll call it, a very healthy stocky. Her worn face that wouldn't be described as attractive appeared to be in its mid-fifties. Profiling, I cast her as a 16th century Inn keeper. She seemed to be observing me with a Hunter's gaze. Was I being sized?

No one spoke or moved. Easy for me, a defense mechanism of humor dropped words. "God! Am I getting whacked?" Nothing! That should have killed. Although Dennis flinched with a short choking sound. I continued my routine. "So, you're not here for the show I see." After a joke bombs a good comedian always follows. Still no response. I was now in no-man's-land. Obviously I was not one, but what would a good humorist do now? Old staples weren't working and my gut was tightening.

Pami grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the room. This motion must have signaled the beginning of the ritual. The gathered witches and warlocks sprang into ceremony. Sari stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek. I am getting whacked! "I love you Daddy," she said. Pami led me to the couch and gently pushed me into place. She took the seat to my right. Sari joined us on my left and with a circular motion started rubbing between my shoulder blades. The others formed a half circle in front of me. Some sat and others did not.

My mind questioned the proceedings; what the hell was happening? I started scanning faces. All looked like President Nixon the night he told the nation that he was resigning. They seemed bewildered and scared. But most, looked not so pitiful. From across the room, in the area of a Roll-top desk, I heard; "Danny? Hello Danny!"

Surprised and questioning I sked; "Mom?" I gained my feet and looked into the face of my mother. Her face and voice were emanating from a laptop on the Roll-top. "What the heck are you doing Mom?" I never swore in front of my mother. Unless I wanted my mouth washed out with soap.

"It's okay Danny we are here to help you son."

Rebecca being my eldest took charge. "Please sit back down Daddy. We need to talk." Reluctantly I assumed my seat. My wife pulled my arm and held it tight against her side. Sari resumed the circular pattern. At this immediate moment, the attention was what would normally be desired, but this was not normal. Rebecca again; "We all are here, because we love you." I looked at Pamila with what I will describe as a dumfounded look and a questioning thought. Thoughts that were bantering around an intervention. Rebecca knelt down in front of me. Not reverently, sympathetically. She grabbed both my hands in hers. She pierced my eyes as if she was trying to get to my inner-self. "Daddy we love you, and we want to help you." Her words were paced and seemed cooled.

Wade stepped in. "Dan this is Tiffany. Tiffany is from our church." Wade said this slow as if I was new to English. He put out his hand to her. My instinct was to use the Lord's name in vain, but my mother was here; at least digitally.

Tiffany was a mystery to me, but this mystery was beginning to tell its story. She'd been introduced as from our church; spiritually, this was going to be a self-analysis of some sort. This I was sure. This is an intervention! But an intervention for what? I don't drink, do drugs, or beat my family. Wait a minute... is this about the coffee?

"Hello Mr. Rengaw. I am here to help you and your family. I want to guide you. To help you see that the path you are on is hurting yourself and your family." The Inn Keeper said this standing over me with hands clasped.

"Path? I'm on a Path? I didn't know!" These words came from me without premeditation.

Pami, sounding very insincere; "It's alright Dear. We love you." Pami didn't call me Dear unless she was being snotty.

Sari joined the healing; "Dad... you have a problem!"

Dennis added; "It's okay buddy." I looked at him. He had a goofy look on his face.

"Danny listen to the nice lady she wants to help you."

"Thanks Mom!" Rebecca knelt down in front of me again and placed her hands on my knees.

"Daddy..." She paused and seemed to be searching for words. "Daddy, you're tearing apart our family."

Pami emphasized; "And it's not good for you either."

Rebecca continued; "Daddy you have got to quit." She paused again. If only in me it seemed a dramatically long pause. Her moment at hand, she said; "You have got to stop... stop reading Jefferson's letter and start writing again." It got loud silent. My head fell from her eyes.

Looking back up with squinted eyes, I came up with; "What? Are you kidding me? This is an intervention about The Document? About me not writing? Really!" Not expecting an answer, I searched the eyes of the room and forced an unconvincing laugh. No one joined in.

With the hope of crossing back into the real world, I looked to my wife. Pami looked deep into my eyes and softly said; "You're killing me Daniel." Her light tone and harsh word did not match.

"Daniel?" I asked.

Stick, who hadn't spoken, now did. "Dan you have got to stop calling me at work."

Wade; "I can't sleep; I'm up all night worrying about what you are doing to this family?"

"What the hell is wrong with you Daniel?"

"Mom!" My mom, my mother, who swore only once in my fifty one years, just asked me what the hell is wrong with me.

Lurching to my feet I looked at Dennis. "Dennis?" I asked this toning for buddy support.

Dennis looked at me with his usual unconvincing poker-face, slowly raised his glass and said; "Free booze! Wouldn't miss it."

Like the Pharaoh telling Moses to take your people and leave my land, the people rejoiced. Egypt's slaves erupted with laughter.

The laptop cut the jocularity. "We got you Danny. Got you good!"

"Got your dumb ass Buddy." Dennis could barely spit it out he was laughing so hard. I looked to a laughing uncontrollably Pamila. Laughing so hard that she was snorting. All my girls possess that emotional trait.

Rebecca; "You're tearing us apart!" Along with her laughter came a devious smile. It was all perfect.

I had been got; got good. Their deception delighted them to no end. I knew I would be hearing this story for my lifetime. One of those tales that gain length of deviations over the years.

Dennis continued his share of delight with me. "You should have seen your face. First you were pissed. And then you just looked lost. I almost choked trying not to laugh. It was awesome you looked like a lobotomy patient." I wondered how he knew what a lobotomy patient looked like.

The conspirator that dwelled within the laptop added; "Sorry Danny. But when Pamila asked me to help mess with you... well I couldn't refuse. We all owe you several times over."

"Thanks Mom! So glad you were here for me mom!"

Mom wanted to log off. "Good night all. Thanks for letting me play."

"Thanks Grandma," Sari replied.

"Love ya Grandma," added Rebecca.

Pami closed the departure; "Thanks Mom. Good night."

Mom; "Got ya Danny! Be safe everyone."

"Good night Mom. Love ya." I said this with a soft resolve of being got good. Unseen was a laughing father heard. The pixels faded to blue. The always loving smile slipped back into my memory of things good.

The extended moment of glorious redemption for all, slowly passed to new. The evening moved into phase two. There was good food, assorted beverages, Euchre, and merriment had by all.

The party worked its way through the evening. It was around midnight that that the job was complete. The mandatory hugs and kisses were exchanged. The intervention turned party was at an end. As planned, we spent the night's rest in the guest room.

Next morning.

The four of us enjoyed our previously anticipated meal. It consisted of coffee, biscotti, scrambled eggs, and hash-browns. The discussion, mostly at my expense, was the initial. The first re-telling of 'The Intervention'. This first accounting was still fairly accurate. However, I knew future telling through their creativity would glorify and expand the tale. I guess they had earned that. Good for them.

Finishing the evening past, it was time for us to head home. The snow storm left only a few inches; therefore we felt comfortable traveling. Again hugs kisses and goodbyes. We headed to our car and I climbed into my seat of shame. All there was in front of my mind was highway etiquette.

With determination, I forced the start of a conversation. It was either misguided paranoia, or self-idealized sensitivity, that led me to believe that Pami knew of my forced effort. It didn't matter, I was sure that the effort was appreciated. I hoped this would be a healing effort; maybe the wrath for my previous indiscretion would be pardoned.

The core of our conversation was of course our visit. Immersed in a thoughtful adult conversation, Pami threw a knuckle-ball; it fluttered to the plate. "You do know, I meant it when I said you were killing me." I couldn't even swing; it was un-hittable. What could I say? Silence I felt would be best. I'd let her throw another pitch. She continued; "Have you thought about what your next project might be?" Strike two! Fastball, right down the middle. "Its been almost a year since your last book was published. I love ya Honey, but I wish you would keep yourself busy. Sometimes.... time together, is not time well spent." Strike three! Grab some pine Rengaw.

Walking back to the dugout I knew what she meant. Also I knew that she was right. I needed to respond; anything that showed forethought. "I have an idea I've been percolating."

Her eyes briefly strayed from the highway and she asked for a positive response. "I hope it's almost done brewing. Can you tell me what you're percolating?" A tinge of sarcasm. But her seeking was not unusual. We'd been down this road before.

I was not self-convinced of my project. Therefore, I was not sure how to frame my reply. "It's kind of something I've wanted to do; kind of a historical thing."

"No way! Historical! You?" No tinge there. I glanced at her. She'd amused herself and was enjoying a self-indulged giggle. It was the often and annoying type.

I continued with a whining tone; the often annoying type. "I just don't know if I have the knowledge or the temperament. I would have to do extensive research. In fact Honey... I have already done some research on it." She continued driving in waiting silence. "It is sort of a discussion. No! More of a debate. Yes, a debate, a debate about slavery. Was slavery the right thing for America?"

Her waiting abruptly ended. "You're kidding right! Tell me you're kidding."

"No no not a moral discussion. More of a necessity debate."

"I'm still not with you."

"See... your reaction is exactly what I don't want. Let me see if I can clarify."

Taking a mental breath I gathered and tried to clarify. "Okay, at the conception of the Union, the declaring of independence, and writing of our Constitution, would our republic have failed without slavery? That is the debate." Her face softened slightly. It seemed receptive as I continued; "See I could follow the debate through the decades all the way to the current. Presenting both sides of the argument." With some trepidation I asked; "What do you think?"

She took more time to answer than I was comfortable with. "Well... I know you are not afraid of research. Lord do I know that. However, I do have some concerns. There is the obvious one-"

I cut her off. "The moral issue of slavery would not be the question. Slavery, in its simplest form, was undoubtedly horrendous. The culture of slavery, morally right or wrong, that is not the debate. The question to be considered would be could the young republic survive if colonial slavery was abolished." I paused waiting for feedback.

"Secondly Danny I don't think that you have ever done anything like this before."

"No. I haven't. And this is my fear. I mean I don't want to spend a lot of time on it and then produce something sub- par. This subject deserves quality consideration. I would never release something like this if I did not think it had validity. It must have power. I'm not sure I can make it powerfully valid."

Leaving both of us to think about it, the discussion took a thoughtful pause. Pami when ready picked it up again. "Although I agree this is a powerful topic, my question is: Is this your kind of subject? It is up to you. Can you give it the rendition it calls for?"

Several Klicks closer to Morrison and to home, I try to close the topic. "I'll think about it. Do some more research and see if I can come up with a viable outline."

Sometimes I write using an outline. Other times my thoughts just seem to breathe life into a story. Either way, I never know where I'm going until I get there. I close the close with; "The only way out is through." Pami has heard this many times before. She smiles. Closed.

I thought it was closed, but apparently the door was still slightly ajar. Toned with softness, Pami slammed it shut. "Do what you think will work for you. But for me, do something. Anything! That will work for me." Her ending told me it was so. But then there was this; "And get over The Document for God's sake."

Even with her minor wifely reprimand, I sensed and opening. I rushed on her what I'd been thinking but not having the proper moment for. "Okay I will but I want you to do one thing for me." With a look that a husband recognizes, she was quick to me. It understood that something disagreeable was heading her way.

I began my plea. "Okay. Pretend you're the Governor. Hear my petition and consider granting me a stay of execution. Don't be quick to judge."

Pami grumbled and quickly eye flicked me. I held for a verbal response. She glanced again, held pause still, and reluctantly gave in. "Okay I promise. I promise... to hear you out." Good enough; but I knew it was good enough for only now.

I started in; "I have been trying to contact Greg Tillman for over a week."

"Greg?"

"Yeah Greg." She was bursting to challenge with more. I gave her quick pause to do so but she held. "I've left several messages with him but he won't call me back. I guess he did not like our last conversation. Anyways... I want him to get his team to examine The Document." That was too much for her.

"Oh hell no."

I objected to her objection. "You promised to listen!" I waited. She held a tongue that so wanted to be free. I continued; "I want to get the letter analyzed. You know, forensic hand writing analysis."

She questioned my mental health. "You know you have a problem right?"

"If I can get it analyzed I can move on."

Her voice rose in volume and intensity; "Are you kidding me?" I left that unanswered and she posed another question. "Do you, really think, that Thomas Jefferson, wrote that letter?"

"No!" My no came easier than I would have expected. Slower; "No I don't. Please, just humor me." She could see that the ball was in her court.

It was garbled mumbling, but I heard; "Humor you this is a joke humor you." She longer than a glance at me. Again and one last time. Shaking her head, not believing that she was going to say what she was about to, she yielded; "What do you want me to do?"

Even for an at times Dullard like me, I saw the opening despite the trees. I leaned towards her and softly proposed; "I want you to call him." Wanting to quickly clear any hitting attempt, I recoiled.

"Not just no, but hell no!" These words meant nothing from a Pami that I felt I had turned.

"Come on! Please!"

"And say what? Hi Greg, this is Pamila Rengaw, the reason I'm calling is because my husband is certifiable and he thinks Thomas Jefferson wrote him a letter. Could you please analyze it for me?" She bats her eyes and gives her best fake-flirt-face.

"Yes! That is exactly what I want you to say. Leave me out of it of course but yes. Look... you know he will do anything for you as long as he thinks there is a chance that you may light his candle."

"Light his candle?" She questions my inference.

"Just give him a call and leave him a message in your most playful voice. Tell him you need to speak with him. That should get his wax melting."

"Are you prostituting me?"

"Yes... no... well sort of. No crimes will be committed. Come on please!" I laughed sensing I had her. "When he calls you back tell him you would like to come see him."

"Why don't you go see him Daniel?"

"I'll admit, I have great legs, but you're the one that lights him up."

"What do I tell him, during our, appointment?" Sarcasm, good.

"Tell him that you have this document that was left to you by a dead aunt. Tell him you need it analyzed to determine authenticity. I will provide you with other documents that you want it compared to. Give them to him and ask him if he could have them analyzed."

"And when he sees that it's dated last November and signed by Thomas Jefferson?" I sensed persuasive success. 'Always Be Closing'.

"I will make a copy and black-out the signature and date. I'll black-out all dates and signatures. He won't suspect anything. He's an idiot!" She was closed. I could smell it. Come on... come on... say yes.

"If this will give you your sanity back I'll do it."

"Yes!" Closed. However, the Governor was about to put stipulations on the Pardon.

"But this is it Danny. I mean it!"

Instantly; "Yes. This is it yes."

She continued; "I do this and you're finished. It's time to check back in with the rest of the world."

"Yes; finished; promise!"

She spoke from perceived experience; "Don't promise me Danny. You don't know the meaning of the word." A little harsh I thought but I wasn't touching it.

"That's my girl! I knew you would do it. I love you."

"Shut up! Freak!"

I did.

Later that morning.

I waited about an hour after arriving home; that was as long as I could take it. "Here. That is the number to the CBI building." She gave me a blank stare and nonchalantly took the small paper. Not ruffled; "This number will put you into the directory. When you get the proper request, enter the number fifteen. Fifteen will get you into Greg's voice mail." As I was handing Pamila her cell phone, I was definitely non-Christian in my thoughts; Fifteen. His registry number is fifteen. Loser!'

Pami dialed the number, waited, entered fifteen when prompted, and waited again. In a voice that sounded more pitiful than seductive; "Greg, this is Pamila Rengaw. I would like to speak with you. I hope you can call me back. My number is ... Thanks Greg. I look forward to hearing from you." Signaling the end of an unpleasant task she handed me her phone.

"That was perfect. That's my girl!" Planting a kiss on her she squirms away from me like I have Kooties.

"Now that I've called my John, what do we do next Danny?"

In Character, in any old black and white spy film, I go with the moment. "Synchronize watches. 1121 hundred hours. Hack! Let's see how long it takes Mr. Tillman to call you back." She laughs a brief not wanting to humor me chuckle.

Walking away she leaves me with Pami love; "You're an idiot!"

1133 hours; Pami's phone rings. My sandwich making stops and I look at my watch. As a 19th century English Town Crier, I chime out the day's news. "Twelve minutes." Back in Rengaw character, be it good or bad, I add; "It took him twelve minutes."

"Daniel Hush!" Turning from me she flits her hair and places the phone to her ear. Easing away from me; "Hello... Hi Greg. Thanks for calling back... Well, I was hoping I could come by and see you. I have something I would like to talk to you about." (Long pause.) He finishes what I perceive as an attempt at charm. Pami giggles like a school girl and continues; "Tomorrow, that would be wonderful. What time? Three fifteen would be fine... Look forward to it... Bye." She buttons off her cell and irreverently tosses it on the counter top. Pami seems upset as she laments; "That bastard! A Division Director, of the CBI, has time to see me tomorrow. He didn't even ask what it was about."

Not at all concerned with her disgruntlement I elate; "You did great!"

Her reply did not reflect my compliment. "You owe me Daniel!" Disgusted with him, and probably me, she disappears upstairs. From the top of the stairs, muffled but heard; "That dog!" I chuckled not to her.

"Hack!"

Caraway seed rye bread; Poupon mustard; 'Bread and Butter' sandwich slices; honey ham; tomato slices; Baby-Swiss slices; my culinary creation. Garnished with vinegar and salt Kettle Corn chips, my meal is ready for consumption. My new-born, and never to grow old friend and I, head to the best seat in the house. I place the plate on the quasi-coffee table in my office; a converted 1938 Hartmann steamer trunk. A near mint piece of history. It was laid open, exposing the useable inner workings. A custom made piece of tempered glass is its top. The glass covering allowed witness to: five lockable drawers; a garment hanging area which included custom wooden hangars; and a space for leather Wing Tip Shoes. All of its keys are on an authentic rabbit-foot keychain. It is an incredible piece of made in Racine Wisconsin Americana. A great conversation piece. Indicative of most pieces in my mini Smithsonian. Almost everything in my office has historical significance. At least to me. I imagined the adventures that the trunk had been on.

My trunk, my sandwich, and myself, had a working lunch. I had to work on this feast, and work at work. Work as defined by me, probably not by Webster. I am one of the lucky, my work is my passion. I fear that there are those that go on metaphorical archaeological digs, and never discover their passion. Providence had granted me passion in my work. I worked, on my lunch; passion'd, through TJ's documents.

A bite here, a gathering there. Gathering the copies of the copies, I copied them one more time. Them, being the writings that I had used earlier to come to my conclusions. I would supply them all to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation and let them make their own conclusion. I blacked-out all dates and signatures; as well as the addressed. Creating and implementing a secret Rengaw code, I labeled each one for the decade that it was scripted. The set from the 1750s, as 50 and 51. I coded the other seven decades similarly. Thus, creating a systematic method for identification. If the CBI could tell me which documents, The Document most matched, I would have a way to identify the period.

Blackened and coded, I inserted the copies into a legal size envelope. Setting-up Pami for success.

Finishing my task and my lunch, I spin and slide. Docking my chair with my workstation. A fingertip-flick of the mouse sends my screen-saver into hibernation. It is time to check e-mails and update my blog.

Rengawraves.com had also been neglected post-transplant. It was time to be more productive and responsive. Pre new kidney, Rengaw Raves had approximately 17,000 semi-loyal and semi-sane followers. I suspect that some have left me over the past six months. The attention-span of Millennia's seems very short.

The semi-loyal included several Senators, a former President, and a few Historians. The semi-sane included Jim Morrison, Harpo Marx, and Winston Churchill. A potpourri for sure. And I enjoyed all that corresponded. Well... almost all.

My site theme, and blog topics, are much like our Constitution; structurally defined, yet open to interpretation. The conversation has historical and political philosophy prevalence. However, all topics are open. But the true purpose of my site is thought; generating it, being mentally questioning, and hopefully placing thought within actions.

I'll post a discussion topic; trying not to smother it with my opinion. But sometimes... The e-mail discussion then ensues. I follow the replies and introduce into the discussion the pertinent and thought filled. Sometimes quality replies are not. I am not sure if it is a reflection of my writing, or a lack of interest in the topic. I will, if in digital hand, post a quality document from a reader. Then the frenzy can feed off of someone else's opinion.

My goal is thought. Creative thought that leads to knowledge and implementation of knowledge. Thinking out of the circle. Not going around and around with the same used up thoughts. Not wasting time with the attempted implementation of stale thoughts. In its most simplistic-ness, it seems common sense that generation-ally has been left in the past. Be creative with thought and then implement that creativeness. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

An Instant Message grabs my attention. The author is Rojer. The fifty year old question. Are you a good witch, or a bad witch? I was braced for the worst, but happy that Rojer was still with me. This being his first post video-conference attempt at communicating with me. The now famous: Turkey Day Internet Interlude.

It reads: (Hope you have a good B-day. You're getting old buddy.) Yes! It's a good witch. By not saying much, Rojer has said volumes. This is the Rojer I understand. My birthday is still five days away but ever prompt Rojer did not want to miss it. All is good in Monticello.

My survey of e-mails finds a plethora of the usual. How to make others happy; my father. The monthly family update; my sister. Readers; many asking where I'd gone. I decided that none needed immediate attention. Only my sister needed immediate attention, and I didn't have the psychological training for that.

Digital mail delivered and mostly ignored for now, I move on to my now task; creating and posting a new blog.

.........

Posted this 15th day of January, 2010

'Kidney, Thanks, and Slavery'

Most of you don't know, but I recently received the gift of life. My bride, my wife, and the Love of my Life, gave me a new kidney. A gift I can never repay. My health is rebounding in an amazing way. My prognosis appears excellent. For those of you that sent well wishes, they were greatly appreciated. For those of you that didn't; "What the hell?" The not so good news; I'm back!

Debate this:

If, in July of 1776, our founders had abolished slavery, would the Infant Union have survived? In the simplest form, this is what you are to ponder.

I wish this to be an open debate. Therefore, at this time, I will offer no opinion. Please mail me your thoughts. I will review all opinions and post both sides of the debate.

Next posting: January 23rd

.........

Not wanting to acknowledge that I have topic insecurity, I wish to call this posting research. This topic is a sound one for my site, but I do have guilt of stealing; being so cloak and dagger. I will acknowledge that maybe I am forcing guilt to mask insecurity. You need to take my acknowledged weakness while you can. I don't like acknowledgement.

From this posting I am hoping to get quality feedback. Maybe it will help with my decision. It's posted; I shall see.

Next morning.

'Pami visits Greg Day'.

Over breakfast I give the coded, blackened, and collated documents to Pami. Like a teacher instructing a four year old how to tie shoes, I gave her detailed directions. The instructions, were how I wanted her to go about her infiltration of the CBI. During my deliverance I got 'The Thousand Yard Stare' from her. With a flip of her hair she played with me. "Could you go over that one more time for me? I'm just a girl!" Point taken. Still, I did think about going over it one more time. Wisely I chose my pancakes instead.

The remainder of the business-day was spent engulfed in research. My research habits were oft and overly defined by Pami as; "When he's researching, he's learning. When he's learning, he's happy." I had to give her that she was right. I did love learning. Anything. I'm not sure how I should take it, but Sari likes to tell me; "You have more useless information in your head than anyone; ever!" I hope not all is useless.

The bronze statute, of the founder of Faber College, has a plaque which reads: 'Knowledge Is Good'. This briefest of clips in the movie Animal House, I know is supposed to be ironically funny. But to me, its humor is ironically lost by its truthfulness.

At 5:33 the low rumble of the garage door lifts Bubba's head and brings barks of anticipation with his leaving. Pamila is back from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Listening to the door close I decide to play a married game. I would question her sense of my normalcy. She will expect me to rush downstairs and ask her the details of her meeting. Like a puppy overly excited by its owner once again magically finding her way home. Which was my first instinct. But I'll take a more feline approach; snottily unimpressed.

As I wanted the game to play forward, my obstinate-ness peaked an inquiry. Walking through the living room she asks of my location; "Danny?" Moving more forward, I didn't respond. Mervin leads her up the stairs.

My silent pause long enough played, I offer; "I'm in my office." Faking work that can't be broken, I feel her standing in the doorway. She didn't speak. I began to break but held unbroken. Her eyes were burning and I was sure I twitched.

Just about to slip into the abyss, she did so first. "Well! Don't you want to know how it went?"

Swiveling to face her; "What? Oh... I'm sorry. How did it go Honey?"

"Oh please! I know it is killing you. You suck at this game Danny. You know that right!"

"What so ever are you speaking of Pamila?" As I said this I wanted my face to show sincerity, but I'm sure it was just stupid. With a scrunched smile she shook her head slow. After a deep sigh she came clean.

"It went well. First I met with Greg. I explained what I had and what I wanted. Exactly per your anal instructions." There is that word again. She continued with her performance presented; "I could tell his wax was starting to dry when he found out why I was there." She was for her use using my words and it made me smile. "After his weak-ass-attempt at flirting-"

"Do I want to know?" I interrupted.

"No." Her soft word clipped my flare of jealousy and she continued. "He called a woman into the office. A Special Agent. The supervisor of that department I guess. Greg, in a very authoritative manner, gave her all of the documents and instructed her as to what he wanted. Which matched your wishes. He told me it may take a couple of weeks for the results. According to him they were very busy. I don't doubt it. He said he would call when the report was ready. We socialized briefly and I left." She paused with a purpose. "As I am now." She turned and started down the hallway.

Again flaring, I pseudo wanted more. "What do you mean socialized? Is that all I get?"

"Yes." She said this in a way that she knew would make me wonder. I chuckled as I knew that she is the queen of this game, and I merely a Jester.

'We are all on a deadline; every minute.'

January 17, 3:18 a.m.

"Danny are you awake?" Pami startles me from the hallway.

"Yes. I'm okay. Go back to bed. Didn't mean to wake you. I'm good just an early morning neuron surge." With no further concern, she returned to her bed. Her slumber time was running out as she needed to be up at five; nursing called. Pami was use to my early morning 'Newtons', as well as my sleeping travels. Her reason for searching me out was to determine my current level of consciousness.

Sound sleep was not always easy for me; especially when I was working on a project. I referred to my neurological locomotion's as Newton's. Newton's law of the brain: A brain at rest, tends to remain at rest. A brain in motion, tends to remain in motion. Newton's... Perhaps I shouldn't force this law on him. My brain in motion law, often caused me restless or no sleep. Trying to control the symptoms of this law, I experimented with one rule; no writing after 8:00 p.m... Although I'll admit that this rule was at times broken. Even when followed, there were no guarantees of a mind at rest sleep. The only guaranteed resolution was transferring thoughts to a hard drive. This was the cure I was currently attempting.

I went to bed holding on to the inner thought that I was still undecided about The Debate. But if this was indeed so, why were my fingers on my keyboard at 3:30 in the morning. Hours before the rooster was to crow.

Living in Morrison Colorado, city codes probably allow for farm animals. But we don't have a real rooster. However, thanks to my lovely wife, a rooster's crow is the sound that screeches from our alarm-clock. Pamila thinks it cute. It scares the hell out of me.

A potential opening on the rails, a Newton was definitely in play. It was either purge my thoughts or stare at the ceiling waiting for the Cock to awaken. Purging seemed a less scary best.

.........

January 17th, early a.m.

The USS Constellation might have been the prologue of the story titled: 'The end of slavery in America'. In 1859, the African Squadron was on station; patrolling off the west coast of Africa. The squadron consisted of eight wooden sailing vessels. The Flagship was the Constellation. Her mission was to find, board, seize, and arrest the crew of any ship participating in human trafficking. America, along with England, had made slave trafficking illegal in 1808. In 1820, America made trafficking an act of piracy; punishable by death. However, there is only one documented case of imposing that punishment of finality.

The African Squadron's sole purpose was to battle illegal slave trade. For many reasons, but mainly, the cunning tactics of the slavers, the squadron was very ineffective. The squadron did however make the smugglers earn their contracts.

The USS Constellation was decommissioned in 1861. More correct, its mission changed. The Constellation was a very swift three mast'd warship. A very prized vessel, she was armed with 26 powerful guns.

In 1861, slavery was one war from being abolished. The Constellation was an anti-slavery Icon. When the proud ship sailed into New York harbor in the spring of 1861, American slavery would soon go the way of the Dodo Bird.

Of the travels of American slavery, the Constellation sailed toward the beginning of the end. The debate was first argued with meaning in 1774. But without a means to an end, the debate had been an American argument for a century. Although slavery as defined by the word ended, the debate continues.

Except among a very small genetically limited group of people, there is no debate. All slavery, starting with the Pharaohs, and continuing today in many forms, is morally, ethically, and spiritually a horrible abuse of God's creations.

The debate I attempt to bring to life is this: At its conception and subsequent birth, could a group of thirteen colonies, now united, survive without slavery? Could thirteen, soon to be United States of America, grow and survive socially, spiritually, economically, and governmentally. Could it do all of this if slavery was abolished? Abolished at its American infancy.

One can only guess when Americans started to debate: Do we need slavery to perpetuate our way of life? Was it 1610 in Jamestown? Or was it Native American's a century earlier? It does seem impossible to hypothesize. No matter; within the scope of this debate this question is insignificant. The laser point of our discussion is pinpointed on national creation and its subsequent survival.

While nationalism was surely discussed in taverns during the beginning of The Seven Year War in 1755, the permanent scripting of nationalism was inked in the spring of 1776. For our sojourn, this will be our port of demarcation.

May 15th, 1776: A referendum was voted on and passed by the Continental Congress. This document, among other propositions, called for the colonies to be free of King George's encumbrances. John Adams was its author. Incidentally, in Mr. Adams' eyes, mind, and heart, this document was the true Declaration of Independence. This he believed all his life and loved to tell anyone that would listen.

June 28th, 1776: Charles Lee called for a definitive declaration to be drawn, debated, and voted upon. This is the exact moment in history that our debate begins. The nexus of our debate is the Declaration of Independence.

The president of the 3rd Continental Congress was John Hancock. Mr. Hancock's jumbo signature on the Declaration of Independence is one of those great anecdotes of history. Hancock wanted to make sure that King George could clearly read his signature. Often the best parts of history are the nearly hidden personas that fall between the cracks of the facts.

Hancock formed a five man committee. Their function was to create a cornerstone. A declaration that would capture the desires and determination of the people. At least as it was seen through the eyes of the Continental Congress. The foundation of a new republic, anchored by this cornerstone, was about to be laid.

Roger Sherman, Thomas Jefferson, Robert Livingston, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, were the five called upon. Called to construct our Declaration of Independence. These five men potentially held within their cask of ideology, a nation free of slavery. Potentially, because the Continental Congress still had to ratify their architectural design.

Hancock designated Adams as committee chair. Adams ceremoniously offered the scribing task to Franklin. Benjamin being the Elder Statesman of honor. Franklin graciously declined; citing the physical pain of writing at his age. But undoubtedly, all were well aware of Jefferson's mastery of the quill. Adams offered young Jefferson the task. An offer that Hancock surely would have wanted. Historians suggest that Hancock made Adams committee chair so that rules of etiquette would not allow Adam's to appoint himself to the task. Providence dictated Jefferson, and Jefferson dictated a masterpiece.

As much as Thomas Jefferson was disinterested in public speaking, he was Masterful in text. Like his contemporaries, the era was communication led by hand written documents. But beyond few of his fellow founders, his writing reached towards works of art. Few quills flowed every note like Jefferson's. With his sharp intellect, precision of language, and sense of enlightenment, he was providence chosen Moment in Time. Embodied in a single, he was Dickens, Socrates, and Churchill. All in a single living 18th century vessel. In the context of Enlightenment, George Washington often spoke of Time and Space. Jefferson was Washington's Time defined. The perfect man; the exact moment. The Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, June 1776, Time tri-perfect.

As written by Thomas Jefferson, approved by the committee of five, overwhelmingly indulged by the Continental Congress, I present you the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence:

"We hold these truths, to be self-evident: That all men are created equal; that they are endowed, by their creator, with certain inalienable rights. Those among these are: life; liberty; and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, government is instituted among men. Deriving their just powers, from the consent of the governed.

.........

The body of the Declaration of Independence, written by Jefferson, with only minor changes by the committee, and presented to congress, was not approved in its original form. In fact, the original document, condemned slavery.

Jefferson listened in quiet disgust as the debate over the final form of the document continued. Phrases, ideology, and declarations, were changed or eliminated. The voted on, and ratified declaration, had not a single mention of slavery.

Slavery had lost its first chance at abolishment. Yet the words 'All men are created equal' are approved and held within the preamble.

So, here is our beginning; the Debate's Opening Arguments.

.........

Pami's goodbye kiss is now over an hour old. Mervin waits for me with anticipated impatience. Finished with my task we head out for a brief walk around the block. Walking at a quickened pace, I perform a mental rewrite of my morning's work. Thinking it a little loose, I'm not thrilled with it. However, I am pleased to get a start; even if it never flourishes. Mostly I think of sleep. My brain now purged, I can surely put restlessness aside and fall into a sleep of the eased.

Not knowing how later, but later, I wake to Mervin's alarm. His barking at the front door tells me of Lenny's visit. It's an excited bark; friendly and inviting. One that he will not yield unless I act. Checking the rooster I see that it is 10:33. Although still in the fuzzy of waking, the warm glow from outdoors tells that it is still morning. Senses beginning to process all that senses do, I head down the stairs. In my happiest dog voice; "What's up boy? Is it time? Was Lenny here?" Mervin's butt swings side to side following the most excited tail. He twice runs halfway up the stairs and then back to the door. An anticipating paw swats at the door. "Hang on hang on." Asking me to open the damn door, he gives a single sharp bark. "Okay!" Opening the door he brushes me aside getting past. There it is, on the mat, the object of his persistence; a dog biscuit. Lenny, our mailman, has come and gone. Mervin gets his treat.

Turning to my left I look to the mail receptacle; the usual mail is sticking out. Only, there is one irregular piece. Grabbing all I re-enter the house. Treat gone, Mervin follows.

Sorting through Lenny's delivery, my attention goes to a legal size envelope. Heavy and pushing its limit. Inspecting further I notice that it is hand written, addressed to Dr. Rengaw, with an unfamiliar return address. All in hand, I head to the kitchen to scope out the coffee situation. Cold coffee, words I hate, remains in the pot. Microwave earn your keep.

Sitting at the kitchen table I take a sip of coffee pretending to filter through the other mail. Who am I kidding? Grabbing the envelope I open it and extract the contents. Again a cursory inspection identifies that it is a hand written document. The penmanship appears delicately distinctive.

.........

Dr. Rengaw;

At the end of November, my pen livened. With no clear direction, my ink started to fill pages. Eight and sixty pages came in to creation.

Apparently, divine inspiration guided my thoughts. My heart intervened from within.

Upon completion, the ink I guided had taken on viability.

I have searched you out and sent this to you. My desire, is that you consume the written word and determine your own possibility, for viability.

Patrick Thomas

.........

Reading this, I look to Mervin lying on the kitchen floor. As I often do, I speak with him; "Do I look like an Idiot? Well do I?" He lifted his head, glanced at me and laid his head back down. He thinks: Yes you do. Let me sleep.

Where did this freak come from? Where do they all come from? A sixty-eight page hand written document? He wants me, to determine viability? Really! Who the hell am I, The Shell Answer Man? (Over 40 crowd only) This is all I need. I think I'm losing it. Maybe I can get Pami to get Homeland Security to check out Mr. Patrick Thomas.

Leaving the document on the kitchen table I nuke another cup of coffee and continue with my day. Mervin needs to play chuckit. I need to get a life.

Later that evening.

Mervin lets me know that Pamila is home from work. Like a teenager who had left a bad report-card on the kitchen table, I leapt to my feet, sprinted down the stairs, turned and headed for the kitchen. Mervin scattered before me.

Just as my wife was opening the kitchen door, I grabbed the 68 page document. "I'm home Ricky!" (In her worst Lucy voice.) Trying to slow my actions, I slid the document back into its envelope.

"Hi sweetheart." A greeting I only give when I can't think and speak simultaneously. She looked at me inquisitively, walked to a kitchen counter and placed down a small bag of groceries.

Glancing at the bad report-card in my left hand, she asks; "Whatcha got?"

"This?" Hoisting the envelope in her direction. "Nothing. Just some research I needed."

"More Jefferson crap?" she asks, staring at me as if I did have a bad report-card.

"No it's just some information I needed. I'll put it away." I fled like a Gazelle on the Serengeti. Heading for the safety of my office.

Gazelle-ing away, I thought I heard a muffled; "His father warned me."

After The Document incident, there was no way I was going to let her see my newest gift from Lenny. Nor would I tell her about it. I don't need another intervention.

Entering my sanctuary, with little respect for the contents, I toss the envelope onto the steamer trunk. Rejoining my bride.

'January 9th, 1776. Common Sense, first edition, in the hands of the people.'

Next morning

Engaging my workstation, I settle in to work on Rengaw Raves. Dissecting my e-mails, I print out all pertaining to The Debate. The tally is as follows: 39 total responses; one, threatening my black-loving-ass; five, written without thought or reason; twenty three that liked the topic; ten that seemed uncomfortable with the topic. Without meticulous analysis of all the responses, I feel mostly positive. The Debate, may be do-able. I guess it is up to me. More percolating on the topic may help. Percolating on my friend was time wasted. My friend needed and deserved an immediate response. And immediate today of course means e-mail.

.........

Neanderthal;

I will not try to explain with only small words; Soes youse can figger this out. But if you would like to brings your lame ass, to my house, I am sure we can straighten this out.

My address is:

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Just come to the door and ring the bell. I am sure, someone there, will help you.

.........

Needing to slip into a calm yet active creek of thought, Classic Rock and a comfortable couch were called upon. But not just any couch. A large sofa that was originally in the Blair House. Lyndon Johnson found it in the Presidential Guest House. It fit his large frame perfectly and had it moved to the Whitehouse. It has been in storage for four decades. Then it was purchased on-line; by me. At least that is the story. Good enough for me.

Selection of music for successful percolating is a crucial part of the process. 'The Wall', Pink Floyd, side one, perfect. This choice sure to make me comfortably numb.

Discman at the ready, I assume the position. With Roger Waters in my ears and not slowing the neuron's wheels, the silver disc stops its spinning. No Pulitzer taking shape as an unwritten outline, my eyes wander left to the envelope that still lay on the trunk. I do wonder though if maybe lied on the trunk may be better chosen words.

My potentially new project not gaining structure, my inspiration, or lack of, sends me elsewhere. With changed focus I sit and pick up the envelope. My last thought before reading brings new ones; it does seem that Mr. Waters has let me down. Something he rarely does.

Pausing with pages in hand, I wade through the reeds of indecision one last time; Should I? You know that it will only perturb you. You don't need the frustration. But can I? Can I not? No I can't not.

"Only unexplored time, is wasted exploration."

D. Rengaw

Pulling the 68 page document from its manila protector and placing the cover page aside, I begin reading without expectations. Well I do have expectations, but they are not good ones.

.........

Colonial America had just ended its first war. A war Winston Churchill called World War 1. We know it as the Seven Year War. More commonly, the French and Indian war. Among the colonists, there were rumblings of discontent with Mother England.

Thomas Paine, with the publication of Common Sense, sent the spark that ignited a revolutionary firestorm.

_The most published pamphlet of the founding era, it was an 18_ th _century roadmap to revolution, independence, and freedom. Historians do debate Paine's place in history. Ranging from a loyal patriot, to a treasonist. However, one fact is undeniable: Paine's Common Sense guided the fledgling colonies on a path to the future. More specifically, an Opportunity for Solution._

Every Opportunity for Solution, (OFS's), requires three steps:

1. Analysis of the opportunity.

2. Development of a plan for solution.

3. A determined, implementation of the plan.

_When I think of Common Sense, I ask myself, what would Paine write today. Today being this last month, of the first decade, of the 21_ st _century._

In order to start this highly speculative process, one would first have to identify the most pressing OFS's of our country. Only then, can the three steps be applied.

Here in lies the first stumbling block of this writing. We are now, a vast continental country. We would need to identify OFS's which concern a country, as well as states. We are no longer thirteen independent colonies trying to survive and flourish. However, as our republic ages, the separating line between states and federal sovereignty, becomes ever more blurred.

Opportunity for Solution 1

_Any 18_ th _century Democratic Republican, and many modern day Republicans may never admit it, but we have become a republic led by a federal government. A Thomas Jefferson and John Adams debate on this topic would indeed be an epic one. Thomas Jefferson would doubtless, not have enough philosophical and statistical information to win this debate._

Opportunity for Solution 2

OFS 2, which closely correlates to the first OFS, is the multi trillion dollar federal deficit. This of course, is fodder against the federalists of Washington and Hamilton.

Let's just call it a mantra of current day Republicans. Please let us move on to OFS 3; for I fear that James Madison may visit me as I sleep. Clearly, Madison would express Thomas Jefferson's opinion on this topic.

Opportunity for Solution 3

Not to let the states off the hook; OFS 3 is the deficits of the states. I don't think that Alexander Hamilton would wish to assume the debt of the states today. I don't see it helping with the federal government's credit rating.

Opportunity for Solution 4

Bi-partisanism, or lack of; partisanism, or lack of. Let's just call it the two party system. It is easy to see, how the creators of the Constitution, did not foresee a two party system as the future of our country. Or, did they simply not want to think about it?

Opportunity for Solution 5

Immigration reform.

Opportunity for Solution 6

Education In this country.

Opportunity for Solution 7

Closely tied to OFS 6; our economy, current and future. It seems that no one wants to address the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Therefore, I will.

Opportunity for Solution 8

Related to all the above; unemployment benefits. Should unemployment benefits be paid, and for how long? Employment and the strength of the workforce will be addressed elsewhere.

Opportunity for Solution 9

OFS 9 is a grouping of social issues. One that we as a nation spend too much time debating, arguing, and fighting over. On a long list of problems facing this country, we should not still be spending so much time, and money on. It is not, that they lack importance. It is simply that our society can't seem to mature and move on. Simpler yet, read the Declaration of Independence. Even though our founding fathers could not adhere to its words, it is time that we do.

Opportunity for Solution 10

Global, U.S. military actions. Should we be involved with our current wars? Should we be involved in the future? If so, how do we fiscally, pay for it?

Before moving on to a discussion of Opportunity for Solution 7, several items need to be briefly addressed.

The 10 OFS's that I have chosen to discuss, are not all inclusive. Others may not have chosen the same.

Also, the OFS's will not be presented in numerical order. However, I hope, in an order that makes sense.

Secondly the purpose of this writing is to activate thought and imagination in others. Hopefully inspire others to be mentally creative.

Lastly, I am a self-educated historian. My formal education is in Literature and business management. I am not an economist, financier, scientist, or engineer. Therefore all the numbers and science may not be perfectly accurate. Yet, I hope to keep the philosophies and concepts workable.

Opportunity for Solution 7. The Economy

When I tried to determine which OFS should be discussed first, my thoughts seemed to be on a Roundabout. All paths led directly to the economy. When discussing the condition of our economy, several measurements could be used to determine its strength. These include: employment; unemployment; wages; and others. To many economists, the tensile measurement of economic strength is rate of growth. Economic growth rate appears to be the most determinant measurement of the overall health of an economy. Our current growth rate of 2.5 percent annually, is slightly above the horizon of economic stagnation. Compared to several countries that currently have growth rates of around 10 percent, we are lagging far from prominence. Countries like Singapore and others, show us that substantial growth is possible. We must however be careful not to compare apples to oranges. Many of these countries have had a near 0 percent growth rate for decades or centuries. However, they do guide us to a plausible path.

So, what growth rate would lead us to prosperity? Although debatable within the economic community; an annual growth rate, of 5 percent seems to be a happy medium. Being an eternal optimist, I would like to set the goal at 6 percent. In my opinion, if we want to be an eagle in a sky dominated by birds of prey, we must achieve this growth rate in the next five years and maintain it for at least the next decade. History tells us, if we listen, that nations do not survive as global powers, unless they have economic and military strength.

The Union Pacific and Central Pacific, the locomotive, the River Boat, steel, Thomas Edison, Eli Whitney, and Henry Ford, all ushered in the industrial revolution. But where are we today on that historical time-line? Retirement age for the Baby Boomers is fast approaching. In fact, for some, it is a day gone by. Therefore, we must make a historical acknowledgement; Boomers were the beginning of the end of the industrial revolution. In fact, we need to understand that the retirement of the Boomers, puts the time line square on the early stages of the technological and science revolution. As soon as our society and leaders understand this, the sooner we can scabbard the sword that is the new age.

So how can a country, with vast resources and an unlimited work force, not be a dynamo among profitable manufacturing countries?

In order to answer this question, let's analyze the opportunity. First, from a strictly business point of view, two costs of production are high; labor and transportation. Because of higher wages paid to American workers, we can no longer profitably produce low price items. Low wages being paid in other countries, make competition nearly impossible. Businesses can't make a widget that sells for 3 dollars, while paying employees 13 dollars an hour. We can no longer compete with other countries paying employees 1 dollar a day. Is it too early to introduce China into this conversation? Yes! China is not our problem. But China can be a solution.

Secondly, we as a nation, have not been able to self-satisfy our energy needs for nearly a century. Without foreign oil, without the vehicle's life blood, fossil fuel, we would start the process that creates oil. Logic tells us that we should not blame OPEC for the 100 dollars a barrel price of crude. Yet we do, and maybe, justly. No need at this time to discuss why OPEC charges what they do; it does not further the discussion. Bottom line is, crude prices over 100 dollars a barrel are an unsustainable transportation cost. Foreign crude prices are only going to climb. Common Sense: If we are to keep transportation costs down, we must control our own destiny. Enough talking about it.

Our insatiable thirst for gasoline, and the greed of the oil companies, create a broken will. A will to create alternative fuels and vehicles. When will this recklessness end?

So the analysis, of what is wrong with the economy, is a weak growth rate. Mostly due to high labor and transportation costs in the manufacturing sector. Is this how simple it truly is? No, but fixing this will be a huge boost for the economy. There are indeed other factors that affect growth. Yet, if we can control these costs, they will positively influence other parts of the economy. Long term improvement will yield significant growth. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, his New Deal, and NRA programs, put a small percentage of the unemployed population back to work. However, World War II manufacturing was our true exodus from the Great Depression.

The plan has to be devised to grow our manufacturing sector. Hold on, earlier I stated that the Industrial revolution was over. We need to remember that the technological and science age is in its infancy. In order to battle high labor costs, we must change directions. We can, pay higher wages and meet our labor costs, if we can get more for our products. If we can supply products that other countries can't, either because of lack of technology or lack of needed resources, there will be demand. Sounds a lot like Economics 101. Please note the words; supply products. Supplied products do not necessarily have to be produced on an assembly line. Not Henry Ford's type. Therefore, we again need to change paths. Manufacturing needs to merge onto the highway of science and technology. Please let me be clear, I am not preaching; "Will the last one out of Detroit please turn off the lights." There of course still is a place for profitable manufacturing of durable goods; goods that can be touched. But profitable manufacturing means that these products must be in demand. Overseas as well as here at home. Products and services that we have the knowledge, technology, and resources to profitably supply.

Our country may have invested more time and money into science and technology development, than any other country on earth. So why are we not striving to make this a stronger part of our manufacturing sector? Is there any country that has more useable knowledge of: Bio-technology; genome science; aeronautics technology; medical sciences? As well as an unlimited supply of workers.

_This kind of manufacturing allows us to profitably run higher labor costs. We can afford to pay wages that will meet a manufacturing budget. Also, technological services require low or no transportation costs. Let me at this time acknowledge that in business and economic terminology, this is not manufacturing. Yet maybe it is correct 21_ st _century terminology. Or should be._

So how do we implement a determined plan to get us there? The first step is education; which is the next OFS. But bottom line is this; without a knowledgeable and skilled workforce, we will not meet our goals.

Next, both the private and the public sector, have got to invest in the future. It will not happen overnight. But other developing countries have shown it can happen within a realistic time frame. It must be done without delay. We can't afford to wait years deciding on whether we should invest in education. If our political leaders don't take this path, they will fail. Future history will reflect this failure. In this time of trillion dollar deficits, this will seem to be a tough pill to swallow. However if there is to be future prosperity, we must treat the illness now. After all, it is an investment. One that we will bring many a profitable return.

The second part of this economic recovery and future prosperity is implementation of a ten year energy program. One that will make us independent of foreign oil. Again time has run out; we need implementation. We don't need more talking about it. Immediately implement a responsible energy program.

This energy plan would have to include energy resources that we currently have. Such as clean coal, natural gas, and other developing technologies. Continuing development of petroleum free vehicles is a must. And lastly, the time for a renaissance in nuclear power is now.

We have the technology to safely produce and operate nuclear power plants. Even in the worst accident scenarios, doomsday results are no longer a reality. Feasibility studies have been done, and they show that nuclear power plants can be built economically and in a relatively short period of time. I am not going to detail these studies; they are accessible by anyone with internet. But, I will only say that our leaders know it is so. They need to stand up and make it happen. Oil lobbyists be damned.

As mentioned above, there would have to be a time frame set. I will set it at ten years. We have got to set time frames. Realistic time frames that we will convert all new vehicles to petroleum free energy. And not just time frame goals, time frame laws. Old Testament laws. Let the Lord God, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, smite them, if the automobile industry makes a vehicle that runs on petroleum fuel.

We are on the cusp of making this happen. However, the Federal Government can do only so much. Yes, more than they are now for sure. But the people must demand it, and manufacturers must come through.

Although the aerospace industry is not ready to convert yet, now is the time to set goals. When can they be ready to convert to alternative fuel?

Think about being free from foreign oil, in ten years. If in 2021, we could survive on U.S. produced oil only, our economy would grow strongly. Energy costs would decline in private homes and industry as well.

However, in order to make this happen we would have to be aggressive in other energy producing technologies. These include: natural gas, which we suddenly seem to have a lot of; clean coal technology; and the aforementioned nuclear fuel.

For brevity reasons I will not bore you with a lengthy discussion on how our government can produce, implement safety measurements, and pay for the additional cost of monitoring nuclear energy production. I will only say that it involves partial government ownership in new nuclear plants, and their development and implementation by a solitary company. Again, research and thought on this topic has been done by people much smarter than me. This topic will be further discussed when we address the federal deficit.

So after analysis and planning, a determined energy plan needs to be implemented. My ten year plan may be too simplistic and in fact unrealistic; but we won't tell that to our politicians. What does need to be implemented is a plan with set time-line goals. Goals that will get us energy self-sufficient and free from foreign oil. This must of course be done with the help of the automotive industry. Is there anyone out there that still thinks we don't have the technology to mass produce reasonably priced alternative energy vehicles?

President Kennedy promised to put a man on the moon by the end of the decade. In July of 1969, Neal Armstrong stepped on to the surface of the moon. Don't tell me we can't do this.

Lastly, it is up to us, the people, to make this happen. If we don't put our leaders to the task, and demand they serve their country, we have failed. Our government is one of the people, and for the people.

Opportunity for Solution 6, Education.

I would give you statistics on where we stand worldwide educationally, but I'm not educated enough. I do however know that if we are less than top of the worldwide class, it is a travesty; which I do know to be true.

There are those that say we should model our education system based on China. Again with China? But obviously, the cultural difference is too extreme. I would have had an issue with our government taking my children from me and sending them off to a school far from home for thirteen years. However, maybe there are some things we can learn from them. For instance, the Chinese and other countries apply a dedicated studies program. The goal is to identify where the aptitude of the child is and then guiding them towards that aptitude. The way they do this certainly screams against human rights for all organizations that scream about such things. But again, are there things we can learn?

My analysis also leads me to the high cost of education. Charter and private schools may be a way to go for those among us that can afford private primary schooling, but they are a minority among the consenting. Most can't afford college for their children; let alone private primary schools.

We need to fix grades 1 through 12 in our public schools.

A staggering statistic: A student that attends an average costing college for six years, and pays for their education with student loans, will graduate with over two hundred thousand dollars in debt. I believe that figure is actually higher, but I choose to err on the side of caution. Is that the way we really want our graduates to start their post-graduation life; in a huge debt?

_Developing a plan to fix our public schools seems to be easier than implementing one. Planning, is usually easier than implementing. I am suggesting that the way we have educated our young people since the turn of the 20_ th _century, doesn't only need to be revamped, it needs to be replaced._

_The system, and the way we teach through the 6_ th _grade, is fairly solid. There could be some tweaking, but let's take baby steps._

_Through the 6_ th _grade the emphasis needs to be on the three R's. All students should get a strong foundation in all areas. These studies should follow a path that is used in all schools throughout the country. Standardization is key. All students throughout the country should be following the same curriculum. It is mandatory to be consistent; no exceptions. Remember, we are talking about public schools._

_Here is where I propose wholesale changes in the current system. When the child finishes the 6_ th _grade, there needs to be an evaluation of proficiency. A standardized test to determine where the child's aptitude is and where the child excels. Two more evaluation processes need to be implemented as well; student surveys and parental interaction._

The child should be given a standardized survey to determine the student's interests and disinterests. Again, it must be standardized throughout the national school system.

Secondly, there has got to be parental interaction. This interaction needs to be interpersonal between counselors, parents, and the student. This may at times seem a daunting task; the family unit of the previous centuries seems to have become less of a family and more of a unit. Still, parental interaction is the goal.

After tests, surveys, and parental interaction, the goal would be to determine a future education path. One that is best for the welfare of the child. One that will best optimize the student's strengths and interests. Neither an easy task. However I think it can be done. But we do need knowledgeable people to design this kind of emotional, psychological, and aptitude analysis system. As well, we need educated and skilled people to implement such a system.

At this point, a curriculum needs to be determined and set up for each student; grades 7 through 12. Grades 7 and 8 should be used to both strengthen any determined weaknesses from the first 6 years, and starting them towards the fields of future studies.

High School should be a pre-college. The student's curriculum should be guided towards the anticipated college curriculum. For instance; a student that wants to be in the medical field, should be taking higher level math and science. It is a waste of time, effort, and money, to have this student taking high level economics, woodworking, or social studies classes. With all of the knowledge that needs to be acquired by our college students, properly preparing our students for college will help to lower the failure rate and help to guarantee success for the student. Is that not our end goal?

However just as high school should be a preparatory school for college, it should also be a finishing school for students that will not attend college. The same students that wish to leave high school with useable skills.

For students who wish to go on to college, their high school curriculum should be centered on their college aspirations. For students that don't plan on attending college, their curriculum should be centered towards the skills they wish to have upon graduation. First of all, making sure that they have all of the 3 R's that they need, and then making sure that they have solid skills for a secure future.

_We need another change in the way we do things; we must have more strong technical high schools. Today's work environment demands a lot of technical skills. Skills that often can only be acquired in a post diploma school. Such as universities, junior colleges, or trade school. To this I ask why? Do the students of the 21_ st _century really have to get a college degree for many of the technical skills sought by employers today? I just don't see how our children that are more proficient on a computer when they are 10, then we are as an adult, can't become proficient in many skills in high school? Most employers believe that many of the jobs that high school graduates want, require technical skills. Let's teach these skills in high school._

Do they need a college degree to be proficient in workstation programs? The same programs that employers are running and having a hard time finding qualified employees for. Let's teach them what they need to know. Let's help them to be successful in the workforce. Skilled high school graduates can put strength into the economy. Instead of collecting unemployment, they could be paying taxes. Statistics show that far less High School graduates get college degrees than don't. This is a large percentage of the workforce that many employers can't use.

Neither developing a plan, nor implementing a plan, to combat the high cost of secondary education is easy. The problem; it is almost entirely controlled by the private sector. A capitalist society displaying a fault. If the demand is high, the provider can determine the price. Many of today's students know that if they want to live the life they wish, they need to get secondary education. Thus, a demand has been created. What can we do to bring down the price? Strong technical high schools? Demand goes down, price follows.

Other than that, I am not smart enough to figure out how to lower the cost of a college education. Hopefully there are those that have some suggestions. I guess industry leaders could appeal to the presidents and boards of the organizations of higher learning. All Industries need an educated workforce to be successful. Successful industries strengthen the economy. It seems an easy riddle to solve.

Of course the federal government could give billions in scholarships. Never mind... the government has 13 trillion debt reasons why they can't.

So implementing determined plans to fix our education system shakes out like this:

1. The government needs to implement a standardized system to change primary education. The kicker here, is all the bickering from the states. They will want their education systems left alone. No medaling from big brother. Governors, take a knee and give it up. Most of you aren't doing it right anyways. So how about we try something new. It may even help with your budgets.

2. Development of technical high schools.

3. Someone, anyone smarter than me, come up with a plan to lower college costs.

" _We do not need to be a smart nation. However, we do need to be an educated nation, if we are to be a prosperous nation. Education should be a right, not a privilege. We have got to give all Americans the right to be skilled, educated, and employable. Lest Americans be the slang that Europeans intended in 1776."_

SDW

10... 9... 8... 7... main engine ignition. 5... 4... 3... liftoff. We have liftoff.

Main engine firing sent me prone to sitting. My clutching hand of the page tightened. The letters... the letters S D W. All systems were a go! "Danny. Danny!"

"Huh?" My head snaps left. Rojer's face is square within the monitor.

"You alright Danny?" No reply by me. Without voluntary movement I swap couch for desk chair.

"Rojer?" I ask awkwardly.

"What's wrong with you Danny? Why are you sweating?"

"Umm... no... I'm not feeling well. Low blood sugar or something."

"Eat a Hershey square Danny." Rojer knew I sometimes used a Hershey bar when my glucose was crashing. Measured; to me it was a no-brainer. Really it was just an excuse to eat chocolate.

"No I'm okay. What's up Rojer?" I knew I wasn't convincing. Rojer's searching look reinforced my knowing.

### "I love it when a plan comes together."

General George Patton

Rojer must have been digitally spying on me. "What were you reading? You sure sat up quickly. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Nothing just some work." Having had no time to process the new S D W, there was no way I was going to tell him. "What's up Roj? Good to see you." Wiping my brow, again my words crashed stiff in my ears.

"Danny you look like shit is Pami there?"

"No!" I snapped. "Sorry Rojer I'm fine I promise." Fighting hard to smother my emotions, I was sure I was losing.

In an endless pause I guess he figured out that it was his turn to speak. "Did you get my e-mail?" My blank look answered. "I just sent it a few minutes ago. It includes a link to the Richmond Times Dispatch."

"The paper?" I asked rhetorically stupid. Rojer had an open shot at a shot at me.

He let it alone as he continued; "Two days ago there was a small article on the last page of the first section. Strangely there was no by-line."

"Am I in it?" I jokingly asked. No reaction.

"It addresses... well you know Danny. What we talked about."

"You mean the Jefferson document?" Again no reply. I'm not sure if it was from a sense of reverence, or perhaps fear, but he didn't want to directly address it. After a momentary still I answered; "Yes, I know Roj."

"Anyways..." His face was disgust. It was forced but it was what he wanted me to see. "I sent you the link to it." He lost the tone with his next words. "Peter Henderson. Remember Mr. Henderson Danny, the Chairman of the Foundation?"

"Yes."

"He called me wanting to know all about it, and why I didn't tell him about it." Rojer took a deep breath and continued; "He was pissed! I knew I should have told him I knew it."

"Rojer why was he so mad?" Asking this I understood that in Rojer, someone pissed was often an exaggeration.

"Well, you can read it yourself Danny. But mostly because the article claimed the paper had contacted me and him. Danny no one contacted me about it. Danny... You didn't-"

"Rojer!" Again it came out harsher than I meant it to.

"Sorry Danny."

"You know me better than that Rojer."

"I know I know. Sorry Buddy." He was beginning to get agitated. I tried to calm.

"It's okay." I know it was a weak effort. What can I say I'm not a priest.

Rojer continued; "Peter said no one had contacted him either. He sounded like he was going to call the Dispatch." Rojer paused, and at least to me, scarily changed the topic. "Apparently Peter knows someone at Quantico. You know FBI type." With widened eyes I nodded an acknowledgement that I knew the Federal Bureau of investigation. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity; all that. "The FBI is sending someone out here tomorrow. I am to turn over the security video and the actual document." Rojer made it sound like he was a murder suspect being subpoenaed.

I asked what I already knew; "You still have it right?"

"Yeah! That's not a problem. I guess they are going to analyze the video and the document. Whatever that means." My heart palpitated; I so wanted to tell him about my own covert operation. My new probably not a coincidental finding. Possibly right, but probably wrong, I lay down to silence.

"Check out the article and let me know what you think Danny. This time call me back or send an e-mail. Anything!" Being very sensitive to people's feelings, as I am, I detected a slight tone. My last lack of reply had obviously been vaulted. Rojer's vault is the size of Fort Knox.

Taking in a Rojer look of reprimand, I try to assure. "I will Rojer." Pause for affect. "I promise." Then I try levity. "Homeland Security is going to put us on a list if you keep calling me with this kind of information."

"That's not funny! Those guys are serious!" Levity wasted.

"Just kidding!" Short pause. "Rojer, when was the last time you got laid?" This time he laughed and I joined him. But he didn't answer my question. His laughter did make me feel better about his overall demeanor amidst... well with everything.

"Alright then. Thanks Danny." Rojer's dumping of insecurity seemed at end. Then there was; "Oh yeah! I may have... mentioned to Peter that I'd discussed this with you and that I'd sent you a copy of the document."

I asked, if it was an asking; "You may have?"

Rojer; "What! He knows who you are. I just thought he should know. I don't know it seemed right at the time. Was it you think it was?"

"No worries Rojer." 'No worries', is a phrase I rarely use. From my lips to my ears it sounded clumsy. The slightest pause by Rojer told me it did so to Rojer as well.

"Thanks again Danny."

"Yeah no problem Roj. And I am serious... you know... the Homeland Security thing." I enjoyed a chuckle with what I thought wit.

"You're an ass Danny you know that don't you." Rojer disappearing; "Call me!" This time there could be no tactical retreat. I'd better call.

Wanting to let the day's events decompress, I closed up shop for the day. Having more than enough to think about, I made an executive decision; Rojer's linked article would wait till morning. It would be good coffee material. Surely, if I probe and print now, it will consume me all evening. Pami didn't deserve that, and I didn't need it.

Searching and finding my wife downstairs reading, I questioned; "What are our dinner plans?"

Her reply was quick and long determined. "I'm not cooking so unless you-"

"Pig-n-Out pulled pork sounds awesome!" I sorta finished her thought. She smiled a victoriously satisfied smile and went back to 'Tainted Love in Tahoe'. Yeah it was one of those.

With me headed to the kitchen she tossed one of those nowhere else to drop it phrases. "Don't forget I'm off tomorrow and we have to go to the icky place." Oh yes... our weekly horror trip to the Icky Place. The single largest collection of screaming children and obnoxious adults ever assembled in one retail location. Come on men, you know where I'm talking about. With not so subtle sarcasm I expressed my anticipation; "How could I forget. Honey!"

Next morning, 7:00 a.m.

"Doo, doo, cocka doodle doo!" Did I mention that the angry rooster is dyslexic? I copped a cheek, kissed another, let the day begin. (Straight from Tainted Love in Tahoe. The words, not the actions.)

My olfactory cilia detected fresh brewed Caribou Coffee. Caribou Coffee being a Colorado name-brand. We don't make coffee out of Caribou. However, we do eat Rocky Mountain Oysters.

I created the perfect cup of Joe; no sugar, easy on the cream, and just a dash of cinnamon. It seems an oxymoron to call it Joe. I packed it for travel and headed to Digitalville. My quest; the Richmond Times Dispatch.

After some maneuvering that would have made Tricky Dick proud, I linked my way to the story. Spit out by my printer, I grab the article and head back down to my morning sup; coffee, onion bagel, chive cream cheese, and tasteless no sugar cereal. If Freud ever coined a food description complex, I'm sure I have it.

Our usual breakfast small-talk was in the air. The banter entered a pause and I seized the moment. I began reading, making sure she could not read it. No sense in waking a sleeping wife.

.........

'Jefferson Writes Again'

Charlottesville, Virginia

Can someone past, for one hundred and eighty three years, be trying to speak to us? Most say no. Houdini promised to speak to us on Halloween. So far, not a peep from beyond.

A mystery has been born at Monticello. Shortly before Thanksgiving past, a hand written document appeared in Thomas Jefferson's study. This document was dated November 22, 2009. It held the signature name of Thomas Jefferson.

This letter, its contents, and its origin, seem to be a closely guarded secret. All parties that may know of its existence are denying that knowledge.

All requests for information were brushed aside by both the Curator at Monticello and by Peter Henderson. Mr. Henderson is the Chairman of the Foundation. The curator at Monticello, Rojer Ousten, was asked for comment. None was given.

Virginia, with such a historical heritage, should its citizens not be afforded the truth. A hoax, or from beyond? It seems that most Virginians and Americans would like to know; is Thomas Jefferson writing us again?

.........

Reading complete and dwelling begun, I push from the table, gather my feet under me and say; "That's it! I got it!" Not so carefully I place my dishes into the dishwasher and start for the upstairs.

In a fading voice I hear; "What's it? Oh no!" Responding to her question that I am certain she knows the answer to: "I got it. I have to throw-"

"Some digis into the computer." Pami finishes my sentence. Damn! I need some new material.

Pami now knows that this means one thing to her; no Icky Place for me. Me continuing up the stairs, she profanes softly to no one; "Son-of-a-bitch. To her thoughts silently; "I hate it when this happens!" To me loudly; "You did this on purpose."

Arriving on the Bridge, sitting at the Helm, Shields up, I engage the mouse. Word.doc, click; New, click; Save as, click; 5 Kings, 6 finger taps; OK, click. '5 Kings' would be my new project. That's it! Percolating complete. Juan Valdez my guide, my mountain grown coffee was brewed. Roger Waters, you didn't let me down after all.

Moments like this are few and fleeting. I was locked in for hours.

.........

5 Kings

January 11, 11:17 a.m. local time.

Dadar East, in the City of Mumbai.

Sonia YADEV leaves out the front door of her place of employment; a small Dravidian café. YADEV is an Ethnic Dravidian Hindu living in Dadar east, Mumbai. She slings a small book bag over her-

.........

The Debate would have to wait. This felt right. My fingers were flying and the words were flowing. No Icky Place for me.

The magnetic field holding my iron fingers to the keyboard had to be broken. Against all sense of righteousness at that exact moment, I had to do that moment wrong. I'd made an unbreakable promise to Rojer that I would call him. If not now, when? When, 8-10 hours from now would have to be the answer.

My problem was that I knew Rojer would not be accepting of another promise broken. Memory inspired, I heard Rojer tell me how I could keep my vow to him while not interrupting my current word surge. E-mail; he had offered that option. Probably not his first choice, but he had left it mine and I was taking it.

.........

Rojer;

I read the article. Seems mostly harmless. I use to know an editor there; let me make a call, I'll do some investigating. I will get back to you.

Danny

.........

No consoling words or solutions, but I felt that would hold him; temporarily. I was giving birth and needed to work through the contractions. When the umbilical cord is cut, I'd make the call.

10:33 a.m.

The back door closed with an emphasis of Pami's state of annoyance with me. The impending marital discomfort caused my MOJO to fade. Time to call an Editor.

Self-disappointment inflicted my psyche as I was unable to find the information that I had had; and still should had had but didn't. An obvious breakdown in my filing system.

"Time wasted, is time lost."

Upon entering the Dispatch's site I find a phone number that will surely lead me into automated Hell. I dialed and connected. The voice coming from no one greeted me. "Thank you for calling the Virginia Times Dispatch-" After several options given me I select the number 4; an Editor's directory. Managing Editor, number 7, seemed the best selection. "This is the voice mailbox of the Managing Editor. Please leave a message and I will return a call if necessary. Thank you."

I boxed my mail; "Yes... this is Daniel Rengaw. I am trying to get some information on a story. The story is titled Jefferson Writes Again. I believe it was in Saturday's edition. Back page of the first section." I left my phone number. I directed to my web site; my over self-important attempt at influencing a return call. I closed my deposit; "I would appreciate a return call. Thank you. Again, this is Doctor Daniel Rengaw." The 'Doctor', a late addition and again over self-worth.

Several hours later.

My cell rings a generic ring tone. Screening, I recognize the area code as Richmond Virginia. "This is Mr. Rengaw."

"Mr. Rengaw my name is Frank Batche. I am returning your call to the Virginia Times Dispatch. How can I help you?"

"Oh good... I appreciate you calling back. I have just a couple of questions. Questions about the article. Jefferson Writes Again. Are you familiar with it?"

"I am."

"Good! First I noticed that it was unsigned."

"That is correct it was an anonymous submission."

I inquired; "Did the author ask to be anonymous or was it left unsigned?"

Frank replied; "That is correct." My silence told him that I was trying to de-code. "It was not signed. We don't know who wrote it. Sorry." Frank's 'sorry' was quite ambiguous.

"Pardon me for my ignorance Mr. Batche, but is it common practice for the Dispatch to print an unsigned document?"

"It is unusual. However we did our due diligence."

"Due diligence?" I asked. "Can I ask what you mean by that?"

"We verified, with what we consider reliable sources, that indeed the document does exist." His word seemed an unusual choice to me.

I blurted out; "Exist? I'm sorry, verified by whom?"

"We have a reliable source."

"You already said that."

"Yes I did. Anyways... one who wishes to remain anonymous."

"Of course!" I said this in my best professional sarcastic tone. I continued; "Mr. Batche the article states that the Dispatch tried to contact the curator at Monticello. Is that true?"

"Yes it is and unfortunately we were unable to get collaborating information from him."

I was in full interrogation mode. "Is it true that you also called on Peter Henderson?"

"Yes we did and there was no reply from his office either." 'We' clanked in my ears very off-key. Set the hook Rengaw.

"Mr. Batche, here is my problem. I personally know Rojer Ousten-"

"Who?" He interrupted. Reel him in Daniel.

"Rojer Ousten. The curator at Monticello."

He stumbled back with; "Oh yes. Mr. Ousten." It was less than weak.

"Mr. Batche, he told me just hours ago that no one from your paper contacted him. He also said no one from the Dispatch had contacted the foundation chairman's office. Why would he say that Mr. Batche?" No reply. "Can you tell me why that is?" Silence. Then the wonder thought tapped my shoulder. "Mr. Batche? Hello? Mr. Batche are you there?" Damn! Cellphones, gotta love-em. I redialed Mr. Batche's number as it appeared on my phone. I again got a voice that wasn't there.

"If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again." What? Again I tried. "If you would like to..." What the hell? I dialed the previous site number. "Thank you for calling..." Oh hell no I'm not going through that again. I dial zero hoping to get a breathing person. My patience is waning as I find human.

"This is Troy, how may I help you?"

"Yes! Troy!" My words were hard and quick. I feared Troy may go away. "Troy could I please speak with Frank Batche."

"One moment please."

"Thank you." My thank you I tried to ease a little less... a little less anything. Maybe creepy distracted might work.

"Sir?"

"Yes Troy."

"Do you know which department Mr. Batche work's in?"

"I'm not sure." I memory-pushed through Frank's words. "He didn't say. I assumed he was from the Managing Editor's office."

"One moment please." A short hold and Troy came back. "Sir it does not appear that we have a Frank Batche working here."

Probably more angry than confused, I asked; "Okay can I speak with the Managing Editor then? Oh and what is his name by the way?"

"His name is Dan Sheridan. By the way." Oh... a little barely noticeable phone-person snotty. "I will send you to his voice mail."

"No my name is Doctor Daniel Rengaw and I am a writer and I wish to speak with Mr. Sheridan please." My demand wasted only a single breath. A little caller-person snotty.

"One moment Doctor, Rengaw." Again a little phone-person- Never mind.

Several head exploding hold music minutes later. "Doctor Rengaw this is Dan Sheridan. Can I help you?"

I had lost all of my dilly-dally time. "Mr. Sheridan I spoke to Frank Batche just a few minutes ago. He represented himself as from your paper are you familiar with Mr. Batche?" I heard my tone and didn't care. It was the lack of dilly.

"No I don't think I do. But we of course have many writers that submit to us."

"No no no he spoke with management authority." Dally?

I'm pretty sure that Mr. Sheridan got on the phone knowing that he would say at some point what he said next. "I'm sorry Mr. Rengaw but I believe that this Mr. Batche may have misled you."

"Misled?" I asked questioning myself only. I was getting more miffed but still wanted to steer the conversation. "Mr. Sheridan may I ask you a few questions?" Dan didn't like the direction I was taking.

"Doctor Rengaw are you a journalist?"

"No I am a writer. Not a journalist." That was intended to sting. "I've published several non-fiction books."

"Good for you Doctor." Intended to sting back. He wants to play. He continued; "I'm sorry but I' am not familiar with your work Doctor Rengaw."

Regrouping, I thought I understood that I needed to be gentler. "Mr. Sheridan, I am calling in reference to an article that ran last weekend. It was titled Jefferson Writes Again. Are you familiar with it sir?"

"Yes, yes I am." His tone was uncomfortable. This threw gentler into a crevasse. Could I push a button?

"Daniel... May I call you Daniel?"

"No! I prefer Dan. My name is Dan."

"Dan there seems to be some mystery attached to this article."

"Mystery? Really? What mystery would that be?" One word questions from him. All good interrogators know that means guilt. Kit Glove time again.

"Mr. Sheridan, look, I am not a journalist seeking a story. I promise this is all off of the record. None of your statements will appear in any form of print."

"Doctor Rengaw, I will answer your questions, to a point, if I can."

To the point I went; "Who was the author?"

"That is confidential."

"Oh come on Dan work with me here."

"Doctor Rengaw, I am not sure why, but I am going to trust you. However, if anything I say gets to the press, our lawyers will be contacting you. Do we have an understanding?" Not sure I liked the threat, but I'd gotten here.

"Yes Dan we do."

As if the water-boarding had worked, his secret knowledge of Jefferson Writes Again was passed on. Not sure I would have shared with the likes of me, but he did and I'd take it.

He began his trusting. "The article you are referring to... was... how do I say this? I guess using your own words would be best; a mystery. It was there and it shouldn't have been. It just appeared in print as well as on line. I know that this sounds like a large helping of crap from an editor, but it's true and it's unexplainable. We have no idea how it got in the paper. Got on line." His pause was waiting for my reaction.

"Go on Mr. Sheridan."

He pulled an audible breath and continued; "My technical team is stumped. We don't know. As I'm sure you know all major newspapers are completely digital today. We can't find a single digital footprint. Nothing that shows this document was ever input into our system. We have done a thorough technical troubleshoot and we are baffled. Our digital layout and all the time stamps associated say it isn't there. Yet it is there. Or it was. We pulled it off our website earlier today." He again paused. "Doctor Rengaw, as the Managing Editor, I am embarrassed to admit this has happened. I can't explain any of it."

I stated with little sincerity; "I'm sure you are embarrassed. However I don't think embarrassment is your biggest problem."

"How's that?"

I answered with what I thought too obvious. "I imagine you will be hearing from Peter Henderson; Chairman of the Foundation."

"Already have." His rebuff was quick. "Earlier this morning."

"I imagine he was not very happy." My assumption. Mr. Sheridan regained guarded protection.

"I can't discuss our conversation. But we did work through all issues." I wondered how all the issues were worked through.

My questions on my mental list were all answered. "Mr. Sheridan I appreciate your honesty and your time. Thank you."

Dan closed with; "I hope you are a man of your word." His words were coated in a thin layer of executive management speak.

"Goodbye Mr. Sheridan." My goodbye was said intended short. I thought I'd leave him with the slightest doubt of my intentions.

Diagnosing our conversation, my thoughts went to his sincerity. Had I played him? Had he played me? Probably it was a helping of each.

A mystery; one that seemed to surround The Document and its adjoined happenings. Mysteries seem to be accumulating. The joke that at first seemed to be on Rojer, was now waving levity onto my shore. The ebb of the tide is pooling. First The Document trickled in. Then there was The Document soaked with SDW. Then the waves brought in Patrick Thomas, and his hand written 68 page document adorned with a second SDW. Now, the waves on top of the high tide, are filling the flood planes with the Frank Batche disappearing phone call. And lastly the ensuing conversation with Mr. Sheridan. Should I fear a storm surge? Could this surge come from Richmond Virginia?

Patrick Thomas' envelope, I recall was from Virginia. An address unfamiliar to me. No warning bell tolled from the Old North Church of my mind.

Still confident in my filing system, I searched for the envelope. Firing up my Search Engine of memory, it went through: 'Blogs'; 'Dates'; 'January'; 'Around the 18th'. My fingertips ran atop folders for the 16th, 17th, 18th, and stopped on the 19th. A large manila envelope. Bingo! Filing system still functional. Never a doubt.

Pulling the envelope and reading the return address, I find that I was wrong. It was not from Richmond. Alarmingly it was from Charlottesville Virginia. How could the bell not have tolled for thee? Charlottesville Virginia; Monticello; hello?

.........

Patrick Thomas

746, Sunny Dell way

Charlottesville, Va.

.........

Storm surge inbound. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. Next Greg Tillman will surely call. His words will be; "It is 100 % certain that Thomas Jefferson wrote The Document."

It was my turn to come clean; my water-board moment. His tail would head into a spin, but Rojer needed to know all. Whether it was just me wanting to play in the 21st century, or me thinking this information would be best received amongst pixels, I rotary phone tone rang his laptop.

Nearly camouflaged within a wood plank wall, a Louisiana Purchase map slowly finds my recognition. Cast Iron, black, an eagle flies on its right. Thirteen circled stars, a small colonial flag on the other. Not at his desk is Rojer. I whistle. I don't know why. Only Mervin twitches his ears. "Rojer." Louder; "Rojer!" I wait. Not long. I know I won't. A flash of a shadow scrawls across the wall. "Bonehead!" I call my friend.

Pushing away from the microphone; "What, umm, what? Danny?" Each word gets clearer and louder as he figures out I'm in his magic box. Rojer's face slides down into view. A real smile on his face. "Danny! What's up? Glad to see you." Suddenly he remembers. Rojer much more placid; "I'm glad to see that you found some time to get back with me. I hope I'm not preventing a nap."

I counter; "Look Dip-shit I work for a living just like you."

"Just like me?" He laughs brief and continues. "You gotta be kidding me. You... you listen to music for a living." Rojer follows with a red-neck attempt to further patronize my work. "Even a blind hog can root around in the mud and find an acorn once in a while."

"What the hell does that mean? Look you gorilla your fingers won't even fit on a keyboard. You try writing! Write a complete sentence. Write your name. Anything!" He sits back in his chair in a soft chuckle.

"Danny I love ya man."

I search for the depth of his love. "If you love me why don't you ever take me dancing?" Rojer's laughter ends with a deep breath.

"Danny did you make that phone call? Is your investigation complete?" Emphasis on 'investigation'. He indeed knows me.

Way too softly, and unintentionally slouching back into my chair; "Yes I did."

Rojer; "Don't like that at all." I guess I paused. "Danny?"

"Rojer I gotta... I have a story about water for you."

He shook his head slight and said; "Water?"

"Never mind Rojer look I want you to listen to everything I have to say. Hear me out and then you can ask questions. I'm not trying to be an ass you just need to listen to me." I was hoping to keep it as abbreviated as possible. I already knew that as soon as I started I'd want out.

I began my tale. Rambling on for at least fifteen minutes. The Document; my covert action with the CBI; Patrick Thomas' document; SDW, twice; Charlottesville; Frank Batche; Dan Sheridan; I came clean. Rojer sat patiently listening to every word. This time I seemed to be the one on a tangent.

Skirting the valley of mental breakdown, I finished my oral breakdown. Rojer stared at me in pause. He wanted to make sure I was completely finished. His continued pause told me it was more.

"Damn Danny you sound like Officer Obie. You know. Alice's Restaurant. Arlo Guthrie. With the 27, 8 by 10 color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one describing the crime scene-"

"Rojer!"

"Sorry. I love that ballad. Listen to it every Thanksgiving."

"Rojer I need you to focus." He was at Alice's restaurant and was fighting a smile. I was confused. "Don't you have anything else to say at... at all I just said?" His continued stair seemed without stress.

"I don't really know what to say Danny." His calmness was... I was unprepared for it.

"What do you mean you don't know what to say. Weren't you listening? You really don't know what to say?"

"Yeah. I do." Rojer leaned in. "Danny, when was the last time you got laid?" Rojer almost fell out of his chair laughing his stupid burly laugh. Still not with the pace of the conversation I did have to join him in accepting funny. But still fighting unprepared and perfect funny, my laughter also struggled. The tightness in my neck that I had started the conversation with, began to melt away. Rojer had made a funny. It was perfect.

But his funny did not make my wonder any less active. "Rojer aren't you gonna freak out about this? I'm kind of confused. Kind of surprised. Your calmness-"

Rojer interrupted; "No. Look... all of this is bizarre for sure. But I'm good. It's all okay Danny. Peter's not pissed anymore. In fact I just got off the phone with him and he somehow seemed pleased with the newspaper article. You know. The any publicity is good publicity sort of thing. I don't know what he's thinking. All I know is that he's okay with it. He told me to answer all inquiries I might get. Journalists, news stations, anyone. As long as he is okay with it so am I."

Slightly accepting his acceptance, I tried for solace. "Good! I'm glad you're alright. You sure you're good?"

"Yes Danny don't worry about me. Although I do want to know when you hear from the CBI. Do you know when that might be?"

"I'm thinking in about ten days but I don't know that."

"Keep me posted Danny and I'll do the same." Rojer was swirling thought. "Personally Danny, I'm expecting a call from Eisenhower any minute." He laughed at himself. Rojer made another funny.

"Okay Rojer I'll let you know what happens. I really am glad you are okay with all this."

"Danny have a stiff drink... Oh that's right you don't do that anymore." A third funny; unheard of.

"See you Rojer."

"See ya buddy!"

Overwhelmed by his levity, I sat staring at a Rojer-less screen. I was pleased, but more I was surprised. The conversation that I feared, did not happen.

Time for that metaphorical stiff drink. My tonic of choice is immersing into The 5 Kings. This of course meant Classic Rock. This would be my buzz. At least until the CBI called Last Round.

### 'The 5 Kings.'

February 1

7:36 a.m., Pami's cell phone rings. "Hello... Hello Greg... I'm fine, how are you... Tomorrow would be fine... Thanks Greg, I appreciate you doing this for me... Okay... That sounds great... Goodbye."

Hanging up, she turns to me with a look that did not guide me to her thoughts. "You have an appointment with Greg tomorrow. One o'clock." Understanding but not wanting to, I wasted perfectly good air.

"I do? He asked for me?"

With a look that did guide me, she over sarcasm'd; "Yeah... right! I have work tomorrow so you'll have to go."

Knowing the answer, I still asked; "Is he expecting you?" Same look.

"Yes."

I know that I had a smirk when I said; "So... I guess I get to disappoint him." Disgusted that she had allowed herself a part of this, not wanting to any longer in what was now this, she turns silent and heads to anything but this.

Coffee, breakfast, and chuckit done, it is time for Re-read day. After several weeks of logging long computer time, and listening to a lot of music, it's time to re-read all of the digis that I've clicked upon The 5 Kings. Generally I dislike re-read day. My words once read don't seem nearly as wonderful as when my fingers plucked them from my mind. It's disappointment that I've learned to work through. I tell others that I never get Writer's Doubt. That telling earns me another day in purgatory.

Having printed out the first section of the manuscript the night before, I grab my work and assume the position. Rojer's words tease my emotions. This is what he means. With no music I prove his disproval wrong. A re-read is always done without distraction.

.........

January 16, 11:17 a.m. Local time.

Dadar East, in the City of Mumbai.

Sonia YADEV leaves out the front door of her place of employment; a small Dravidian café. YADEV is an Ethnic Dravidian Hindu living in Dadar east Mumbai. She slings a small book bag over her shoulder and jumps onto her bicycle. She pedals down the narrow dirt street; carefully avoiding vendors and live animals. Pedaling down almost any street in Mumbai is always flirting with collision. There is no traffic control; traffic control includes pedestrians. Right of way, the informal rule of the law, always goes to the biggest vehicle. It's not written law, more of a kinetic law.

Safely veering in and out over six blocks, Sonia enters a fruit and grain store. Leaving her bike outside she quickly walks through the store. With haste she traverses the person packed shop and quickly exits the back door into a more settled and empty alley. Nearly a ritual now as she has done this many times before.

Looking first left then right, she feels that she is alone. With a steady gate she moves. But she's keen to keep her pace natural. After ten minutes she cuts between buildings and comes out into the middle of an open-air-market. Seemingly against a tide of people, YADEV heads north. A few blocks later she finds a small industrial building. Entering, Sonia takes the stairs to the second floor. Heading down a narrow hallway she passes several offices. She stops at a door. The white glass etched sign reads: Deccan Plateau Bauxite mining company. Upon entering the small dusty and dark room she quickly eyes the room.

Sonia let out a deep breath. She was safe. There were two men sitting at separate desks. She recognized them. They were supposed to be there. She nods to one. He stands and greets her with a respectful kiss on the cheek. Without saying a word he and she slip into a small box filled storage room. The other man locks the front door and turns one of the small lamps off; making the room even darker. It is noon in Mumbai. As for most towns in India, the noon hour is for reflection and prayer. Locking the front door was very normal.

The man looks to Sonia. She takes the book bag from her shoulder and retrieves a book from within. It was a leather bound book titled Mohandas GANDHI. The man quickly moves several boxes and removes several planks of wood from the back wall. These reveal an eight-foot by six-foot room. Inside the room hangs a single low wattage bulb over a small desk. On the desk there is an electronic device that resembles a combination fax machine, keyboard, and communication device. There are two small lights; one green and the other red. The green light is blinking. At the end of a short antenna there is a small silver disk. Attached to the machine is a small NCR printer. Neither is attached electrically to an outlet. Neither have communication cables. All are stand alone. It did not look state of art, but it worked.

Sonia opening the book takes from within a small piece of paper. Her accomplice pulls it from her quick and careful. From within the desk's locked drawer he withdraws two notebooks. They are grade school black and white marbled. Efficiently slow of pace he begins typing; using one of the notebooks as a reference. To Sonia, the time it took him was nervously far too long. He smiled and nodded to her when he was finished. As smoothly as Sonia entered, she exited the Deccan Plateau Bauxite mining company.

Not exactly 21st century spy stuff imaginative, the man burnt and dropped Sonia's paper into a commode. Same careful, same controlled, Sonia retraced her path and found her bike where it had been left.

Inauguration day; January 20, 2009.

Washington D.C.

"I believe that our future will be a mix of global integration and world power. We should look back on our history and let our successes, as well as our failures, guide our growth. We as a country and a people need to be the cornerstone of a global economy. A nation of world relationships. An earthly tolerant. Let us not be afraid of people that wish to do us harm. We will fight fear with being ever strong. Thus we will fight for our way of life. Our way of life as defined by freedom. You shall I know, never forget that you are gifted amongst the greatest country in the world. We shall do whatever it takes to perpetuate this for generations endless. Thank you. God bless the United States of America."

This is how the newly elected 44th President of the United States, Thomas Jackson Samuel, closed his inaugural speech. Thomas Samuel was swept into office by disenchanted voters that felt their government had lied to them. The country was looking for guidance from its government. The voters wanted to once again hold sacred their vote. The people wanted the truth from their President. The most truth that any President can.

Be it rationalizing naiveté, or be it ever hopeful, the nation wanted to believe in him. Thomas Samuel, we were pining to trust. This is how Thomas Samuel became the leader of the most powerful country in the world.

Thomas Jackson Samuel, 53 years of age, was born in Goldsboro North Carolina. His Father was Lt Colonel Isaac Samuel; militarily nicknamed The Bull. His Mother was Lilly Alicia Samuel; formerly Lilly Linhorn of Savannah Georgia. At the time of Thomas' birth, Colonel Samuel was an old B29 pilot. He was currently flying a desk. A patriot that loved his country and gave all to it. His assignment at Seymour Johnson Air Force base was the logistic implementation of B52's; phasing out his beloved B29s. A job he took seriously and abhorred nostalgically. By his own doings he was creeping towards history. Simply yet another tiny spot on an ever sliding timeline. He'd never thought about, nor was he prepared to be archived into a wall-less warehouse.

The new president is not a flamboyant man. He does not light up a room upon entering. However, he does bring a calming ambiance to most gatherings. At six feet two inches tall, with 205 well placed pounds, he can intimidate men and does enamor women. His Southern and Midwest upbringing has favored him with a gentlemanly charm. Will Rodgers never met a man he didn't like. Thomas Samuel never met a man that wasn't family. This glowing slice of his being endeared him to his constituents.

In 1974 Thomas Samuel graduated from Kalamazoo Central High School. He'd been living in Michigan since The Bull officially became a spot on that line in 1960. Thomas graduating in the top 10% of his class enabled him to get a partial scholarship to Northwestern University. The rest of his tuition was apparently paid through military grants and other private funding. Evanston Illinois was the beginning.

After four years Thomas received an undergraduate degree in Learning and Organizational Change. He was not a great student but did graduate with a 3.46 GPA. Oh yes... he also became a loyal Chicago Cub fan.

Thomas then went on to get a law degree from the University of Michigan. He worked his way through law school, but much of his tuition was paid for by acquaintances and industrial leaders. He received a large grant from the Texon Oil Company. In return for the grant he performed two internships with Texon. Upon graduating he was asked to consider permanent employment with Texon. Thomas did not accept. However, he'd made some powerful friends.

While at Michigan Thomas met Cynthia Cooper; whom he would soon marry. Cynthia was a reserved woman. She never appeared opinionated and always deferred to Thomas. A perfect politician's wife.

Thomas and Cynthia moved to Grand Rapids Michigan and bought a too cute split level home. Their lives together had begun. Thomas took a job with a small law firm. It wasn't a lucrative position, but to him it was inspiring. He was always surrounded by influential people. But time never seemed to be his own; thus Cynthia was his only close personal friend. Thomas had more mentors than he wanted to. But he wasn't really sure if he felt that way. It had been that way for most of Thomas' life. He wasn't a socialite, yet he continually was presented as one. Those that helped him to grow up and insured his education were endlessly adding presenting him air to his atmosphere. Thomas, Thomas' atmosphere, built of openness, honesty, and intellect, made him easy to breathe in. It also made him easy to vote for.

Soon people were clamoring to get him into politics. In 1981 he was elected Kent County Tax Assessor. Four years later he ran for a seat in the Kent county Legislation. He narrowly won. In 1988 he was easily elected to the State Senate. Thomas served two terms there. Backed by industrial leaders, mainly the oil industry, he ran for one of Michigan's Senate seats in Washington. Once again he won. There Thomas has sat until now. His political career has never been rudely slapped by defeat. He always seemed to have plenty of backing to get him to where he now is. Now, is the President of the United States of America.

Friday, January 21.

Arriving for his second day of work, the first that any official work would be completed, he was greeted by his Senior Administrative Assistant. "Good morning Mr. President." She said with a distinctive eastern European accent. Though she being only a 2nd generation American, her accent floated upon near perfect English.

"It's a perfect morning Mrs. Adamski." Continuing to address him as she quickly followed into the Oval Office.

"Here are your newspapers sir. Your itinerary is there on your desk. The Chief of Staff would like to know when you have arrived. Have you arrived sir?" The president smiled subtly.

"I will be arriving in five minutes. I suspect Ted will be arriving in six."

"Very good Mr. President. Five it is then. Coffee will be in shortly."

"Not today Betty I've already had my morning dose. I am sure that the Chief of Staff won't need any either." Betty turned to leave. "However-"

"Yes Mr. President." She looked back.

"When I meet with General Gifford this afternoon please make sure we have plenty of coffee."

"Yes sir."

"That big bear likes a good cup of Mud." The President inner chuckled at the General's term for coffee.

Six minutes and thirteen seconds later, there was a knock on the door. "Chief of Staff Wilson is here sir."

"Thanks Mrs. Adamski." Thomas mumbles; "He must have gotten lost." Thomas Samuel did have a good sense of humor. Although not all were comfortable by his ease with humor.

"Yes Mr. President. Will there be anything else?"

"Mrs. Adamski... would it be alright with you if I called you Betty? You know... privately. And I'd like you to call me Thomas."

"Sir you can call me anything you'd like. But..." She hesitated. "You will always have to be Mr. President or Sir."

"I see," the president said softly. The pause was a little uncomfortable. "Thank you Mrs. Adamski please let Ted in." Again he mumbled; "He's probably grinding his teeth."

"Sir?" she asked.

"Nothing nothing thank you Betty."

The levee breached; Ted T Wilson pours into the Oval Office. The President first met Ted when he hired him to run his campaign for the Michigan State Senate. As the President had predicted, Mr. Wilson did not need coffee. He was very much energized. A good cup of coffee would only have been wasted on him.

Ted was always wound very tight. The Energizer Bunny would have been embarrassed. He was not very tall at five foot nine and half that around. Yet Ted was a domineering figure. He had the stamina of an athlete. Ted was a master of conversation and rarely did he not control one. There had been more than several times that the President had needed to reel Ted in.

Thomas loved Ted's energy, organizational skills, and knowledge. The President was known to tell Ted jokingly; "You have more useless information in your head than anyone I know." But the truth be told, Ted was brilliant. The President had infinite confidence in him and trusted him explicitly.

Ted swiftly moved across the floor and extended his hand. "Good morning Mr. President." The President flinched slightly aside from the oncoming Ted. Ted had a fast gate that always looked like he was walking downhill. You weren't sure if he was going to stop before reaching you.

"Ted it's good to see you. I want to apologize for not meeting with you over the past several days. Have a seat and let's go over today's Itinerary."

Ted began the conversation; "Mr. President we have several must do appointments over the next three days. You have to meet with CIA director Armstrong tomorrow at 2:00, the NSA on Saturday at 8:00, and the Secretaries of the services on Sunday at 11:00. All three of these briefings are for you only. 'Need to knows'. Therefore I won't be attending. The rest of the week are meet and greets. Of course every congressman on the Hill thinks they need to meet with you immediately." Thomas smirked and said; "Not all I'm sure." Ted never slowed and added; "We will put them all off until next week." Then he did slow awkwardly. "Unless there is someone you wish to see sooner Mr. President." Very unlike Thomas, a chill of the moment overtook him momentarily.

"That's fine. That's fine Ted." He went back to what he thought a president should be. "I am looking forward to meeting with General Gifford this afternoon. Please be here for that Ted."

"Yes sir. Also..." Ted seemed to be jokingly adding; "On Monday, the Secret Service will be here with your double. I guess they want you to meet your long lost twin." Both men smiled as the President turned to his large maple desk. The same desk that President Eisenhower had used. It had been dusted off and was newly arrived from the Smithsonian. Thomas was a great fan of the 34th President. He begged the Smithsonian to lend it out.

Picking up a newspaper the President inquired; "Ted have you seen today's Post? There is a rather interesting article about the proposed Texon purchase of rights to millions of barrels of oil from a company in the Ukraine. Have you seen this?"

"Yes Thomas I have." The President jerked down the paper and hard stared Ted. Ted didn't understand the glaring. He squirmed slight as he'd missed Thomas' first-name play. Thomas smiled and Ted picked up on the game.

Both enjoyed the light moment; the President more than Ted. It passed and the President went back to president stuff. "What do you know about this?" Referring back to the article.

Ted gave his knowing; "I believe that the COO of Texon, Ben Dirkins, wants to purchase the rights to 14 billion barrels of oil which are still in the ground. The company, I believe is called Tapanan Oil. Apparently they are not very solvent and can't profitably get it out of the ground and to a refinery. So I believe that Tapanan wants Texon to harvest it and refine it. In return, Texon can purchase the crude at a lower than market price. I don't have more details but I will see what I can find out."

"Thanks Ted. I will see you later when the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff gets here." Ted Wilson leaves the office a little slower than he'd come in; perhaps a little disappointed that he was being sent away without a single international policy being changed.

"Mrs. Adamski... can you please get me Ben Dirkins the COO of Texon on the phone please. Also can you set up an appointment with Commissioner Sam Holden of the National Commission on Energy. A phone conversation may be best; I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible."

Mrs. Adamski's voice returns over what use to be called an intercom; "Mr. President the Vice President called and would like to meet with you soon."

"Send him to Mr. Wilson. The Chief of Staff can take care of him for now."

Forty two minutes later. Mrs. Adamski; "Ben Dirkins is holding on line two Sir."

"Thank you." The president is quick to push and pick up. "Ben my old friend how are you?" The President's greeting was a glad sincere.

"A little tired from yesterday's festivities. I'm afraid time is catching up with me Tom. Excuse me... Mr. President! Damn, that sure rolls off my tongue. What do I owe this pleasure Tom?"

"Ben, in today's Post, in fact all across the AP wire, I was surprised to see an article about Texon purchasing oil rights in the Ukraine." The President paused. After no reply by Dirkins he continued. "Do you think it wise to let this out so soon?"

"Yes Mr. President we do. Indeed the announcement came sooner than we would have liked. However, it was determined that it needed to be released at this time."

"Very well Ben." Again Thomas paused.

"Is there anything else Tom." Mr. Dirkins' tone was well chosen.

The President; "Ben let me know if I can help with anything."

Ben softer; "I will Tom. And please give my regards to the Vice President."

"I will Ben. I'll speak with you soon Ben."

"Goodbye Mr. President." The line toned dead.

COO Ben Dirkins and Vice President Howard Cole were old friends. They'd been roommates at Cambridge University while attending Downing College.

Howard Cole was chosen by the President to be his running mate for several reasons. One reason was at the urging of Ben. Ben referred to Cole as the second coming of Dan Quayle. Dirkins felt that few would object to Howard Cole. The Vice President was one of the least mistrusted, least powerful, and least influential men in Washington. Cole had no extremist ideology, he never wielded power nor did he want to. Thomas had to talk the four time Congressman from New Mexico into accepting the nomination. Thomas thought him more Truman and less Quayle.

Howard Cole graduated from Cambridge and then spent three full years traveling Europe before returning to the United States to start his successful political career. His unspectacular political career.

The president felt that his choice of running mate should be a more flamboyant man; possibly to offset his own personality flaws. But Dirkins convinced Thomas that Cole would be his running mate. Like much of Ben's advice, it was a winner.

At 1:49 Ted Wilson entered the outer office of the oval office. He looked around like he was sizing up the room. Ted's zone of comfort included knowing his surroundings. After several awkward seconds he addresses a woman whom he does not know.

"Is Mrs. Adamski in?"

"She is out of the office at the moment. Mr. Wilson the President is expecting you. You may go in Sir."

"Thank you Ms.-"

"It's Littler. Martha Littler."

"Thank you Ms. Littler." He assumes that she is a Miss because of her young age and lack of a wedding band. The chief of Staff thumps a single time and enters the Oval office.

The president is on the phone. He smiles at Ted and pulls him in with quick waves. Ted walks to a cupboard and pours himself a cup of coffee. Ted stares to the south through three large arched windows behind the president's desk. He can't believe where he is and what he is doing where he is. He looks around the room; trying to get oriented. At the north end of the room there is a large fireplace. The oval room hangs four doors. The west door opens to a private study and dining room. The east door looks out onto the Rose Garden. The northwest door opens to the main corridor of the west wing. The northeast door opens to Mrs. Adamski's office.

"Thank you for that update Director Armstrong. I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow. Yes I will. And thank you for the heads-up. Yes. Goodbye." The President hangs up the phone and swivels in his chair. "I look forward to the spring when we can enjoy that garden fully. Thanks for being prompt Ted. As you always are."

"That was Director Armstrong. He called to confirm tomorrow's meeting. Also... he mentioned... well more than mentioned, that there was a new development out of Asia. It seemed that he felt he needed to share it with me sooner than tomorrow. I would like you to be at that meeting." The President rose and stepped up to Ted. "Ted I need to make something clear. I want you to understand that there will not be many meetings that you will be excluded from. I want you to know all that I do. Unfortunately as far as I am concerned, there will be times that you will be excluded. Neither my wish nor my choice." The President wanted to make sure that Ted knew of his confidence in him. As well as how much he was going to rely upon him.

"Ted the General will be here soon what can you tell me about him? Other than that he can't ever get enough coffee."

Ted not knowing of the General's coffee addiction chuckles awkwardly and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small note pad and starts to read. "Thomas Alexander Gifford is a West Point graduate; third in the class of 1961. He served four tours in Vietnam. In 1969 as a Major, he was sent to the Pentagon and joined the War Planning staff. He was promoted to General in 1975. He became the Commander of the Army in Europe in 1985. In 1991 he was promoted to Chief of Staff Army. Then in 2000 he was promoted to four star and became the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff. As a whole he seems to be an excellent strategist and a fine politician."

The President quips; "Most four stars are great politicians. Generals and politicians are one in the same; one uses weapons to achieve their means, the other uses power."

Sudden, three quick knocks on the door. Without pause the door swiftly swings open. In strides Four Star General Thomas Alexander Gifford. Betty peers around the large man with her hands in the air. She is wearing a frustrated and apologetic face. Two steps in and his heels over-noticeably come together. "Mr. President." The General salutes a General's salute. The sloppy type that all first day boot camp recruits have. With each new star, the salute gets one degree sloppier. Unless of course they are going to be on television. Heading slowly towards the President the General greets his only Commander and Chief; "It is nice to meet you Mr. President"

Mr. Wilson quickly moves both literally and knowledgably to address the General. "General. I am Chief of Staff Ted Wilson." It instantly becomes a stiff starched White Collar standoff. It ticked quickest towards more than just a few seconds. The President jumps to both literally and powerfully of office save Ted. His Chief of Staff who seems to be slowly crumbling before the powerful man. A Ted shrinking that the President had rarely seen.

The President; "General I have been looking forward to meeting you. I loved your book The Invincible." The General smiles slight and proud.

Ted volleys back with a futile effort to lessen the General. "General... I'm sorry... I've not heard of that book."

The president; "It is a strategic look at the battles of General Patton. The most interesting part of that book was your assertion that Patton's push up from southern France could have cost the Allies the war in Europe. You contend, that the Allies supply lines could have been stretched too thin. If the German forces could have cut the supply lines, two thirds of allied forces on the continent would not have been reinforce-able. This surely would have been a disaster for the allied forces in France."

A bit stiff, a lot protecting, the General; "Do you not agree with that analysis Mr. President?" The President waves an offering of chairs. Both sit. The President pauses with intent. Intent to show that it could be a hearty debate. The General shuffles replies to either a yes, or a no, from the President.

The President opens; "I think there was grave danger in what Patton did. However, it was truly Eisenhower's decision to move swiftly. Though in fact, Ike did slow Patton's forces down long enough to insure that Montgomery's forces in the north did receive the supplies that they needed. I think that Eisenhower saw this as a great opportunity. An opportunity... a chance opening that needed to be taken. If Patton's forces were successful, if our supply lines were not severed, hundreds of thousands of lives and years of war could be averted. Ike proved to be right."

The president, who'd been edged forward in his chair, now settled back. His face did not show it, but his mind beamed in a moment of satisfaction. The General leaned up onto the arm of his chair but did not reply. His knowledge was asking him to reply, but his political savvy told him not to.

Mrs. Adamski knocks and enters the room. The General's lips thin. Thomas looks to Betty who is carrying a pot of fresh Mud. "General would you like a cup of coffee?" she asks.

The General rises and smiles like a child on Easter morning. "I would love one. Black please." Betty pours him a cup and walks it to him. Quickly she exits; leaving the tray for the surely thirsty bear.

After savoring a sip as if it is snifter of twenty year old Cognac, the General goes to work. "Mr. President I will be brief. I am aware that you have all volumes of National Military Infrastructure, Policies, and Status'." Ted's mind defines: The NMIPS is a library of military policies, information, and statistics, written specifically for the Joint Chief of Staff. "If you ever have any questions about information in them, please don't hesitate to call me." The General did indeed intend to be brier. "Mr. President." He pauses to the President. "Mr. Wilson." He stays on the President. He later looks back on this neglect as not politically savvy. "If you have nothing more for me I will take my leave of-"

Quick Ted interrupts; "General I read the doctrine titled Organization of Terrorist Structure. Chapter sixteen states: In the summer of 2007 there were 1112 known terrorist training facilities throughout the world. These camps varied in size and averaged 56 personnel on location. Then in the fall of 2008, it was believed that there were only 556 such camps. The camps had become much larger in personnel, standing structures, and equipment. Also, there had been a shift in geographic locations. Camps seemed to be moving from jungle, desert, and other remote locations, to coastal areas. Many of these were in Northern Africa, Central America, and South America. Alarming don't you think General?"

The General was deeply listening to the Chief of Staff. The President waited only briefly for the General's response. The General's eyes were locked on Ted's.

"General, what is the JCS's analysis of these logistical changes?" The President questioned.

The General replies; "Mr. Wilson, I am impressed with your veracious reading of the NMIPS library." The General's attention turns. "Mr. President, the Joint Chief of Staff, along with the CIA and NSA, have had several analytical sessions on this very topic. It is indeed alarming. On one hand there are fewer camps, on the other, it could mean a major shift in terrorist structure and philosophy. Our intelligence believes that the different sects of terrorist organizations, are organizing together. Sort of strength in numbers thing. Several of our intelligence organizations have been putting together an organizational tree over the past year. Mr. President, it appears that terrorist cells and organizations that have never worked together in the past, are now trying to organize and become a global entity. One giant terrorist structure with no boundaries."

The president stares deep in thought at the General. "General I want all of the documentation that has been compiled on this matter."

"Yes Mr. President. You will have it Monday morning." The General again attempts an exit. "Mr. President... Mr. Wilson... nice meeting you both." This time the General is cordial with Ted as well. "I will make sure you get all of our information on this matter. Good day." No salute; which Ted felt odd. This time Ted allows the General to leave. The General's aid has procured a to-go cup of coffee from Ms. Littler. "Good man!" the General elates.

The two settle. The President to his desk; Ted feet from the desk and looking at Thomas. "Ted you seem very concerned about these terrorist camps."

Ted, with that concern; "Are you not sir?"

"I am." He pauses for affect. "But let's wait until we have gone over all of their data. Let's make sure that the intelligence organizations are not trying to justify their existence and budgets."

Ted questioning the President's words; "Sir?"

The President clarifies. "Sorry Ted. What I mean is that we need to verify that it is, what it is."

"Yes sir, I understand."

Ted begins gathering his things. "Hang on Ted please don't leave quite yet." The President hits a button on the Siemens Open Space communication system.

"Yes Mr. President"

"Mrs. Adamski have you been able to reach Sam Holden today?"

"He is available for the next 82 minutes," she replies with Betty exactness.

"Good. Could you please try to get him now."

"Yes sir"

"Ted I would like you to be in on this phone call." The Siemens clicks.

"Sir, Sam Holden the Commissioner of the National Commission on Energy is on line six"

"Thanks"

Betty jumps back in: "Mr. President... he seems very excited to be speaking with you. Very excited sir." The President snickers and engages the Open Space.

"Mr. Holden?"

"Mr. President, it is... I mean it is a great a very great pleasure to speak with you. Sir... you are the president... Sorry. How can I help you sir?"

The President tries to get him calmed down. "Mr. Holden-"

"It's just that it's such an honor-"

"Mr. Holden!" Thomas interjects again.

Mr. Holden sounding calmer; "Sir?"

Ted Jumps in; "Mr. Holden this is Ted Wilson. I am here with the President and we have you on speaker phone. Please, can we please have your attention?"

"Yes sir. I'm sorry I'm just surprised to be speaking with you so soon.

"Yes Mr. Holden that is completely understandable. Here now is the President." Slight pause while the two look at each other. Thomas smiles. Ted looks disgusted.

"Mr. Holden."

"Yes Mr. President."

"I have a question to ask you."

"Yes sir?"

"If an American oil company wanted to purchase a large amount of oil overseas, what procedures would they have to follow? You know... to make this all a legal transaction within the United States Federal Laws?"

Like a switch on the back of Sam Holden's head had been suddenly switched on, he replies succinctly. He was in his comfort zone. "Mr. President, per the federal law on oil registry, the only thing the company is required by law to do is go public 21 days prior to contractual obligation."

"Could you be clearer Mr. Holden?" the President asks.

"Yes sir. Per federal law 714E, section 21b, any U.S. based oil company wishing to purchase oil rights of more than 1 million barrels of crude oil from a foreign country, must make public this information at least 21 days prior to closing any contract."

To Ted this simple-ness red-flagged bureaucratically impossible. He asks; "Is that it Mr. Holden?"

"Yes sir. Purchasing oil from foreign countries is loosely regulated. It's really quite easy. However, selling of crude oil to foreign countries is much more regulated. Much more." Mr. Holden is now in perfect Secretary speech. His words flow contextually perfect and easily toned.

The president; "Mr. Holden I thank you for your time. Thanks you for the information."

The switch goes off again. "Mr. President, it has been a pleasure I mean for me although I hope you had some fun. Well I don't mean fun. When would the president have time for fun? I mean I hope you have fun but not when meeting with leaders of other countries. Although you could you know. Foreign leaders and all..." The president has turned from the speaker and is trying not to laugh into the open line.

Ted; "Goodbye Mr. Holden. And indeed it has been fun Mr. Secretary." Ted disconnects the call. The President erupts with laughter. Ted even slips a small smirk.

Saturday January 22, 2:00 p.m.

"Director Armstrong thanks for coming in. I don't believe that we have ever met formally."

"No Mr. President I don't believe we have." An obligatory hand-shake takes place. Because it is a first-meeting shake, both men emphasize length, strength, and motion; all that politically testosterone'd shit.

A third party extends a hand to the President and tries to speak. The director is not ready for him to and slashes in. "Mr. President this is Isaac Tipton. He is a Deputy Director of the highest security division at Langley Field." The President picks up on the 'Field' historical reference. Field, as it once was called. Thomas understands the Director's subtle smooze attempt. However, Thomas's historical side is tickled by the Director's word feather. The Director continues without pause. "You could say that he is the Mother of all librarians." The President looks into the Director's eyes and lets out a small snicker. The Director concludes the introduction. "Assistant Director Tipton will be briefing you today."

Although Mr. Tipton spoke C.I.A. Eloquent, the two and a half hour briefing seemed brutally long to the President. The President was sure his time could have been spent better elsewhere. Most information was already knowledge to him. All the new items such as Roswell, top secret military hardware, national security issues, and who really shot J.R., did not reveal anything startling. He later would state to Ted that the meeting was two hours forever gone from his life. Apparently there was thirty minutes of worth.

Time to bring Ted into the briefing. Thomas was sure that Ted was chomping at the bit and driving Betty crazy. "Mrs. Adamski could you please send in Ted." The Director quietly spoke. The President added; "And the gentleman that came in with the Director as well." In came Ted and Special Agent Todd Winthrop. Agent Tipton excuses himself in an almost military manner and exits the Oval Office.

Director Armstrong points to the man who entered with Ted. "Mr. President this is agent Todd Winthrop. He is an analysis specialist. One of our best." Agent Winthrop reaches into a brown leather brief and pulls out a manila folder. Ink stamped in large red letters it reads: TOP SECRET. Surprisingly to Ted, this seemed overly dramatic clandestine to Ted. He swallows hard a brief chuckle. The President glances at his Chief of Staff. The specialist hands the folder to the Director.

"Please, everyone have a seat." The President directs them to several couches and over-stuffed chairs. The arrangement rings, thus highlighting a rug with a Presidential Seal embroidered upon it.

Agent Winthrop does not immediately take his seat as he looks at length to the seal. Finally taking his seat to the left of the Director, he addressee the President. "Mr. President I see that the eagle's head is pointed towards the arrows." He briefly pauses. The Director glares at him. The President is intrigued. Winthrop continues; "Not at the olive branches. That is unusual. Rare!"

The Chief of Staff; "Agent Winthrop do you know the significance of that?"

The Specialist replies with a tone of knowledge; "War. Traditionally it means that the country is at war."

The President adds; "I believe that seal is the only one like it in Washington. It was left here by the previous administration. I've been debating about removing it. I do like the novelty of it. We are after all at war."

"Mr. President." The Director wants to get back to business. "Four days before the inauguration, on January 16th, we received an encoded document from a middle level operative in Mumbai." Ted must have thought that the President wanted a reference.

He educates; "Mumbai also known as Bombay is located on the Arabian Sea coast. It is approximately 750 miles south, southwest, of our embassy in New Delhi. Is that correct Director?" The Director looks at Ted and the obvious.

The specialist is quick to reply; "Yes it is sir." The President smiles at the exuberance of the young analyst. The Director shows nothing at what he hoped was known by all.

He stands and hands the folder to the President while saying; "Upon decoding it we came up with the following:

'neolith / aggressive activity 5k / jumbo paper to single location....five location / t cells involved / Homeland D / fback 48 / same l end"

The President opened the file. On the left side of folder there was a signature sheet with several names. It included the Director's, agent Winthrop's, and several other agents and specialists. He thought it to be a rather short list. The President pulls a silver Cross pen from his jacket pocket and adds his name to the list. He quickly reads the short memoranda and hands the folder to Ted.

Director Armstrong; "Specialist would you please inform us what the entire document means."

Adjusting his posture Agent Winthrop begins. " **Neolith** is the code name of our operative in Mumbai. **Aggressive activity 5k,** means that the group called five Kings, has begun some activity and working it hard. **Jumbo paper to single location,** means that five kings are trying to set up a way to get an extremely large amount of money into one location. **Five location,** refers to them wanting to move the money to five different locations. **Cells involved,** means that terrorist cells are involved. **Homeland D,** means destruction to U.S. interests. **Fback 48,** means give feedback within forty eight hours. **Same,** means requesting feedback to the same point of transmission."

The Director picks up the informing; "Mr. President. Neolith has infiltrated a quasi-terrorist organization in India called The Five kings. The Five Kings are a strategic, logistic terrorist organization. Sort of a terrorist Think Tank if you will. During the 56 years of their known existence, they have been a very passive group. Although, they have been tied to some very minor criminal activity throughout the world. Our intelligence organizations have always chosen to leave them alone and continue to track them. We have gotten some very good Intel from them. Therefore we have chosen to let them operate uninterrupted. The five kings, 5K, have never by our Intel been directly involved in any violent terrorist attacks. Though the possibility does exist that some of their doctrines and philosophies have been adapted by other violent terrorist groups. But it appears, that possibly 5k has switched from a passive role, to an active and militant stance."

After taking a breath and adjusting his sitting position, the Director continues; "Neolith was recruited by 5K for the same reasons that we did. She is a citizen of India and received her education in the United States. In 2006 she received an Educational Doctorate in Research and Evaluation Methodology. She received it from the University of Florida. In 2007 we sent her to Mumbai to try to infiltrate the 5k. Within six months she was inside. It now appears that something significant may be happening."

The President glanced to his Chief of Staff. Ted caught the look and returned to the Director as he continued. "The XL17 transmitting equipment that she has been using is an older low level security system. It is only used for general transmission. Within 48 hours of receiving her encrypted transmission, we did reply. She was to be picked up by one of our operatives and taken to New Delhi. There we can use a more secure communication line and get detailed information. That was two days ago and we have not heard from her since. There is some concern. However, the trip alone, in good conditions, takes about 26 hours. We are not sure when she departed Mumbai; or if she ran into any travel problems. We felt that she should have come out of the dark twelve hours ago. But we haven't heard from her."

The President, studying the Director's face acknowledges; "I see. Director Armstrong do you feel that she has detailed information on these activities?"

"Mr. President we are not sure at this time how much information she has. We are hoping it is significant, but we just won't know until we can speak with her." The Director wondered if he should have had more information.

The President wondered if maybe he did but wasn't sharing as he said; "Very well. I'm sure you will keep me informed if this turns into anything plausible." The President searches the face of both men. The President; "Is there anything else I should know at this time gentlemen?" Neither men speak. The President stands. The briefing is over.

Sunday January 23rd. 4:12 a.m. local time. New Delhi India.

A Cosmic Blue, 1998 Saab 900 SE, turns left following the sign. The sign reads: South Entrance. The car drives 80 meters down a one way drive. The Drive is lined on both sides by a three meter high mortar wall. The Saab stops at an iron and steel gate. Covered with dust, the Saab appears tired.

Staff Sergeant Michael Williams, United States Marine Corp, approaches the driver's window. The driver, an Indian man in his early thirties, greets the marine; "Good morning."

The sergeant replies; "Paperwork please." Another marine shines a flashlight through the passenger window. Two dog sniffing teams circle the car in an irregular pattern. Both dogs sniff the entire car; neither alert. They back away and go away. The driver hands the marine two sets of paperwork. Each set presents native identification cards and an Indian passport. "Thank you," he says. The sergeant turns and enters a guard shack. The driver suddenly notices two solders front and rear of the vehicle. Both have side-arms drawn and aimed. The driver turns slow and easy back to the guard shack. The sergeant is peering into a computer monitor. In one minute and six seconds, the soldier returns to the vehicle. To the passengers it was much longer. Bending down and looking through the driver's window, the sergeant asks; "Sir, ma'am, do you have any other identification you wish to show me?

"Yes we do," replies Neolith. Both passengers perform slight-of-hand and produce a local bank card. The sergeant gathers the cards and retreats back to the shack. He types in the 16 digits on Sonia's card. Her picture and the following information comes up:

Name: Sonia Yadev (neolith)

Residence: India/United States

Amount available: $37,512

Security level: TS

DOB: 01/14/81

Sex: Female

Description: Five foot nine 115 pounds, black hair

The sergeant performs the same task with the other card. Two minutes and eight seconds later, he returns to the vehicle and hands all information back to the two occupants.

"Welcome! We have been waiting for you. Good to see you." The gate slowly swings open. "Please pull forward 21 meters and stop under that overhang."

Sonia replies; "Thank you sergeant." The driver follows the marine's instructions.

A Phone rings inside the embassy. "Sergeant at Arms of the Hour."

"Sir, this is Sergeant Williams from One. Your package has arrived seemingly unharmed."

"Thank you Sergeant," replies the Sergeant at Arms.

The Saab comes to a stop under a brick and cement overhang. Two steel doors open. Like clowns getting out of a tiny car at a circus, eight young men scurry out through the gate. They are all dressed in traditional native white cotton shirts and khaki pants. The performance looks choreographed. Two quickly open the car doors. Two others grab the passengers by their arms and whisk them towards the steel doors. Another opens the entrance doors. Another opens the Saab's trunk. Still another grabs one small duffel bag and Sonia's book bag from the trunk. The last jumps in the vehicle and drives it out of sight. Both passenger and driver are safe within the embassy. All in under eleven seconds.

Director Armstrong is being driven back to Langley in his special Escalade. His cell phone rings. "Yes." He answers.

A voice; "Sir, at approximately 5:12 p.m., Neolith arrived in New Delhi. She appears in good health."

"Thank you." The Director hangs up and turns to Agent Winthrop. "Neolith has come in from the dark," he says in a steady tone. Agent Tipton, sitting behind, did not know what this meant. He also knew that he wasn't supposed to.

Sonia is guided down a hallway and in through an antique wooden door. It appears to her that she is in a small library. Her companion for the last 55 hours is taken to a different location. She will never see him again. It all happened so fast that they did not say goodbye. Which with what they had been through, felt sadly wrong. A man walks in behind her; surprising her. "Agent YADEV please have a seat." He nods towards a small couch. "I'm Sergeant at Arms Smythe. I am sure that your trip has been arduous and I apologize for so rushing you in here. This is a marine run facility and we do have our practices. First do you need any medical attention?"

"No I don't think so but I sure would like some water."

"I'm sorry, forgive me for not offering." The Sergeant turns and looks to a corner of the room. A young soldier that she did not know was there walks to a small table and pours her a large glass of gold-worth water. He brings it to her and places the pitcher of water on the end table next to her. The sergeant; "Thank you Private." Sonia adds a nodded thank you as well. He disappears again into the shadows. "How does he do that?"

"Ma'am?" Sonia two quick head shakes a 'never mind' expression. She downs the water and pours herself another. With an audible breath she downs that as well. The Sergeant waits above her with an awkward impatience. However, though not wanting to, he does wait. Sonia lets an appreciative sigh escape.

"That is the best water I have ever had." Expressionless he looks at her. A normal human thought of emotion tickles him to smile. It is still more awkward.

"Agent YADEV I am sorry to have to rush you, but we do have a very tight schedule for you. In a little over five and one half hours you will be debriefed. Assistant Director Lang is currently on the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln. The Lincoln is currently in the Arabian Sea. He will be chopper'd here at 0830 and wishes to meet with you at 0900. So I am sorry, but it will be a short sleep for you. The private here will take you to your room." Her face jerks to the Private now feet from her. The Sergeant's words don't pause. "Your Quarters has a bathroom and you are welcome to use anything that you wish. Please try to get as much sleep as you can. But feel free to do what you wish. Just remember that you need to be ready by 0855." ("Feel free to do what you wish.") Sonia thought those words curious.

The Private; "Ma'am please come with me." They walk across the room to a small elevator. The marine calls the elevator. The doors slide open immediately. Upon exiting the elevator Sonia notices that there are no numbers on its buttons. She thinks that she has gone up three floors. She is not sure, she does not care, she is sure that sleep is all she cares about.

The private leads her down a hallway. She sees another marine seven meters in front of her. He is dressed in fatigues and wears a sidearm. He as sentry washes away the mental dust of her trip's trials. The private stops at a door and pulls an electronic key. "Ma'am this is your room. If you need to leave for any reason please pick up the white phone. An escort will quickly come to get you. I highly doubt that you will need to leave, but if you do..." She enters the room and can't hold back the instilled need to quickly scan. The private slowly pulls the door behind her. "Good night Ma'am." Too tired, her mind says; 'Thank you Private.'

Less instilled, now more curious, Sonia circles through the room. All of the furniture, most of the fixtures, and much of decorations are regional. A king size four poster bed geometrically balances the center of the room. A full size refrigerator stands in a corner. It is well stocked with drinks, fruit, and snacks. There are also several containers of prepared food. All of American cuisine, which made her smile if she'd had the energy. In another corner there is a large hutch. Hanging within is an assortment of shirts and dresses. All are regional-ware and most are new. In the hutch's drawers are an assortment of native and European undergarments.

At the other end of the room is the bathroom. Sonia walks into the room and is pleasantly surprised. She thinks that the bathroom is larger than her whole Mumbai hovel. Her first thought is of the possibility of a shower. She takes in the multiple shower heads of a walk-in shower. Though not now of desire, there are also duel sink water basins. A mirrored cabinet over the basins hold several bathing products. She thinks of hot running water and gathers bath towels and opens the cabinet. Selecting a Honeysuckle and Lilac shampoo, and a French body wash, she dreams herself under what will be her gentle waterfall.

Carefully turning on the hot water as if not wanting to break it, she puts her hand into the warm softened water and sighs. Stepping into the shower streams it feels as if she is washing away months of Mumbai.

Sonia lost within in her mind is slow in washing her long hair. The scent of the shampoo places her in another place. She rinses from her body the what she believes must be tinted lather. Now fully immersed in that other place, Sonia lathers again. This time it is only to remove long thoughts. This time it is only for her. She giggles as she now understands the Sergeant's words.

Suddenly jolted from a dream Sonia is aware that sleep is now the imperative. Taking no more of her own time, she efficiently prepares for bed. Sliding into bed, slipping into an easy slumber, she thinks of a friend from college.

Sunday January 23rd, 2:10 a.m., Director Armstrong's residence.

The phone on the Director's night stand rings. On the fourth ring the Director mumbles towards it; "Director... Director Armstrong."

"Sir this is assistant Director Lang. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour however we have a level four situation." Director Lang continues with a pace meant to save time, and a clarity to inform. "I have spent almost five hours debriefing Neolith. I believe her information is both critical and time sensitive. I believe that she needs to be brought in immediately. I fear for her life. She however insists that she must get back to her station within sixteen hours or she will be compromised. She is pretty adamant about this. Mr. Director I recommend that I take her back to my point of departure. I will immediately get the report to you using Excelsior one." (Excelsior one, is the safest satellite communication system that the government has.) "Mr. Director you can then get an analytical profile of this report. Then you can let me know how you want me to proceed. Sorry to ruin your sleep sir."

The Director now sitting up and swinging his feet towards the floor; "I understand Lang and I agree with you. Please get that to me immediately. Please send it to access point 'lndt21winthrop'."

"Yes sir. And Mr. Director, I can't over emphasize the criticalness of time."

"I understand Mr. Lang. Please wait for me to contact you."

"Yes Sir."

The Director dials. The phone rings several times. More than the Director things it should. "This is Winthrop."

"Agent Winthrop this is the Director. You need to gather your team and report to Langley at once. You will have an Excelsior transmission waiting at your address. Please get into it and let's get this thing figured out. I will meet you in two hours. Agent Winthrop, we need to have a complete profile on this by 0500. I authorize the use of any assets that you need to accomplish this."

"Yes sir. On it. See you in a couple of hours."

0855 local time.

A knock on Agent Yadev's door. "Agent Yadev, I hope you slept well."

"The sleep was brief but I woke refreshed. I don't think I've slept like that since college." Sonia is taken to Agent Lang.

"Agent Yadev I am Assistant Director Ryan Lang. I'm the Director of the Asian division."

"Yes sir. It is nice to meet you."

"This is agent Sutherland. Agent Sutherland will be documenting our conversation." Sonia knew the word conversation loosely chosen.

Sonia is sitting in a leather chair. The Director sits across from her. The specialist adjacent to both. Director Lang begins. "First of all Agent I am wondering why it took you fifty five hours to get here after being summoned. What was the situation?" He was trying not to sound as if he was scolding. Sonia heard; 'What! Was the situation.'

Sonia time-lined the facts. "Sir. I was not able to leave my point of infiltration for almost six hours. I had to convince Tariq TARIQ that I had a need to leave. Tariq is my superior with 5K. I had to be convinced that he believed me. I told him that I had a very sick relative in Ahmadabad and that I needed to visit him. I told him that I would only be gone for 72 hours."

"Because of what I am involved with at 5k, my departure is rather bad timing for us. For them." Her words broke briefly. "I had to play the part of someone packing and making travel plans. I am sure that I was being watched. My pick-up had to look like I had hired a driver. Once we were on our way to Ahmadabad we were stopped and detained at two different check-points. The first stop was for almost six hours. The second was overnight. They were not Indian Army Regulars. We were never given information as to why we were being held. I guess, when they were ready to, we were simply released. So 18 hours after leaving we were only 155 miles into our travel. We then had to spend several hours in Ahmadabad. You know to make it appear as if we had made our final destination and we weren't traveling further. We checked into a hotel and went to get something to eat. After about three and a half hours we hoped our charade was complete. We snuck out of town. Apparently we were successful. I hope we truly did convince them. Otherwise... well... it would be bad for me upon my return."

"Agent Yadev I would now like to begin the strategic information briefing. I want you to be as detailed as you can be. Please don't try to determine what is pertinent and which is not. If it is a thought, please present it."

Sonia started her four hour and forty eight minute oral report. She stopped only to drink water and eat small bites of a Banana Nut Muffin. Agent Lang never spoke; only observed. The only other sound in the room was Agent Sutherland clicking the keys on her machine.

Neolith began. "As I am sure you are aware, sixteen months ago I was sent to Mumbai and tasked to infiltrate the organization known as The Five Kings. Approximately six months later I was brought into their fold. For the last eleven months I have been compiling different ways to bring large amounts of money into many different countries. Their countries. I needed to do this under several different scenarios. These scenarios were always given to my group by TARIQ."

"It almost became a game. We were given a scenario including all assets allowed us, all barriers, and all limitations. Tariq would furnish us with what the end result needed to be, and we had to make it happen. Of course for it to be successful the transaction had to appear to be legal. Legal if detected. But of course the ultimate goal was to make it undetected by any entity. I would say that during the last eight months we were successful in six of these scenarios. There were other scenarios that simply posed too many obstacles."

"I was aware that there were four other groups like mine. They were all specialized in different areas. But I wasn't 'need to know' exactly what that was."

"I was the informal leader of my group; I was never officially given a lead position; somehow it was just understood. Two weeks ago TARIQ took me aside and informed me that my role was changing. I would take over as Captain of all five groups. I don't know what brought on the change. Anyways... my role was now to simultaneously coordinate the groups to perform all of their tasks simultaneously for one large operation. Just as always, he was the one that gave me the task. This time it was multifunctional. I had to make it all come together. Tariq stated that all functions had to be completed as one action; all within 72 hours of each other."

"Tariq in the past had often been very slow in giving me information; dates, times, and other details. He was only providing me with information that I needed on a daily basis. This has been the standard operating procedure since I joined them. What I do know is that the five functional groups are: the group I lead, Finance and Banking; Mercenary Recruitment and Implementation; Organized Military Actions; Government Assassination unit; and Leadership Development. I believe that these groups have been the five functioning organizations since the beginning of Five Kings. In substance, they are The Five Kings. For almost sixty years they have been perfecting their craft. Now it seems that it is time to use these skills."

"What I can tell you about each group is this. My former group, Finance and Banking, has been tasked to bring a large amount of money into an account in the Ukraine. Once it is brought in, it is to be distributed to five other locations. All different amounts; all in different currency. The money has to be verifiable instantly and available for withdrawal immediately. I don't know the locations or amounts yet. No need to know yet. However, we are at a point in our planning, that I can't move forward without this information. I do expect to get that information very soon. He is aware of it. Tariq!"

"The Mercenary Recruitment and Implementation group is working the final phase of something they have been working on for almost a year. They are actively interviewing and testing some of the most professional mercenary units in the world. The mercenaries they are recruiting must have the capability to learn how to operate and launch ballistic missiles from a PLRB. Podrodnay Lodka Raketnaya Ballisticheskay." Sonia paused wondering if she was insulting Director Lang. She remembered his words and continued; "A Russian diesel ballistic missile submarine. These are Golf Class submarines. Almost all are now retired. It would, seem hard to find a resume that has these qualifications. However, 5k has six units that have finished their training and will soon begin their sea-going operational readiness exercises. The four organizations that perform the most proficient in operation, navigation, and simulated missile launch, will be offered contracts. Again I don't have a lot of the who and when. But I am getting more information daily."

"The Organized Military Actions group is planning the logistics. The deployment capabilities, all communication needs, supplies, weapons, and all transportation needs. These logistics are for four large amphibious assault groups. These groups are the size of several large divisions. Thirty to forty thousand men each. The planning involves a flotilla to be launched from four different locations. One in Northern Africa. Two from Central America. And the last from South America. These launches will be timed to strike a target simultaneously. I have not been told of specific targets. But based on requirements that I have been furnished with, the target can only be the southern United States."

Sonia's words would surely bring a reaction from the Assistant Director. Unaware that her eyes were concentrated on brown carpeting, she lifted and laser'd all attention in him. Her beam found only a slightly tilted head. She began again. "These divisions will be made up of hard core terrorist groups. Fanatics! These factions... I'm finding out more and more about daily now. The Leadership Development group is the most interesting. Well... interesting might not be the right word. Changing. Yes changing. This group has been plying its trade for at least sixty years. Their purpose is the socialization of individuals. They do this two different ways. One is to identify individuals at birth and choose them to be 5K socialized. Guided if you will. Brain-wash them to work for their cause. I don't think Brain-washed is an overused phrase here. It is a true socialization. A 5K process from birth. They actually take control of their lives. They guide them through life. Mentor them. Financially help them and make their education happen. A good education. The world's best universities. All with the ultimate goal of having this chosen person arrive in places of power. In places of power and holding within them the doctrine of the Five Kings."

"Their second method is of course recruitment. They try to identify people that are already on their way to positions of power. Recruit them. And then melt them into the black soup of 5K doctrine. Their recruitment profiling process is the same old crap. You know... they look for people who are weak of character. Life strapped with strain. Financially cornered. All that shit." Sonia hearing her words understood her level of tired.

"Through these two different processes they have groomed and pushed people into positions of power. Captains of industry. The top echelon in the military infrastructure. Politicians. Indeed powerful people; the most powerful people in the government. Their goal is to get many powerful Americans to join in their ideology. Then... the individuals that are in a position to help execute the grand scheme will."

Sonia took a sip of water and again searched Mr. Lang. "Go on Agent Yadev," Lang said. She pulled one more sip and continued. "The Government Assassination group has been active during the entire existence of the Five Kings. It is readily believed that some of its assassination procedures have been used in several famous assassinations. Including Andre Kozlow, Chairman of Russia's Central Bank, and several LTTE members attributed to the Sri Lanka government. This group is planning a political assassination in the United States. It will be contracted out to professionals for hire. However, the means, logistics, and opportunity, will be provided by 5K."

"So as you can see Director Lang, 5k is about to erupt. I believe that it will all take place in about three weeks. All tasks will be completed within 72 hours of each other. These parameters I am sure of. As I've said I am getting more information daily. Information is being presented to me in larger chunks now. I hope you can see why I desire to get back in place. I think this is a huge threat to the sovereignty of the United States. I'm not sure if I am, but I may be the only link to accurate information that we have. But If I am not back within the 72 hours it may be all lost."

Assistant Director Lang spent the rest of the debriefing quizzing Sonia. Not testing, but cultivating. Looking for the tiniest morsel of life saving food. Most questions were answered with repeated information. Lang did not want to leave anything out. He knew of the magic of Agent Winthrop. He knew he could take the smallest gluton of flour and build a cake from it. Step into a gentle drizzle and walk out into a monsoon. One that if not stopped would flood the United States. Sonia, her information, neither was impertinent.

Director Armstrong walks into Agent Winthrop's office at 0435. The office is static with energy from organized chaos. Four women and three men are performing different tasks. All are working with more than just a sense of urgency. The Director looks to Winthrop and asks; "Agent Winthrop where are we?" Winthrop exits the busy work area with the Director in tow. Heading to the Director's office Winthrop hands him a manila envelope.

"Here is the edited and pertinent revision of the Neolith debrief. We will, be ready for the Information Profile presentation at 0500 sir. Can you be in meeting room 12 at 0500 sir?" Winthrop knew the answer. His question was more a proud verification on his part.

The Director; "I'll scan the report and see you at 0500."

"Yes sir."

"Good job Winthrop." Verified. The Agent turns and heads back to the ant farm in his office.

Agent Todd Winthrop, thirty two years old, with the exuberance of a seven year old. He is an oxymoron; the analytical mind of a genius, and the zest for life of a child. Todd would not be happier doing anything else with his life. He loves being a servant of the greatest country in the world. He desperately wants to believe that he is making his country a safer place. He loves his country as Patriots will. His weakness, is that his love of country tends to guide him toward naïveté. Winthrop believes that the Warren Commission is right. Todd is certain that the eighteen and a half minute gap in the Nixon tape was a technical glitch. Agent Winthrop does believe that Washington slept there.

The books that are all full of personality type analysis say his type of personality does not a good analyst make. If the word enigma is ever used correctly, I will try to do so now. Agent Todd Winthrop is an enigma. To him facts are reality. To Todd, and to his reality, it should be to all others as well; facts are a subset apart from any other.

The Director strides steady to the front of the room. His person identification is quick as he is familiar with all. Agent Winthrop and seven others. Still his looking pause is over prolonged. With intended tone of C.I.A. seriousness, he then begins. "First I need to emphasize that all information that was presented to you is to be kept in the strictest confidence. What I mean by this is; it should not be shared with any others within this agency. Until I clear it for further distribution, the only ones that are to have this information are you eight. Is that understood?" All acknowledge with a low voice or gentle nod. Director Armstrong continues; "All information is to be compiled and given directly to agent Winthrop. It will all be classified 'Above Top Secret'. All protocol information protection procedures must be checked and double checked. Agent Winthrop will you please dismiss all that do not have a need to be here at this time."

Five of the seven immediately get up and excuse themselves. They do not need to be told. "Thanks everyone for coming in and getting this done," says Winthrop.

The Director adds; "Yes. Thank you." The Director's tongue stumbles through his late addition.

"Agent Winthrop." Todd is looking into a stack of papers and lifts his head to the Director's words. "I glanced the report and I am quite concerned about all of this. But I need more. What is your take?"

"Sir, we have cross matched this report with other intelligence and we find this to be quite credible. Plausible. We have a confidence of 92% that this information is accurate. Based on this report by Neolith and other intelligence we have put together the following profile."

"The Five Kings are in the final stages of orchestrating an attack on the United States. We believe the time frame to be within three weeks. Quite possibly the weekend of February 6th. This time frame, we are only 43% confident in. But it is a starting point. The timeline of this attack, we believe to be as follows:

1. An assassination of a high ranking political figure will take place.

2. A large transfer of money to a Ukrainian bank will take place. This money will then be distributed to five other accounts. In five different countries. This money will be used to pay for equipment and weapons to be used in the attack. These weapons will include submarine fired ballistic missiles. Tipped most likely with tactical nuclear warheads. We are 63% confident in this.

3. Ballistic missiles will be fired at major cities and command and control centers.

4. Lastly, four flotillas of 2 divisions in size, 120,000-160,000 personnel, will land on the shores of the United States. They would be armed only with small arms and munitions. The attacks will not be at major cities. The Gulf of Mexico is a high probability target. The attacking force will want to take control of ports and oil refineries."

"Excuse me Agent Winthrop." The Director questions; "Are you telling me that 120-160 thousand men, with small arms, are going to take the ports and oil refineries from the United States military? All with no air support, no mechanization, no technology. How would this be possible?"

Todd is quick to reply. "It would be more of an insurgency than an attack against our military. Look what will already have taken place if they are successful. First of all, a political assassination of a high ranking political individual. It would have to be someone that could attempt to stop their plot. We don't know yet who it would be. But it is clear that their goal would be the second Coup in the United States in the last 44 years."

"Secondly; major cities and command and control centers will already have been attacked by nuclear weapons. Probably tactical in size. Both will happen within 72 hours of each other. Immediately following the nuclear attacks the flotilla of insurgents will land and infiltrate the towns. They would want to take control of the towns. But they would try to keep casualties low. Killing only as many people as is necessary to take control. They don't want people to flee. The insurgents will want to mix among them. This will make it almost impossible for our high tech military to quickly find and destroy them without killing thousands of Americans. We can only philosophies, but their goal would have to be to infiltrate at least one sixth of the continental United States. They would want to turn it into their own lawless third world country. Sort of a mix of Iraq and Somalia."

The Director asks; "How would our military allow a nuclear attack to take place? We are after all talking about four antiquated diesel powered submarines; are we not? Any ten year old with the internet could probably track these submarines. I am sure that we have eyes on them as we speak."

"Yes sir you are correct. However, we have had a coup d'état. The person that is now in control of the government is a Treason and is controlling the military. Also Mr. Director we are quite certain that there will also be a very high ranking military leader that is a Treason as well. Two such powerful people could cause the break-down of national security. Thus helping the 5k in this operation. Maybe not help, but they could force no defensive action. No action that would prevent a nuclear attack. This military leader would have to be at the highest level. At the very least, a chairman of one of the services. But probably higher. We just don't know yet."

Agent Winthrop pauses and stares into the mulling eyes of the Director. He continues; "Of course all of this costs money. Lots of money. This is it. We need to find out where it is coming from." The Director stands up and walks half way around the table. He pauses and looks at one of the two team members still in the room.

"Specialist Niles, you are a personnel profile expert, is that not right?"

"Yes Mr. Director I have extensive training in that field."

Winthrop looking at Specialist Niles interjects; "Don't be so modest Mrs. Niles." He swings his face back to the Director. "She is one of the best in the world Sir."

Specialist Niles is a fifty two year old mother of three and grandmother of one. She has been with the company for twenty seven years.

Armstrong engages the Specialist; "Good! Specialist Niles, in forty eight hours I need profiles on all the members of the Joint Chief of Staff. Including the Chairman. I want to know who in your opinion is most likely to commit treason. I want you to do the same with the President and down through the Pro temp of the Senate."

"The President Sir?"

"Yes ma'am that is correct."

"I will have it for you first thing Tuesday morning Mr. Director."

"Thank you both." The Director nods at the Specialists. "You are both dismissed." The Director pauses just long enough for the two to stand. "Agent Winthrop will you please stay a moment."

The two agents leave the room. "Todd we need to find out where this money is coming from. It could be key to stopping this thing. It shouldn't be that hard to find. It has to be between six and eight hundred million dollars. Find it Todd."

"Yes sir."

The Director returns to his office. He sits down at his workstation and pulls up the file on Assistant Deputy Lang. He finds the code to contact him via his Lennox SI phone. Lennox SI is a level 2 security, satellite phone. All Assistant Directors have one. The Director enters the code and presses a button. After forty seconds the phone tones. Deputy Lang answers. "This is El dorado."

"El dorado this is Mayflower."

"Yes sir."

"Are you back home?"

"Yes sir I am. What are your orders?"

"I want Neolith back on station immediately. Please make it happen with the man in charge. If there are any problems he can contact Bird Dog. (Secretary of the Navy) I have cleared it with him. It needs to be a low profile insertion. It needs to happen soonest. Also, I want you to give her your SI. Make sure she knows how to use it. All of it. All of the features. Especially the GPS feature. You can get another one when you get back to station. Tell her we will contact her using the SI. Tell her that she needs to contact me if there is in an emergency. Her instructions are to get back to 5k and gather more information. I am sure that she knows the kind of data we need. Are there any questions?"

"No sir."

The Director; "Please tell her to be careful. As soon as you get your new SI, please transmit your code to her. We need to keep her in the palm of our hands. Understood?"

"Yes sir it is."

Armstrong closes; "I will speak with you soon."

"Goodbye sir." The Director disconnects, per transmission protocols.

Sunday, January 23rd, 5:15 p.m.

USS Abraham Lincoln, Arabian Sea.

Flight Operations, briefing room 3.

"Ma'am, my name is Lieutenant Allen. I am the flight specialist. I will be guiding you through your insertion back into Mumbai. Forty two minutes from now we will be departing the aircraft carrier aboard a CH-53 helicopter. Flight time to Mumbai will be approximately twenty eight minutes. There is an abandoned airport in Juhu. It is just off of the beach. We will be flying very low. Our approach will not take us over any heavily populated areas. We will be in and out. We shouldn't attract any attention. I have been told that it should be easy for you to get transportation back to your home. Is that correct?"

"Yes I should be fine," says Sonia.

He finishes; "I will be back in five minutes to take you to get suited up for flight."

Deputy Lang speaks up; "Sonia I am going to give you a SI communicator. It works very much like a cell phone. You have two regions' addresses. Region 1 is the Director and several others. You also have region 21. It includes me and others that you are familiar with. Including the man that took you to New Delhi. To operate, you select an address and it will prompt for your code. Your code is the first, second, fifth, sixth, ninth, tenth, thirteenth, and fourteenth digit on your ID. Do you need me to repeat that?"

"No Sir."

"Please repeat it back to me."

"First, second, fifth, sixth, ninth, tenth, thirteenth, and fourteenth."

"Perfect. Obviously you know how important that is." Sonia nods and Lang continues. "Once you have typed in your code, double check it and hit Enter. Be warned, if you enter any code other than the correct one, the phone will shut down permanently. This is only a level 2 security system; therefore its use should only be for non-sensitive information. However in an emergency it could be your life-line." He points to the GP button. "Agent Yadev this button gives you your exact global position. This communicator has no ring tone but it will silently vibrate when called. It does have a voice messaging system. You use the same code to retrieve messages. Obviously you need to secure this like any other security item. Some agents in the field tape them to their ankle or side. You do what's most comfortable."

"Your orders are to get back in and gather as much information as you can. We need details. The when, who how etc. Detailed! Definitive information. Obviously time is a factor. And be careful. For your sake and ours. I hope all goes well for you. I'll speak with you soon."

At 6:40 they were indeed flying low and quickly approaching the shoreline. The CH-53's engines changed hum to a slower pitch. The copter turned forty five degrees, hovered momentarily and gently bumped to touch-down. Two crew members quickly removed all safety gear from her and irreverently helped her out the door. Crouching to the ground, book-bag slung over shoulder, she ran from the whirlwind. The hum again changed with acceleration. Sonia turned to see her ride abandoning her back to sea. Alone again. Instant insecurity grasped her. She loosened from the feeling and headed out. She now sensed all was good. There was only hushed commotion around her. Her arrival seemingly unnoticed.

Shoreline to her left, she walked quick paced to the south. She thought it about thirty minutes that she came to a residential area. There were wandering people. Where there were people, there were Trikes. These whining motorcycles with attached side-cars would be her new ride. Although these Tykes were usually only used for local transportation, enough Rupees would get her the eight kilometers to her residence. She was back home in less than seventy hours. This rid her of any lingering abandonment. Her sense of security was back to normal. That being what it was.

The answering voice was clear and precise. "This is the Attorney General's department. May I help you?"

"Can I please get the Attorney General's office."

"One moment please." Answering voice two; "Attorney General's office. This is Keith. May I help you?"

"This is Director Armstrong. Is Cynthia Meyers in?"

"No sir she is not. We can certainly contact her. Do you need to speak with her Director?" The Director thought the question stupid but did not pause.

"Yes sir I do. And it is a matter of some urgency. Also Keith this is a classified matter. My calling is on a need to know basis. Is that clear Keith?"

"It is," Keith said matter-of-factly.

"Keith I do need to speak with her as soon as possible."

"I will have her contact you as soon as possible Director. How would you like to be reached sir?"

"On my cell please." Perhaps because of the stupid question, he added; "I assume you have that number?"

Keith paused slightly and said; "Yes sir we do." The Director hangs up. He dials anew.

The Director of the National Security Agency, Lieutenant General Ralph John Frost's phone responds to the dialing. "This is General Frost."

"Ralph, this is Ron."

"Ron how are you?"

"General there is a matter of great importance which I need to speak with you about. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday. Can we possibly get together in the next few hours?"

"Ronald you seem upset. Care to elaborate?"

"No sir I don't, I can't." The General offers a meeting.

"Mr. Director can we meet at my home? How about at 1115 hours?" The General's offer was made with a sudden feeling to be more formal. He certainly was aware that Big Brother was listening.

"I can be there General. Also I am trying to get the Attorney General to meet with us as well. Is that okay with you General?"

"Absolutely. Ron... you worry me. Sure you are alright?"

"I am. I will see you at 11:15 General." The General's phone goes still. Breaking transmission protocol.

9:10 p.m., Dadar East

Sonia approaches her residence with caution. She slows as she approaches the entrance to her building. She looks up to her third floor window. A light in her room glows yellow-white. She tries to remember if she left it that way. She thought that she would not leave a light on. She is not sure. Now more apprehensive she climbs the stairs to the third floor. Turning the corner she quickly glances down the hallway. All appears to be normal. She walks to her door and grabs the door knob. It is locked. With as much calm speed as she can she unlocks her door and steps inside. She scans, takes stock, wonders. Trying to fight paranoia she thinks something doesn't look right. She can't define what. Walking first to her bedroom, then to her bathroom. She gives harsh words to the bathroom that she now disgusts. Sonia forces her nerves to calm, washes her face, and resigns to bed.

Forty four minutes later there is a loud knock on her door and in her at ease ears. Sleeping deeply she wakes but does not recognize the cause of her wake. Another loud thump. Sonia jerks to a sitting position. A spike in heart rate pushes scary adrenaline and bounds her steps from the door. "Who the hell is it?" She bellows with more fear than intended.

"Azir. Open the door." Azir is one of Tariq's lieutenants. A personal assistant; more of a body guard. Fear triggers a shot of self-protection.

"One moment." She takes two steps backwards and looks quick left and right without seeing anything. She fears the worst.

"Sonia we need to speak now!" He says this louder than intended. Sonia realizes that if she chose to flee she couldn't. Through the door and past Azir is the only way out. No fire escape, jumping would certainly injure. Something she'd thought about countless times. A shaking hand unlocks the door. Stiff muscled she steps back.

At 7:56 a.m., Chief of Staff Wilson takes the elevator to the second floor. He walks past the west bedroom on his right and the east bedroom on his left. Turning right he heads down the center hall, through the west sitting room, and into the President's dining room.

"Good morning Mr. President. I trust you slept well."

The President mumbles; "Trust?"

Ted pauses and asks; "Sir?" The President is staring up at Ted.

"Nothing... nothing. Good morning Ted. Something to eat?"

"I'll just grab a cup of coffee." Pouring himself a cup Ted asks; "How was your meeting yesterday with the NSA?"

"Fine did you know that he has a son in the Chicago Cubs organization? Double A." Ted stares at the President.

"Mr. President I know less about baseball than I do about deep ocean animals."

"Yes Ted, but now you know one more thing about baseball than you did."

"This is true." A bit out of sorts he takes a seat across the small table from the President.

"So Ted let's get started."

Ted asks; "anything I need to know about his visit?'

The President is quick to reply. "He gave me several reports." Handing Ted three folders he continues; "Here are copies. Please read them in the next twenty four hours and let me know if there is anything we need to discuss tomorrow at the cabinet meeting."

The President and Ted go through what will become a daily ritual of world affairs, security issues, domestic affairs, fiscal issues, next day agendas, and too many more items. Ted turns from information distribution toward questioning. "Have you heard anything more from Director Armstrong about the issue in India?"

Thomas replies without deep concern; "No... not yet. I really don't expect to until tomorrow. That is if it is indeed an issue at all. I cancelled today's appointment with the Joint Chief of Staff. It's rescheduled for Tuesday. I want time to look over the report from the Director and the data that General Gifford is sending over tomorrow. Will you please get a copy of the General's report and be prepared for that meeting. I believe it is at 4:00 p.m."

"Yes sir. Anything else?"

"Ted please contact Vice President Cole and set up an appointment with him on Wednesday. Mrs. Adamski can surely help you but I would like you to make the call." Ted pushes himself from the table, pauses, and then pulls himself back snug.

"I almost forget Mr. President. I have some information about Tapanan Oil. According to Platts, which is an on line oil industry site, in May of 2008 Tapanan Oil reported having less than 3 million barrels of crude in the ground. Nothing really. Then in November of the same year, they reported over 25 million barrels. Platts reported that Tapanan claimed the May report was inaccurate. This was also supported by the Energy Information Administration in their December 2008 MER." Ted timidly added; "Monthly Energy Review." Ted looked to the President who showed no expression. Ted began again; "I am not an expert on the Oil Industry, but this seems like a huge mistake. Very curious."

11:12 a.m., Clarendon Virginia

The Director's vehicle turns right off of Hartford Street onto Key Blvd. The Escalade pulls into a driveway. 3190 Key Boulevard. The residence of General Ralph Frost. The Director is greeted at the door by an elderly woman in a white housekeeper uniform.

"Good morning Mr. Director. The General is in the study. Please..." She turns and leads him to the study. Simultaneously knocking and opening the door, she steps aside, smiles, and lets the Director into the study. She pulls the door shut and falls back to other duties.

The General is seated at a large oak desk with a workstation on it. He appears to be reading from the monitor.

"Ron! It is good to see you." The General quick from behind greets his friend with a handshake of the bound. Much more than meaningless mandatory. The General moves to the fireplace and sits in an overstuffed chair. The Director holding two large envelopes hands one to the General and takes his seat.

"Ralph, this is a profile of intelligence out of India." The two men spend the next forty eight minutes going over the report. The report that was put together by Winthrop's team.

"Ron..." The General looking serious asks of the Director's face. He slaps the folder with the back of his hand. "This information seems too incredible. I mean... how confident are you? Is this accurate? Is this really possible? Ron?" The General shifts uncomfortably in his chair and then continues. "We wouldn't possibly let all this happen."

"General what we do know is that this is in the works. It's happening. We have an agent that is actually working in 5K to make all of this happen. All our Intel from her is first hand."

The closed door pops of three light taps. The Housekeeper does not enter. The door does not open. Walking to the door with an interrupted huff, the General pulls it within. "General the Attorney General is here."

"Please make her comfortable and let her know we will be with her shortly."

"Yes sir."

Afterthought through the closing door; "Thanks Gloria." He does not see but she smiles slight.

Turning back without looking to his friend the General asks; "Well Mr. Director what in the hell are we going to do with this mess?" No immediate reply from the Director. The General lifts his eyes over to the Director. "Come on Ron... what the hell are your thoughts?" The pause was not long but apparently too long. "I know you wouldn't have come here run without a plan."

"Ralph my initial thought is to gather more information. With just a few more links of information we could easily shut this down. But what if they truly do have traitors in the highest places. I mean in the very highest. Who can we trust? Who can we get involved?"

"Damn it Ron give me the real shit." The two stare at each other. Steady toned, the General; "Ron... what are you suggesting? Who are you proposing?"

"Ralph what if it is the President? What if it is a member of the Joint Chief of Staff? Maybe even the Chairman. Maybe even more than one member of the JCS. These people control our military and our security. The right people could make this attack go unchallenged. They could... I mean I think they could make this happen."

"Ron this seems like... like some sort of bullshit spy novel." The General turns and slowly walks toward his desk. With his back to the Director he reconsiders. "However... if all of the dominos were to fall perfectly it could happen." He quickly turns to the Director. "Do you agree Ron?" The Director considers his chosen words.

"Ralph I have known you over thirty years. I trust you with my life. You may be the only one I trust. That is why I came to you." Those words did not answer the General's question. The General wanted to bombard words upon Ron. Better, he thought; in stare he held silent.

Wanting to prevent a mortal wounding the Director fought forward with his answer. "I have asked a member of my analysis team to put together a Probability Profile for all the members of the JCS and the Chairman. I've asked for the same on the presidential succession all the way down through the Senate Pro Temp. This profile is geared towards who is most likely to be a part of this thing. I will have those profiles on Tuesday morning."

Calmer, and wanting the Director to believe he always was, the General agrees. "Ron I recommend we do nothing until we have looked at that profile. Do you have anything that suggests our security will be challenged in the next seventy two hours?"

"No sir. I'm confident nothing is imminent."

"Okay then. Ron let's take a deep breath. Step back from this and take another look at this when we get those profiles." The General, as Generals will, stern lectures. "But damn it Ron keep all of everybody's eyes on this. Shit we can't let this get away from us." The Director takes his friend's lecture in stride.

"Yes General." The General must have caught wind of what he had done; he briefly chuckles and understandably smiles.

The Director addresses the Attorney General's presence. "I have asked Cynthia Meyers to join us for some advice. She has no need to know the logistics of this. I simply want to ask questions about legalities. The legalities of any actions we may have to take."

The General wants the Director on Point. "You have the floor my friend." The General walks to his desk and presses a button. A brief moment.

"Yes sir."

"Gloria could you please bring in the Attorney General." Both men move towards the door. Cynthia Meyers is let in. The General greets her with a generic hand shake. "I apologize for your wait."

The Director adds to the General's words; "I appreciate you sharing your Sunday with us."

The AG snickers and then replies; "I am sure that it must be important Director." The General guides them to the fireplace.

"Please have a seat," he says. All three settle in to their chairs.

The Director breaches the moment. "Ms. Myers-"

"Cynthia, please."

"Cynthia then. I have asked you here to get some legal questions answered. The scenario... well it would be the removal from office of a very high ranking elected official."

She is quick in reply; "The normal process would be impeachment. Which I am sure you know is the legal statement of charges. Very much like an indictment. The impeachment would be followed by a legislative vote. This vote determines conviction or failure to convict." She pauses and examines their faces. "Somehow though I don't think this is what you are inquiring of."

The Director clarifies; "No ma'am it is not. What about someone suspected of High Treason?" The General rises and walks to the fireplace. He picks up a poker and adjusts the burning logs. His obvious uncomfortable-ness sparks up the room's tension. Cynthia's eyes slash from the awkward General to the staring Director. She settles back into her chair.

She briefly considers and then; "High Treason of course is a crime and would legally be dealt with as such." Her demeanor jumps from professional to emotional. "Exactly how high of an elected official are we talking about?"

The Director smothers the question; "So Cynthia we are talking about an indictment, an arrest, trial, and so on."

"Well it might not work quite that simple."

Suddenly wanting back into the battle the General asks; "Why not!"

Cynthia turns and answers. "I am sure that we are not here talking about some tax assessor." Her eyes back to the Director. "You must be... you must be asking with hidden words about a powerful person. So obviously... well it would surely cause quite a stir."

The General; "A stir?"

The Director; "But legally there would be no issue."

"Gentlemen..." An obvious pause for affect. "Elected officials are under the same scrutiny and all the same laws as any other person." Finishing she slides her head back to the General.

The Director continues his inquiry. "Next question. Would an arrest be considered a Vacancy of Office? Would the Rules of Succession apply?" Slowly, with widened eyes, she finds a Director waiting an answer.

Precisely at first, emotionally eventually, she answers; "Vacancy of office? Rules of Succession? What the hell-"

"If the President was arrested would this constitute a vacancy and would the rules of succession apply?" The Director interrupts in a burst. In hand and dropping hard, the tip of the poker chips brick.

A miffed General; "Ron!"

She leaps to her feet. "Holy shit are you talking about the President of the United States.?" No one speaks. The men's eyes meet. The General glares. Her head down and seeing nothing, the Attorney General slowly circles the chairs. Her mind a tempest she tries to calm the thoughts that are being tossed about.

Director Armstrong; "Cynthia. I need to know if the President was arrested, and incarcerated, would this constitute a vacancy of office. And then would the rules of succession according to the Twenty Fifth Amendment apply?" Cynthia drops back into a chair and scans the eyes of the two. The Director sits across from her. In no hurry the General joins them. Twice a clinching jaw pops her cheek bones as she looks into the Director's eyes.

The word 'history' fronts her thoughts. Wanting her words to flow of a confident teacher, they ramble of a nervous student. "Mr. Director we could arrest and incarcerate the President the Vice President and the first nine people that are in line of succession and make the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development the president, but you can't just arrest people and throw them in the Gulag. They have rights! They had to have broken a law. Oh... and we sure as hell better be able to prove it."

Cynthia takes a thought replenishing breath. She continues; "If the President was incarcerated, the Vice President and the cabinet would have to declare the President unable to discharge his duties. The Vice President would then become the acting President. If the President was tried and acquitted, it would be possible for him to reclaim the Presidency. Unless two thirds of both Houses vote to sustain the findings of the Vice President and Cabinet. Unless of course if the complete impeachment and conviction process has taken place."

The Attorney General sits back and takes a long pause. Both men's lips could be white tight. "Gentlemen... what in the hell is going on? Would you please tell me? No no screw that I'm done! Right now, I want to know right now." The General is out of the conversation and the Director only stares at her. She is done! She slowly stands. "Mr. Director if I walk out of here without-"

"We're not sure." His words stop her exit for the moment. He respectfully stands and elaborates. "We really are not clear on what we are dealing with. We are moving forward with an investigation and we need to know our boundaries. That is why we need these questions answered. With all due respect, we cannot give you more information. I promise that we will keep you informed and give you more information. As soon as we can. As soon as we have it."

The Director wants to give her an Olive Branch that may shade her and keep her temporarily cool. "I assume that if an arrest like this was going to take place, it would certainly start with you. Yes?" She seemed to be pondering; his words, his motive.

"Yes! That is correct Mr. Director."

He continues; "Let me ask you about Exigent Circumstance." Cynthia tilts her head slightly with his question.

The Attorney General; "Exigent Circumstance is a law of criminal procedure. It allows for law enforcement to enter a structure without a warrant. It must be a situation where people are in imminent danger, or evidence faces imminent destruction, or a suspect will escape."

"Cynthia once again I would like to thank you for coming here." The Director's parting words and hand is squarely presented. Cynthia is caught unprepared for the meeting's epilogue being suddenly at hand. She weakly places her hand in his.

Her verbal is weak as well. "Oh..." She firmly grabs and holds onto his hand. Her verbal is firm is well. "Let me just leave you two gentlemen with this. I demand on being kept informed, updated. Any actions that you may want to take, no surprises. Please... no, don't walk into my office one day and tell me you want the President arrested. It doesn't work that way."

"I can guarantee you that." The General jumps back in.

"Secondly gentlemen, if you are looking at pulling off some kind of storming of the White House... I strongly recommend you think it through. You better have all your facts straight."

The General confirms; "Ma'am you will be on Point if there is any storming of the White House." The General's guarantees hardly settled warm within her.

.........

### 'Starving Artist's Mantra': "I'm good enough; my work is good enough; and damn it, people like me!"

More than inspired by Saturday Night Live, I crutch this mantra as a comical shield against self-doubt. Not so much pure inspiration as it is strength within a breath of jocularity.

All in all, I thought my first draft of 5K to be Ok. Perhaps a Princess step beyond Ok. Objectively or not, I give it a C+. With more detailed in evaluation I understood that the characters need further development, and of course it needs more of all those descriptive thingies. But I am pleased that the story-line was building structure.

Mostly, my disappointment lies in its volume; its word-count. Reading what I have written so far and knowing what my mind holds as the rest of the story, I believe it to be half its finished length. Now... I could build it Tolstoy-like; description, description, description. Through this effort I could surely lengthen it into a novel. But I'm not Tolstoy. My style is pages far removed from his. The Five Kings, a Short Story. So not seeing a yearlong Paris Holiday coming from this, I'll finish it and file it away on the Island of Misfit Short Stories. Perhaps one day Santa will gather all these stories and offer them to all the good little girls and boys.

I wonder; I look inside. I mean... is it really its length that makes me quick to shelf it. Or is it fear of failure lurking. How easy it is to fall back to my safe place. That place where everything I've written and had success with tells of dead people. Real people. People that were once alive and now aren't. Historical people. It seems easy for me to load fiction, but impossible to pull the trigger. Do you here it? You hear it right? It is faint, but I hear 'The Debate' calling me to my safe place.

### 'Reality, a concept not meant for the disturbed.'

Next afternoon

Arriving fifteen minutes before prompt, I have time to muse proactively. How will Greg handle his disappointment? How will I handle his handling? Is it in my DNA to be nice to him? Maybe, just maybe, I should try the 'Not such an ass approach'. What would Jesus do?

After undergoing the wand, the poke, the probe, the valuables in the basket and the scan, I was allowed to enter the Colorado Bureau of Investigation building. I'm directed to 'Information' and greeted by Marge. At first, I guessed Marge to be a volunteer. At second, a volunteer working in a federal building seemed out of place. Marge did seem to fit the volunteer profile; a Baby Boomer elated in her work. Marge, I knew was Marge; the red letters of her nametag said so.

With a huge smile and her hands clasped as if in prayer, Marge greeted me. "Welcome sir. How can I make your visit with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation a memorable one?" Rengaw, leave it alone. What would Jesus say?

"Marge, are you required to say that greeting?" That probably wasn't it. My thoughts heard Pamila; 'Daniel, be nice to Marge.''

My question must have thrown her off of her game as her smile lost a little of its welcome. "Umm... yes, yes sir I am."

"Well Marge I must say, you say it delightfully." Instantly Marge's face was ablaze red. Her smile returned full. "Marge I'm hoping you can help me. Would you please direct me to Greg Tillman's office." With two keystrokes of her gentle fingers she found her information. She pointed to three elevator doors.

"Sir, take the elevator to the 12th floor. Someone there will assist you further." I smiled at Marge.

"Marge it has been a wonderful slice of my day speaking with you."

She smiled back and said; "Have a nice day sir." Pami, Jesus, they'd be proud.

The Lift bumps to a stop. (I don't know, I just wanted to use the word Lift.) The lit number is 12 as the doors slide apart. As I step out a visual survey reveals a young women sitting. Her large desk is a barricade defending a hallway. The metal desk was bolted to the floor and appeared to be bullet proof. It was indeed bolted to the floor, but bullet proof? Probably only in my little mind.

Less a twelve-line phone system the desk top was without clutter. She brandished a side-arm. It was a graphite 9 millimeter that held armor piercing bullets. (Again, small cranial space. Sensing a pattern yet?)

I said hello and searched for a name tag. The one I found, gold letters pressed on black plastic... Marge. No, no it can't be. Instantly I knew my head was going to explode. Hush Pamila. Sorry Jesus. There was no way I could not speak of this... this coincidence. And just as I was about to sarcasm that which only I would understand, the 9mm with armor piercing bullets froze my tongue. Self-preservation left it alone. But it was not without wanting to address-it pain.

In a tone without a slight of threat, I gently said; "Hello Marge. I have an appointment with Greg Tillman."

"Your name sir?"

"Daniel Rengaw," I said, still floundering with hers.

"Thank you Mr. Rengaw. One moment please." This smile-less version of Marge picks up the hand-set and punches a series of numbers. Seconds pass. "Yes sir there is a Daniel Rengaw here to see you. No sir he is alone." Many more seconds pass. "Yes sir... So... How shall I direct him sir? Yes sir." Looking slightly exasperated she hangs up a bit less than gently. "Mr. Rengaw please have a seat." She directs me to three wooden chairs with flowered upholstery. "Someone will be with you shortly."

"Thank you... Marge." I must have. I must have punched her name slightly. She briefly glares at me and then assumes a protective posture. I thought it a Korean Demilitarized Zone posture.

Taking a seat my mind tries to unfold her words: "Someone will be with you shortly". My chest squeezed hard a possible impending let down. Is Greg's 'handling', going to be something I won't get to witness? I hope absence is not going to be his response to his Pami-less disappointment. Would my day be ruined?

Turning the corner with a steady and quick gate, a woman in her thirties wearing a navy blue business suit approaches me. "Doctor Rengaw. I am Specialist Colleen Beamer." I didn't remember playing the Doctor card.

Specialist Beamer's hand shake was firm; brief. Two quick pumps and move on. "Could you please follow me to my office?" I keep pace. I be curious.

"Will Mr. Tillman be joining us?"

"He'll be joining you." That be the end of our walking conversation. I was okay with it. 'He'll be joining you,' is all I needed. Heading down the hallway my thoughts drift. As you must know by now that they will. My drift; what were the investigative mysteries swirling behind each of these closed doors?'

Without hinting, Specialist Beamer suddenly stops at and opens a glass door. The etched lithograph on the fogged glass says: Hand Writing Analysis. The large room is rectangular in shape. A row of tables split the center of the room. The table tops are cluttered in an organized mosaic. One wall is lined with filing cabinets. Another, with large books on metal shelves. The last two walls hold six cubicles each. Each cubicle looked staged pristine; there were no archaeological findings that suggested human personalities had ever existed in this place.

Books... why would they need books? Naive, confused, either way, would it not all be computerized in the 21st century. Perhaps I was wrong. Or were they of historical significance. Unused today and more a remembrance of yesterday. That I understood. Those I appreciated.

Colleen was walking away from me as her words pulled me. "Doctor Rengaw this way please." She heads to one of the sterile cubicles. "Please have a seat; there." She points to one of three chairs. They were gray, metal, and genetically engineered for discomfort. I sat; there. "Doctor Ren-"

I interrupt; "Excuse me Specialist, did Greg Tillman tell you that I was a Doctor?"

"No." Her 'no' hung awkward. "As I was-"

"I am sorry to interrupt again."

"Then why are you?" She didn't say that. I probably would have. You know... drift and all. I didn't pause for my thought. "Specialist, I do have an honorary Doctorate but how do you know that?"

Sounding almost like a real person, she answered; "I read your second book. That information was in the Jacket Bio." Back to a non-person. "Now... Doctor Rengaw, this presentation will go much smoother if you let me present all of the results." She was telling me to shut the hell up.

With a sampling of rude, I told her; "Specialist Beamer I can see that your interpersonal skills are well within Bureau standards..."

"Thank you." If the mind is a terrible thing to waste, sarcasm wasted is forever lost.

Her, the, light blue folder is handed me. Whatever it held was titled: Hand Writing Analysis 2,2,A. Not wanting to be told to shut the hell up again, I did not ask what 2,2,A, stood for? She continued her well trained presentation. "Report 2,2,A, is the scientific results of the hand writing analysis that this department completed. The methodology used is called 'Triple Simile Analysis. In layman's terms, TSA compares existing documents, to the document of interest."

"I know," I said. It was a stupid thing to say and I missed her next few words as I mulled over just how stupid it was.

The ones I missed began with; "Three points of similes are compared: penmanship and script style; diction and vocabulary; and word usage. Using each point of simile, a percentage is determined. This percentage is a logarithmic determinant of probability. The actual probability that the original document, and the document of interest, were created by the same person. Once each point of simile is determined, those three percentages are used to determine the overall probability." She paused, sat back, and insulted me. "I will let you read the report yourself. It should be easily understandable, for someone of your intellect." No no you see... I can't in writing put the proper inflection on it. It was an insult alright!

As if Hitler himself had entered the room Specialist Beamer jumps to and snaps to attention. I thought it an awful lot of respect for one single report. "Mr. Director." His reply to her is not to her.

"Daniel." Recognizing the voice I realize that it is Hitler.

I turn and greet the Fuhrer; "Greg."

He takes the seat next to the specialist. She 'at ease's' back into her chair. With finger nails on blackboard fake-ness, Greg says; "Don't let me interrupt. Please please continue." His condescending tone was either lost or ignored by the Specialist. Neither was by me.

She turned from him to me and continued; "As I was saying Doctor Rengaw-"

"He is not a real Doctor you know." She stopped abrupt with his words. "Some community college on the east coast waived a magic wand and made him a toy doctor."

Just for the record, I clarify; "It's an honorary Doctrine from George Washington University."

His reply... ready for it? "Whatever!"

Perplexed and uncomfortable by her boss' snap, the Specialist adjusts her seated position. I wasn't sure if her gaze at him was in wonder or a passive aggressive scolding. Still on him she begins again toward me. "Yes... The analysis is a three point simile comparison." She already said that. "It compared the document inquired on, with the subset of documents you supplied." Sputtering a bit, it is clear that her thought train is heading for derailment.

Not wanting to interrupt us, he did, again; "Mr. Rengaw did not supply those documents. His wife did. At least that was my understanding." Colleen tried to decipher Greg's animosity.

Again I clarified; "Pamila could not be here today. She had to work." That would be the last of my patience with his need to be an ass; my last offering of civility. Specialist Beamer was in uncharted waters and Tiger Sharks were circling. All she could do was wait for the feeding-frenzy to end.

With her eyes starting to squint and her lips disappearing, she desperately tried again. "We did this scientifically with all three points."

Once again, an ass; "So tell me Mr. Rengaw... oh I'm sorry, Doctor Rengaw. Where did these other documents come from and why are all the dates and signatures blackened out?"

Saying nothing I urged a look on the Specialist. She took the nonverbal prod. "Again..." Miffed pause. "We came up with a likeliness of similarity, in each of the three categories, and then determined an overall percentage that they were written by the same person." As if she had suddenly become bored with her words and whatever this had become, she began rushing her presentation. Not bored, not caring, I'm not sure what he was not, Greg could not stop.

"You know Daniel I think you and your wife have been less than honest with me; played me a fool." How easy it had been.

Specialist Beamer's patience was depleted. Her anger was controlled but on a medium simmer. Her fight or flight instinct was kicking in and flight seemed the better career move. Fumbling with her paper-work she tried to sort them into an organized pile. Failing this, she gathered the loose pile, pulled it to her chest, and excused herself. Colleen wanted to and tried to part with some dignity. She spoke brief and professionally. "Mr. Rengaw you can read the report. If you have any questions please call me." Her words were her last as her flight-plan had been approved and she was clear for departure. Her final destination was the closed behind her office door.

Her exit stage left was my queue to do so as well. Report 2,2,A, firmly in hand, I stood, glared with squinted eyes of my own at Tillman, and quietly started for the door.

Now... This controlled departure would have been the adult thing to do. However, for a reason unknown to me, I stopped, turned to Tillman and asked; "Director, can you tell me how many different men have been president?" With my stopping and turning, I'm sure he was prepared for angered words. My question vapor locked his brain. Within his stunted mind the clock chimed seconds like a polished-metal Triangle.

Greg was tentative with; "What? Why are you asking me that?"

I was quick with; "Do you know the answer?"

His now attentive colleague's eyes were fixed and waiting for his reply. In his understanding of this moment, he felt it to be a significant life moment. I had maneuvered his moment to be just that. Timing, is everything.

He tentatively proposed; "Well... President Obama is our 42nd president. So I guess that means the answer is 42." A muffled snicker background the room. He looked to me for confirmation. I smiled a smile that would leave him only wonder. Turning filled with won comfort, one thought crushed hard in me: Idiot! Reveling in my distribution of his embarrassment I began my exit; stage left.

Expecting only triumphant silence while departing, I heard; "Daniel! When are you leaving for Virginia?"

Not turning or pausing I was quick to answer the words of a baffled man. "I'm not going to Virginia."

Greg returned volley. "Huh? Funny but that is not what the Associated Press is reporting. So I guess you aren't going to be at the Press Conference." A pulsed neuron sent word to my legs to stop. I manually overrode the command and pulled the door closed behind me. Standing in the empty hallway I asked myself two questions; what the hell is he talking about, and should I be without an escort?

With these different questions fighting for position, there was an easy voice. "Doctor Rengaw let me walk you out."

"Thank you Specialist Beamer."

"Please I would like you to call me Colleen." The happenings of the past minutes apparently had given her a personality. Or at least brought forward a hidden piece of her true being.

Walking, her gate was easy and our pace was slower. With her surely noticing, I glanced at her face. Her eyes were red and the surrounding area puffy. It was an uncomfortable walk. Down the hallways, descending in the elevator, and into the lobby. We small talked only and those talks weren't many.

Arriving in the lobby not far from Marge, Marge 1, Colleen looked at me and in a tone I had not heard from her; "I'm sorry about what took place. It was all very unprofessional. It was nice meeting you Doctor Rengaw." She extended her hand. The departing shake was of the porcelain Colleen.

Colleen started to turn and then said; "Doctor Rengaw I enjoyed your book very much. I found it very insightful. Unusually so." Her smile was wonderfully sincere; as only women can. Warmly she turned to the elevator and professionally greeted a passing co-worker. Our brief sharing had ended and I stood sleeping with thought.

Marge woke me with loud and excited waving. "Have a nice day Doctor Rengaw." Still wanting to doze I forced a smile that was less than she deserved. This ended my memorable visit at the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.

It had to have been there for some time; pumping unchallenged and unnoticed. I felt the adrenalin that was driving my muscles and questioning my mind. His words, Associated Press Virginia Press Conference all ran into one long confusing sentence. As I stepped out of the building the odor of the air was none. The usually bouncing metro sounds seemed to have settled dull into the concrete. In a way as never before, downtown Denver seemed unfamiliar. Walking without seeing Rojer was visible in thought. A shaking tingle asked me why. This unsettled me. I had to be at my computer right now. I had to know right now and right now I Knew I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Mervin bounced up to my home arrival doing the Lenny's been here dance. I played the game. "Come on buddy want a treat? Let's go. Gotta get it." Playing his part he barks once. Bent over and clapping. "Come on let's get it."

Releasing the deadbolt I pull the interior door clear. A Special Delivery envelope falls in to my feet. I rush with a bad feeling. Maybe it will go away. The envelope; if I don't pick it up maybe it will go away. Standing over it, Mervin jumps to the snack and chomps. It didn't go away.

"Oh shit!" Staring at it as if reading for the first time, I mouth; OVERNIGHT, Charlottesville, Va. The bad feeling gets worse. Not knowing that I'm doing it, I close the door and take a seat on the cedar chest located just inside the door. I de-vein the envelope and remove the contents. "Rojer!"

Instant Message: GET ON ROJER! Ten minutes go by and still no Rojer on screen. Using more conventional communication I ring up his cell. After one ring Rojer asks for a voice mail. I'll give him a message! "Rojer I need to speak with you. Rojer get on line!" He would know that I knew. I sit staring at my computer. Not patiently. One minute. Two minutes.

Pixels pop, and with obvious forced sincerity Rojer greets me. "Danny. Hey buddy."

Holding up the tickets I ask as snotty as I can; "Do you know anything about these?" Like a fourteen year old being shown the magazines found under his mattress, he stupid fourteen year old denies.

"What are those Danny?"

"It is a plane ticket. Departing Denver International Airport at 9:12 a.m. on the 4th and arriving Virginia at 3:28 p.m."

Rojer looked off-camera and with forced sincerity gone, caved hard. "Danny, what do you know?"

"I know, that an hour ago, an idiot from the CBI, asked me when I was leaving for Virginia. I didn't even know I was going to Virginia!"

"Oh yeah. How was your meeting?"

"Rojer!" His cheek muscles relaxed dropping an awkward smile. "I also know that the Associated Press is reporting some sort of a press conference. A press conference that I am supposed to be at. In Virginia!"

I looked at him waiting for a response. He waited as long as he could and then started sputtering. "I have been trying to call you all afternoon. Danny why don't you answer your cell phone?"

"I didn't have my phone."

Rojer tries to scold. "You do know the reason people have cell-"

"Rojer don't try to make this about me! This is about you!" He looked like a puppy that had just peed on the rug.

"Rojer, give it to me straight, now, please."

The levee holding him back burst. "I'm sorry Danny it just sort of happened I need you to come here. I need you to help me." This time he waited for my reply. I gathered the calm from within. Deep within.

As monotone as I had within me, I asked for more. "Okay Rojer. I need all the details. Please give it to me. No bullshit." He seemed relieved that I still loved him and began his defense.

"Alright..." He pulled a breath. "Let me explain. This time you have to listen to me. Everything. Until I'm finished. Okay?" I nodded. "First I need you here to meet with the FBI on the 5th."

"Rojer the FBI-"

"Danny please." I shut up. "Danny this is all Peter Henderson's doing. He wants you to go to Quantico with us. The evaluation... the FBI's evaluation... I told you about it. Well it's finished. Secondly, the next day, the Foundation is having a press conference here at Monticello. The Richmond Times Dispatch ran a story about the press conference. The article... it kind of mentions you. You being Doctor Daniel Rengaw. It said you would be at the press conference. The article was on the front page. You do know that you are a local celeb don't you Danny." A neurological relay clicked an understanding. A Front page exposé for a Press Conference at Monticello. Peter Henderson's forgiving and accepting attitude with Sheridan over The Document article. Clear as mud became clear as marketing.

Still trying to present calmness I asked; "Okay Rojer why does Henderson want me to go to the FBI briefing? And why does he want me to attend this press conference?"

Rojer; "Quantico I don't know, I'm not sure. But the Press conference... you're not just attending Danny; you are the press conference. I mean others will be there. I don't know. He sort of demanded you be there."

"Demanded!" I shouted.

"Danny I told him you'd come."

"Rojer... I don't... I need more information than that."

"I know I know. But I can't. I mean I don't know anything more. I'm sorry but I just don't."

Rojer's cheeks softened and a shy smile grew as he said; "Danny my Momma use to say that if it walks like a duck... Well you know. And Danny this duck swims in a big ole publicity pond." My eyebrows lifted with his words. "Times are tough Danny. Everywhere. The Foundation is struggling as well. Rumors are out there that Monticello may be sold."

"Sold?" My four letter word came without thought. He'd gotten my attention my attention and he knew it. Crossing his arms he sat back with a knowing smile.

I quickly tried to hold fast. "Look Rojer this is bad timing for me. I'm working on a project and I'm-"

"For me! Danny please for me."

I tossed him bullshit. "That doesn't work on me Rojer. Damn... you're way too ugly to be my wife."

He knew he didn't have to, but he weakly begged. "I don't know what else to say Danny. Well... I guess I can get a new job."

"Oh shut the hell up."

"Okay Danny what about this. What if I promise to get more information before you arrive?"

"I haven't said anything about arriving Rojer."

"I really need you to arrive Danny. Will you?"

My slow head shaking called him a Bastard. He didn't care and just sat there with a stupid look on his face. "Damn it Rojer Pami is going to be pissed. And not just a little."

"No no she won't. I talked to her a little while ago." My thoughts called him a Bastard.

"You called her?"

"I couldn't reach you Danny I really did try. I sorta told her I needed you to come here. She sort of kind of seemed okay with it. Come on you know you can work it out with her. What do you say?" I sat quiet and thinking. Mostly I thought how his tone had gone to that Red-neck drawl that it sometimes does when he is trying too hard.

I lifted the tickets in front of the camera. "You expect me to fly coach?"

He pulled down that so last year fist pump and loudly hushed out; "Yes!"

Waving the tickets I asked; "Who is paying for this I hope it's not you?"

"No! The Foundation is paying."

"Good! And tell Henderson that I want a suite at the Radcliff. Oh and a limo pick up. I want this to cost him." I think maybe only in my imagination, but Rojer looked nauseated. "No never mind Rojer." I didn't want to bilk the Foundation. I didn't want the foundation to pay for my room, but I did inquire of my Billet. "Rojer you still have that roll-away?" He looked less nauseated. "They'll put you up in a hotel Danny."

"No I want to stay there. Are you kidding me; how many people get to sleep at Monticello. But I do want a Town Car airport pick up." I was not sure if Rojer believed me. I looked at him for understanding and said; "I'm not kidding about the puck up Rojer." Peter is going to pay for something.

"No problem Danny. Thanks buddy. Oh... and good luck with Pami." He chuckled pretty hard.

"You're an ass Rojer."

"Alright Danny I guess I'll see you on Sunday."

"Sunday it is and don't forget that you promised more information upon arrival."

"No problem, I promise."

"Okay Rojer-" Before I'd finished my thought he was gone. I guess he did not want to chance a change of mind. My unfinished thought? Adrift.

At this point in the writing I come upon a quandary. What immediately follows cannot be a new paragraph as it is a continuation of the immediately previous. I could pen some fluff that is a smoother transition, but I've got nothing. Here it is.

In 1775, George Washington was headquartered in Cambridge Massachusetts. Just outside of Boston. His army controlled the high ground surrounding Boston. The British army controlled the city of Boston. Washington was consumed by wondering of when would the British attack and how would they attack? In real time, I feel a kindred spirit with Washington. I to was consumed by wondering of when would Pamila attack and how would she attack?

Like Washington, I held the high ground; preparing dinner in the kitchen. At the expected time of her arrival home from work, I was hunkered down. All available weapons at the ready. The garage door opens and Pami's car pulls in. Seconds later the kitchen door swings in. She walks directly to me and kisses me on the cheek. "Go, Rojer needs you. I will make sure that you have all your medicines and equipment."

No frontal assault; this scared the hell out of me. Was I weak at flank? Was it exposed? With a tactical retreat she starts to depart the field of battle. Suddenly she deploys her reserves. "You haven't traveled since the transplant, are you sure you will be okay?" Feeling defenseless I simply nodded. She continued her retreat and headed upstairs. I tried to negotiate terms of surrender.

"Can you please reschedule my Optometrist appointment?"

"Anything you need. Honey!" Sarcasm; that I was prepared for.

'The beginning of a journey, only exists because of its end.'

Sunday February 4. 48 minutes out of Denver International Airport. 34,500 feet.

.........

Colorado Bureau of Investigation

**Hand Writing Analysis Report:** _2,2,A,_

**Date:** _February 2, 2010_

**Authorizing analyst:** _Colleen Beamer._

**Security Classification:** _0_

**Distribution:** _All_

Percentile results of 'Three Point Simile Comparison':

' **Penmanship and Script Style':** _72.6_ **%**

' **Diction and Vocabulary':** _35.1_ **%**

' **Word Usage':** _1.1_ **%**

' **Overall Simile Percentage':** _36.2666_ **%**

Summary:

' **Penmanship and Script Style', simile comparison, resulted in an above median percentage.**

The analysis of 'Comparison Documents', to 'Document of Inquiry', yielded a determined, 'medium - high' likelihood; that 'Comparison Documents' and 'Document of Inquiry', were written by same person.

Although line width was not favorably comparable: flow; peak; smoothness; height and overall display; are favorable.

' **Diction and Vocabulary', simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.**

The analysis of 'Comparison Documents', to 'Document of Inquiry', yielded a determined, 'low - low medium' likelihood; that 'Comparison Documents' and 'Document of Inquiry', were written by same person.

The context of documents showed little favorable comparison. Likelihood that the 'Compared Documents' and the 'Document of Inquiry' were written during the same time period, is low. However, when the 'Document of Inquiry', was compared to the 'Comparable Documents' labeled 21 and 22; the percentage was highest.

' **Word Usage', simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.**

The analysis of 'Comparison Documents', to 'Document of Inquiry', yielded a determined, 'zero - very low' likelihood; that 'Comparison Documents' and 'Document of Inquiry', were written by same person.

Likelihood is so low, it is almost insignificant.

Several words and phrases, showed no relation; Jihad and references to numbers of American citizens, are among them.

' **Overall Percentage', simile comparison, resulted in a below median percentage.**

The analysis of 'Comparison Documents', to 'Document of Inquiry', yielded a determined, 'low - low medium' likelihood; that 'Comparison Documents' and 'Document of Inquiry', were written by same person.

Final analysis based on percentages; the 'Document of Inquiry', was not written by the same person that wrote the 'Documents of Comparison'.

Report Complete.

Colleen Beamer

.........

I am whole heartedly aware that it took me almost three days to read the report that specialist Beamer had given me. I also knew that my sudden trip had left me with little free time. Still, I had to wonder where my obsession with The Document had gone. Where was my unabated need to know?

Neurologically and spiritually absorbing report 2,2,A, I was torn by feelings far away from each other. Neurologically, I was comforted to know that reality had not departed me quite yet. Spiritually, melancholy was the real moment. The tiny sliver of light that had been beaconing my wish-fullness had been extinguished. The facts back in their folder, I placed them forever away.

In my assigned seat, probably looking forward to my visit to Monticello, perhaps still looking back to light lost, I was in a shell of me. "Sir?" I heard a sound. "Sir!" Clearer and louder I heard it again. As if awakened from a waking dream of Space Creatures, I realize that we are not alone. Black pants and a teal shirt, a human male wants my attention. "Excuse me sir. Would you like a meal?"

"Oh. Sorry. Here let me put this down." I carefully take the tray that the steward is offering and place it on the toy seat-back shelf. The meal he claims I ordered. I corrected the teal man. "Rojer ordered it."

"Yes sir." With a guarded yet detectable tone he replied. From next to me a brief giggle was let loose. The elderly woman in the window-seat next to me attempts polite conversation.

"Looks good!" she claims.

Not as enthusiastic as she, I comply with my required non-rudeness; "Yes. Looks fine."

Investigating my meal, I felt like an autopsy doctor trying to discover what went so horribly wrong. I was picking curiously at my dinner when Window Seat spoke again; "You are not comfortable flying are you?"

I was a bit caught but replied; "Why do you think that?"

"Well..." Her pause was to me out of place. But it was apparently her and she continued. "I fly often visiting family and I like to analyze people when I travel. You seem to be a Nervous Nelly." I found her words chuckling homespun. Profiling myself; she was brought up in a large Christian family in a small community.

Hoping it would end the conversation that I really didn't want to be in, I replied; "I am just a little preoccupied." My hope was instantly dashed.

"What were you reading?" It wasn't that I wanted to be short to her; but she was right. I was not a big fan of flying. Challenging Newton's first law of Gravity and all.

"It was just some work stuff," I said. And not wanting to be here, doing this, I probably toned rude.

It was then, with intent to end this, I went all full insensitive. "However, the other day I was reading about the Aztec Indians. Did you know that during spiritual sacrifices they would cut the still beating heart out of their sacrifice and then eat it as part of the ceremony?"

She must be a serial killer; stone cold. Nothing. Not a flinch, let alone a pause from her meal. She sliced into what appeared to have once been some form of animal. Fork held and swirling around in dark brown gravy, she placed it into her mouth. A drop of blood-brown gravy clinging to her chin went unattended to. A Grandmother in a Rockwell painting, she had the constitution of a Slasher.

Another piece of protein was consumed. Without missing a bite she asks; "Do you have any pets?" With this inquiry I conceded; my verbal skills are no match for her persistence. She's relentless. Before I could finish a syllable she interrupted whatever I might have said. "I have three cats." Not knowing if she wanted a reply, I hesitated. "You don't talk much do you?" Again I did not know if a response was required. I asked myself how I'd lost control so quickly. I thrust with cannibalism; she parries with no interruption of her meal. A reflex suddenly pulls my face back; a cell phone mere inches from my eyes. "These are my babies." She eases the phone away and points. "This is Taffy. Simone. And this is Chu. Chu is the Siamese. She has a bit of an attitude."

On me like an anxiety attack, my self-preserving sense of flight grasped me firmly. Here I'm on my way to meet with the FBI at Quantico, and some six year olds' Gammy just kicked my ass. "Excuse me. I need to use the restroom." My quick departure was made easier by the empty aisle seat.

As I clear the seat, I hear; "Make sure to wash your hands!"

While in the phone booth that is an airliner bathroom, I came to a conclusion. After a failed attempt at humor with a security person earlier, and now my ill-fated conversation with Gammy, I was definitely off of my game today. (Let me give a little friendly advice. Airport screeners don't take well to humor about them buying dinner first.)

After splashing cold water on my face, and washing my hands, I reluctantly start back to my seat. Arriving at my assigned seat and recognizing Gammy, something was amiss. My mind was questioning the changed surroundings. I looked at the seat numbers stamped on the overhead. My eyes verified that indeed this was my point of departure. Yet confusion hesitated me. Someone was sitting in the previously unoccupied aisle seat. A male in his early twenties looked up at me in full smile.

"Are you Doctor Rengaw?" Again there was a slight hesitation. But I was determined to regain control of my flight-life. Looking down at the young man I decided to clarify his choice of title.

"Doctor is honorary. May I please slide in?" Sitting between Gammy and the mystery man, I waited to see which seat words would come from first. Just as Gammy tried to reengage, the mystery passenger wanted into the game.

"My name is Ben. I recognize you from the news."

Surprised that I had been news, I asked; "The news?"

"The news and your book." I felt Gammy glance inquiringly.

It hit me instant that this might work for me. That this conversation may be more in my comfort zone. Taking Ben's temperature I asked; "Which book?"

"The Virgin Dynasty," he answered. "I think it was your second book." A perfect 98.6 degrees.

Not wanting to leave an opening for anyone else, I chose and presented words. "Ben, this is..." I turned to her. My mind searched but found only Gammy. Meeting her eyes my pause was immediate embarrassment. I had no choice but to take it. "I'm sorry... ma'am I don't know your name." In a soft voice, one previously not presented, she claimed to be Marjorie Stills. Marjorie with an 'I' and an 'E'. This name played in my ears like a Monty Python skit. The scene played out. My words were gone before I heard them.

"Marjorie! You have got to be kidding me." My semi-aggressive outburst silenced her and made me feel bad. "No! Sorry Marjorie. I love your name. It's a lovely name." A perfect Gammy name.

"Ben this is Marjorie with an 'I' and an 'E'." I didn't say with an 'I' and an 'E'; but damn it was right there. Looking back to her I clumsy'd through the introduction already made. "I'm Daniel Rengaw." Ben modified my introduction and continued his.

"Doctor Rengaw I'm a student at the University of Virginia."

I cut in; "Why were you in Colorado Ben?"

"I was at a friend's wedding in Evergreen. I have never been there before. It's beautiful." Ben changed his word flow pace. "Having read your book, I do have one question for you." Waiting upon the question, Ben did not present one.

"Go ahead Ben." I now had full confidence I could carry this. Perhaps it was the Doctor title. Perhaps it was that I couldn't hang with Marjorie.

Ben asked; "In the book you seem to be saying that Washington and Jefferson both felt that slavery was wrong; yet necessary to keep the new nation together. That's it isn't it. Is that what you meant?"

This opening volley by young Ben began a barrage of questions and intended answers. I found out that he was from Philadelphia and a Pre-Med student. We discussed history, politics, Colorado, and medicine. Well... mostly he discussed medicine. Our conversation lasted the remaining two hours of the flight.

Hardly a peep was heard from Gammy. I did have brief moments of feeling bad about her exclusion. But selfishly I did nothing about it. I am after all a dog person. And now a dog with a pinching guilt.

Our aircraft was taxiing to gate when I began my cordial but less sincere goodbyes. The kind that you give to people that you've met and likely will never see again. The kind that are kind of awkward. Is it a hand shake? A hug? And if a hug, how embracing, how long?

"Marjorie, it was nice to have met you. Take care of those babies." Her few words, her body language, were both given with minimal cordiality. Mostly there was abundant disinterest. As loud as thought words can be, and as clear as she can be, my Pami told me that I had to make nice with Marjorie.

I thanked Ben for the conversation and said goodbye. He gathered my departing words with more acceptance than did Gammy. Just before clearing our seats I offered him my card and said; "I will be at Monticello until Tuesday evening. I'll be very busy but if you would like a private tour I might be able to make it happen." To Ben it just became Christmas, New Year's Eve, and his Birthday all packaged in to a single invitation. He couldn't thank me enough and he promised he'd call. In this moment he was excited sincerely. But a bit sadly, I knew he would not call.

With the completion of Ben's jubilant goodbye, Pamila tapped me again on the shoulder. Beyond the previous awkward, making a Grandma happy is not always an easy task. And an offended one... well... I tried to give her a hug. With what I was sure was genuineness, she whole heartedly returned my apologetic offering. Her eyes lit soft with my unexpected show of affection. We parted me feeling better. I hoped she did as well.

Time travel accomplished. Exiting the ramp I spot a clock. It tells me it is 3:59. My watch tells me it is only 1:59. With only a carry-on to be concerned with I head to the pick-up area located just inside the main exit. Rojer told me my driver would be waiting. I suspected my driver would be a waiting Rojer.

I immigrated an island of rumbling excited emotions. Parents greeting their children. With more passion, wives or girlfriends greeting men and women. With less passion, but no less love, small children greeting Grandma and Grandpa. I looked for: with and 'I' and an 'E'.

Figuring Rojer's face would pop out at me, I was wrong. The big Teddy Bear did not seem to be here. My search enlarged to a group of two men and one woman; all standing together. All dressed in wrinkled cheap business suits. All holding hand-made signs. My eyes caught one sign; hand written with black marker on cardboard. Two letters; T J. Hmm... let's think... could that be for me? (Sarcasm; even in thought.)

Looking to connect visually I step a line towards the young man. Our eyes link up. Click. His face gains personality with an acknowledging smile. "Mr. Rengaw?"

My driver looked to be in his late twenties. He was tall; a few inches over six foot. His ill-fitting suit camouflaged his frame. But his swimmer's build floated loose beneath his clothes. Thick blond hair settled here and there; a style that only works for the handsome young.

"Yes I'm Mr. Rengaw." He tries to grab my bag. "No it's cool." Trying to sound young and... well, cool. He led and I followed. Exiting the building, entering the out of doors, I notice how warm it was for February. "Wow, the weather is nice."

"Yeah, it's been super this winter. We haven't had much snow and it's been pretty warm."

Thanks to Osama Bin Laden we have to walk a football field to a presumed safe, designated parking area. Arriving at the car he pops the trunk and reaches. This time I hand over my bag. "By the way my name is Tip." He muffles; "Shit. I'm supposed to say that right away."

"I won't tell your boss." His head jerks up to my eyes with the possibility that I might actually be considering it. My smile eases him that I'm not a whistle-blower. I think again I'm off of my game.

He closes the door behind me, hurries around the front of the car and slides in behind the steering wheel. Stretching to rearview mirror me, Tip asks; "Mr. Rengaw do you want to go straight to Monticello?" He held his mirror'd question.

"Yes that will be perfect." With my reply he held my eyes still longer. I chalked it up to not having gotten that destination request often. Or perhaps ever.

We pulled out of the complex and hit the expressway. "Tip?" Again he looked to me in the mirror. "Is that your real name?"

"Yes," he answered with a questioning tone.

I knew the answer to my next question, but wanting to be one of the cool kids, I ask; "Tip... how long will it take us to get to Monticello?"

He was too young for me to be so old and quickly answers; "Not long. Maybe forty five minutes or so." He slightly pauses. "You're sure you don't want to stop somewhere first?"

"No thanks. I'm cool"

"Okay!" He still couldn't believe that anyone would go to Monticello straight from the airport.

I settled in and reached into the small bag that I brought into the car. I pulled out my recorder. For the IRS, I'd make it a business trip.

I clicked it on and began:

"February 4th, 2010"

"Start."

"May 6th, 1817. Five days past, Thomas' letter of request sent me on this sojourn. His plea for my appearance led me to believe his malady must be of reason. His urgency seemed strong, yet not of immediacy. His script did not sound to be of a terminal result.

Wishing to bring Thomas a small bounty of his fancy, I'd brought two barrels of hard cider, much Mule Deer venison, and Black Tea. For Miss Sarah I had several bolts of French fabric, European pins, and two gallons of molasses. Thus our departure from Philadelphia was delayed two days; enabling us to procure the desired.

Being one and seventy, my physical self would have been better served by carriage. However, my zeal to enrich my inviters, provides for wagon only. Tibons, my aid of free stature, and I, removed my wagon from Philadelphia three days past.

The rhythmic, hypnotic, and when attention paid annoying, sound of a repaired wagon wheel has been everlasting.

I feel that my life sustaining organs have been tendered. The buckboard, bench, and flat of the wagon, have left these old bones soft and muscles ripe with settled blood flow. Like a Metronome, the wagon sways left to right and back. Always back, and again. Not holding to rhythm are the bumps, holes, roots, and rocks of our path. For the length of our journey, the rhythmic clicks and swaying have been accompanied by jolts and bumps of no such rhythm.

Elated to be near journey's end, we conclude a final turn onto Mulberry Row. Distant left, I see the first of seventeen negro homes. A constant reminder of an opportunity lost. Our opportunity. Mine, his, and theirs.

Distant and slowly growing larger, the first of such houses. Those with shelter, and those with freedom sheltered. Each house structured exactly the same. The same in design, yet different in identity. Different houses face different lines of direction. The reason, I am unaware. Rolling abreast of the first house, the front parch faces north. The reason, I am unaware. The next house on the right, the front porch faces south. The reason, I am unaware. These houses exist. The reason, I am aware.

A scented stream of Lilac and Cherry Blossom flows over the team. The geldings approve with jerking nods and a quick prance dance. All included, all approve of the spring air; the bouquet of Monticello.

Our last furlong on Mulberry row is visual verification that the slave dwellings have a soul and are of being. Each one unique. Repeated seventeen times, all equal, yet each defined by its own identity. Each its own personality. A living tapestry unique.

A cherry switch drapes an open window. The warm breeze pushing its fragrance within. Small children not of working age, play simple games of children who never are of working age. Running, throwing, being children. Women in a family way grow, be, exist. Houses not filled with liberties, are full of the riches of family love. A love that no man can quash. With freedom not afforded them, this home is their only ownership. Sadly and often it is not a family by birth, but a binding of dwellers. This is the spring air; the stench of Monticello.

Two and a half days of venture and last our welcome is upon us. The red brick and oak mansion stages the first act. Three house-slaves drop from the rotund front porch. Arriving at my wagon they begin their tasks. They greet without words. They investigate and clear what they find; repeating until through.

My first sight of Thomas and Sarah. Miss Sarah runs to greet me. "Doctor Rush so glad you here."

"Good to see you Sarah. I am also glad. Glad to be rid of this wooden shackle. Oh I am sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No matter Doctor." I look upon Thomas still making way. His gate steady but does seem forced. My impression of first. Thomas looks thin. He looks Virginian royal. He looks like Thomas Jefferson.

"Benjamin my old friend. It has been too long."

"A couple of years Thomas." He gives me a firm hug. But perhaps not as firm as past.

"It is good to see you Benjamin. Come, come inside and let us get you presentable."

"Stop"

The Lincoln turns into the parking lot. The only parking lot at Monticello. Ascetically hidden, it is amongst a group of towering pines. "We're here." Tip announces our arrival. As we both climb out of the car Tip wants to talk. "Let me ask you something Mr. Rengaw. Are you somebody?"

"What?"

"I mean I hear you talking into a recorder and I've never taken anyone to Monticello before. At least no one with luggage. It is just that I have had this job for almost two years and I still haven't met somebody. You know... somebody famous. Are you like that writer? What's his name... Grissom, John Grissom. I think." He handed me the bag from inside the trunk. He missed the hand-off and it landed clothes full soft on the gravel.

"Let me ask you something Tip. Do you have a dream? Something you'd like to do more than anything?"

"Yeah I'd like to meet somebody!" I laughed as did he.

"Tip my dream is to write The Great American Novel. I know that sounds cliché. But if I could write like Dickens with description dripping from the pages; or inspire emotion like Harper Lee; it would be such a thrill."

Tip, hearing but not listening, jumps in; "I know Dickens. He wrote that Christmas thing. You know... with the ghosts and chains and tiny Tom... or something like that."

His humor of youth put aside, I continued my soul purge to someone I did not know. "Sadly though I'm certain that they are Classics defined. I hope but doubt that there will ever be stories like those written by writers like them ever again. Did you know that Harper Lee only wrote one book? She won a Pulitzer Prize for it. To Kill a Mockingbird."

Tip again with youth; "I know that! They filmed the movie at the Stanley Hotel. You must know it; up in Estes Park Colorado. Jack Nicholson was in it. No that's not it. Never mind." He lost me and I didn't find it until later. No matter.

"Here Tip!" I so wanted to think me clever and put humor in my words, but I left one tip in the quiver.

"No Sir the tip is already included."

"It's alright it's not much. Take it please! Buy a book on me."

"Thanks Mr. Rengaw. Maybe... maybe I will."

I picked up my two bags and tried to place something forever in my driver's heart. "Tip. If you reclaim a life, you will meet somebody. If you reclaim a life that is your own, you will meet yourself. Always remember that. Take care of yourself."

### 'Again, again.'

Six and a half hours of travel; my welcome is upon me. The red brick and oak mansion waits for me. Three grounds keepers tend the rotund front porch. Arriving at my feet, a yellow Labrador barks a welcoming yelp. His greeting is without words; investigating, clearing me as okay. Waiting for others to greet me.

I see Peter Henderson and Rojer. Mr. Henderson is halfway across the lawn and approaching to meet me. "Doctor Rengaw, so glad you could be here."

"Good to see you Mr. Henderson. I am also glad. Glad to be unshackled from that airplane. Oh... I'm sorry. Perhaps that was said without sensitivity."

"No matter Doctor." I look towards Rojer still making his way. His gate is steady and strides long. My first impression is that he looks fit. He is dressed in a royal blue Monticello shirt. He looks like Rojer.

"Danny! Buddy! It's been too long."

"A couple of years Rojer." He gives me a bear hug. He's as strong as always.

"It's good to see you Danny. Come inside and let's get you something to drink."

Tipton's On the Walk. Later that evening.

Grilled asparagus topped with lemon-butter sauce; Alfredo sauced risotto with capers and green onions; Cajun crab cakes; these were culinary choices that my pallet was anticipating. This evening, my choice to eat. Another evening, my choice to duplicate. Great Chefs always steal from others. Admit it, never!

My pallet was still in shock from the earlier airplane autopsy. It needed to be awakened. Fresh shaved ginger would be the caffeine. One strip of ginger and my taste-buds were brought to attention.

Our table on the patio, on the river's bank, was excellent; perfect. Still I was disappointed that the patio was enclosed due to time of year. All in all, a great meal at a great location. Now I was ready to find out how the company was.

With a round breached, I fired. "Peter thanks for a wonderful meal. The food was awesome and what a location. I'll have to come back here in the summer." He hadn't really said that he was buying; but he was. "I'd also like to thank you for flying me to one of my favorite locations on the east coast. It would have been nice to fly First Class... but it's all good." Rojer laughed nervously. Peter laughed temperately trying to gauge my sincerity.

"However my coming here was agreed upon with the understanding that when I got here, I'd find out why I got here. The three of us have been socializing for several hours and I still don't have any information." Again Rojer with the same uncomfortable laugh. I gave him a laugh questioning gaze as I went on. "So unless we are going to retire to the cigar room..." Henderson looked at me funny as I continued. "I would like some information." I looked into his face and waited. He was trying to find his starting point. I was sure that he knew this conversation would take place, so I was surprised that he seemed unrehearsed. He surely must have Chairman of the Board type verbal skills.

"I do appreciate you gotting here." That a boy, not what I expected, but he played on my play. He continued; "You being here will greatly help us and I feel passionately about that. Almost as passionate as I feel about thanking you for having dinner with me." That's the crap-ola I expected. Peter was getting warmed up. He heaped on the crap with more ola. "I am thrilled that you had dinner with me." Not with you, on you. My previous thought was still forefront.

"Doctor Rengaw let me tell you what I believe you are aware of. Obviously you know about The Document. And the newspaper article. Both of the articles actually. Also the fact that I would like you to go to Quantico tomorrow. And I am sure that you've heard about the press conference that will take place the following morning. I would like..." He did not finish the sentence. He started anew; "The foundation would like you to attend. Is that all that you are aware of?"

"I hope I'm aware of more than just that." He looked puzzled and I did not try to explain my attempted humor. "Peter I do know about all of those. However, there are other things that you are not aware of." He glanced at Rojer.

"Why do you want me to go see the FBI?" He had quizzed himself on this anticipated question.

Peter updated on what he had learned. "I have received a preliminary report from the Bureau. The results are most interesting. Results that I think you will want to hear first-hand." I expected him to continue detailing me but he paused. Not knowing why I glanced at Rojer.

Looking back to Peter with open palms I asked; "Well... are you going to tell me?"

"I would like that to be a surprise for tomorrow." Not liking that sentence I sat back in my chair with intent to let him know that. He held silent with my body language.

"With all due respect Mr. Henderson I am not a real patient man and I don't like getting jerked around."

Rojer interdicts; "What Danny means... is that he is a busy man-"

"That's not what I mean Rojer." I slowed my words back at Peter. "Apparently I'm not being clear. Mr. Henderson let me put it on the table. With the cards I'm currently holding, I'm about to fold. If I don't pick up at least one pair, I'm out of here. I make my living off of my reputation. People pay to read my words. Before I sit in front of a bunch of cameras and journalists and talk about alien abductions and Jimmy Hoffa, I want some information. I want to be prepared. I am not going to be left hanging here in the winds by my Nads."

I wasn't really sure if I was being passive aggressive, or aggressively passive, or whatever, but I tried for a simple informing tone. "Ever since Rojer spoke to me about The Document, some very strange things have been happening. Much more than you are aware of." Again he glanced at Rojer. I did not slow my flow. "But the facts are, I don't know the facts. If indeed there are any."

Given back the table Peter works it. "Doctor Rengaw please give me just twenty four hours to make things clear to you. I'm convinced you will understand all the facts."

Sitting back in my chair I stirred my Ice Tea with intent. I'm not sure what that intent was, but I had it as I stared at Rojer. Snapping back to Peter I concede. "I will give you that time Mr. Henderson." Attempting a Charles Bronson stare I lean on the table and towards him. "But you need to know Mr. Henderson that I am not getting in front of the Press if I am not comfortable." Now finished with my kick-ass look, I sat back.

"Completely understandable Doctor." Although Peter told me this, I doubted he did.

I restarted; "Peter, I need to know, and I mean now. What are you getting out of this?"

"Fair enough. It is not what I am getting out of it; it is the foundation that I hope gains from you being here. Daniel I am not going to work around this; the press conference is a public relations event. Hopefully it will be a successful media blitz. Free advertising. A means to financial donations. If this works, the result will validate the means. Foundations suffer greatly during tough economic times Daniel. I am sure that you know that."

"Doctor Rengaw, your books, especially The Virgin Dynasty, have made you a celebrity in Virginia. A Jefferson expert. Therefore... a Monticello expert. You can help The Foundation." His look within me was for sympathy as he finished. "Which I think you want to do. Right? I mean why else would you be sitting here."

"Ouch! That was a low blow Peter. And you did... you placed it there with intent. It was not an errant punch."

"Perception is reality Daniel." I laughed at his instant honesty. But what I didn't know was that in time not too distant, these words would bang hard in my mind.

After laughing at reality Peter continued; "I am asking you for a little time. If you're not comfortable with the situation... well I guess you can bow out. No hurt feelings. I totally understand your insecurities Daniel. But please I'm simply asking for twenty four hours. Do we have a deal?"

"A deal?" He couldn't have been quicker with a different word.

"Understanding! How about understanding?" I was not sure if that word was more to my liking, but I took the diplomatic road.

"Understanding? We'll see. Let's go with that."

With Chairman Mannerism, abruptly the conversation was at an end. His task self-assumed as being complete, his self-a lotted time for us was as well. "Gentleman I am afraid that I have to leave." Me being far too scrutinizing at this point, his word ruffled me. Why was he afraid? I did know that I was afraid. Afraid that he had to pay the tab. And I feared that this thought was being displayed on my asking face. Not answering me he rose and nodded to Rojer. "Rojer." Turning to me he executed the perfect insincere I-give-a-shit-about-you pause. He obliged me. "Daniel." With etiquette calling, Rojer joined his standing. I did not hear its call. Long enough to make a point, and as long as my uncomfortable self-awareness that I was would allow, I held seated. Rojer's glare told me that my point was childish and helped me to my feet. Peter extended his hand to me. "Thanks again for dinning with me. The two of you are welcome to stay as long as you'd like. The Foundation is happy to take care of it." How can a foundation be happy? Why do I have these thoughts? I'm not happy about them. But I do seem happy with them. "Thank you again for coming Daniel. The Foundation thanks you." There they are again.

With his plethora of thanks Peter was working it. Chairman Mannerism. "Not a problem Mr. Henderson. I hope you feel the same way tomorrow night." I wish I could say that they were intentional; his brief questioning look of my words told me that I'd given him something to ponder.

Peter closed the going-on-too-long cordials. "See you both tomorrow at Quantico. Rojer you have your pass and the directions?" "Yes sir I do. We will see you at 10:15." "Good night gentlemen." Convinced that he was a conquering hero, Chairman Henderson turned and departed.

Like two teenagers, we wait for the Rents to get out of ear shot. Rojer, hands clasped tight to his chest is sitting back aggressively in his chair. His body language displays only bad for me. I'm not feeling the love. Through my widened eyes, past my anticipating mind, and into my soul, Rojer sees only darkness. "Did you have to be such an ass?"

"What?"

"He's my boss!"

"You mean because I didn't stand up right away?" That issue was on my mind, not his. With squinting eyes and a nose wrinkled with disgust, he lightly shakes his head.

With palms up and looking like a School-boy accused, I ask without a defense; "What?" Sensing this was a direction not recommended, I change it. "Rojer tell me this... What do we know about this press conference? If Henderson thinks I'm going to be his Dancing Bear he's delusional. I'm not you!" Before the exclamation mark was inferred, I knew it had been misused. But mostly I knew the words shouldn't have been used at all.

The School-boy was about to get the wrath of the angered Principal. Rojer leaned in towards me and said nothing for infinity. Then, in a hushed and pissed voice, it began with wrath and ended with feeling hurt. "I can't believe you just said that. You bastard! Danny did you really mean that?"

"Rojer I'm sorry. I'm an ass remember. I didn't mean it I'm sorry." I hesitated with a hopeful reconciling moment. "All I am trying to say is that my boss is in Colorado and that is where I'm heading if Mr. Bowtie doesn't make sense of this." Rojer slowly relaxed back into his chair and looks with thought into nothingness. He looks back at me and bursts into laughter. His laughter was not what I thought would be next. 'Mr. Bowtie'; that, he thinks is funny.

I was glad he was laughing. Mental note to self: Mr. Bowtie is funny. Stored away for another time. But still I did not know the water's temperature. Was I forgiven for my insensitivity? Was I forgiven for my stupidity?

Rojer was still enjoying my humor pro-temp, but still he wanted to quiet the concerns that were still noisy within me. "Danny everything will be okay you'll see. Tomorrow will be an interesting day and should explain everything." As I was very much interested in everything explained, I was tempted to buy what he was selling. That passed with barely a notice.

We both took an Alone to re-ingest our meal and digest the information that was and was not spooned to us. As if my chair was trying to jump from the floor I placed my hands on its arms with elbows high. The international symbol for let's leave. Rojer began the close of our dining experience; "Do you want anything else?" Even with me now aware of my awkward physical position, one that would propel me to my feet, I took one more shot at Henderson.

"Maybe we should slap a couple of Cognacs on the tab." Apparently my choice of beverages had missed its intended mark.

"Cognac? Have you ever seen me drink Cognac?" I'd never seen Rojer drink anything but Miller High Life. Rojer declined; "No let's get out of here."

As we walked through Tipton's I gave Rojer some Man Love. "You're a good man Rojer. Again I'm sorry. I don't know why you hang with me." He gave me an appreciative but here-it-comes look.

"Yeah that's what Pami says."

"Really?" He enjoyed his jab at me and I very much enjoyed his enjoyment.

### 'Chemistry, is fun-da-mental'

Monday, February 5, 6:00 a.m. (Around)

140 decibels of screeching devilish horror flick animal shrieks. This is my wake-up-call at Monticello. I jump up from my roll-away. Entangled in blankets and sheets my balance teeters on none. As only one can while so entwined in bed coverings I attempt a defensive posture. "Rojer!" Assuming a bloody mauling is taking place I look to Rojer. Still in his bed Rojer is rolling with laughter. No mauling. No arterial blood spurts. No exposed intestines. Not even a Mervin-lick-attack. Tottering and then falling back into my bed I scream with wavering inflection; "You sure as hell better be bleeding and I mean a lot. What the hell! Shut that damn thing off. What the hell is that? What is wrong with you Rojer? I just had surgery you know. I think I'm having palpitations."

Rojer remains hysterical. Now detangled and watching him, I start a low chuckle with what he premeditated. He rolls towards me and sees me in my best Karate Kid stance. He rolls from me and laughs even harder. My chuckle is now choking laughter. "What the Hell was that Rojer?"

Through his laughing he chokes out; "Howler Monkeys. You like them? I got them just for you. I know how you love that rooster."

"I hate that cock! Pami bought that thing and I swear she did just to piss me off."

Back on the roll-away I look to the still lightless window. "Damn Rojer it is only four o'clock in the morning. Mountain time anyways."

"You're not on mountain time."

"No shit! Rojer it's still dark out."

"Wow you are a baby in the morning. Pami is right."

"There! Right there! What is that? When was the last time you spoke to my wife?"

"Just a couple of days ago remember." He was still lying in bed.

"And you two talked about my morning personality?"

"No Danny. Not that time." He was deliberately taunting me now. "But we do speak almost every month."

"Since when?"

"Oh... We probably started speaking regularly five years or so ago. It was at least that because you were still drinking."

"Are you kidding me. You have been talking to my wife for five years and this never came up in our conversations." He paused a here-it-comes pause.

"No... It wasn't always talking. Sometimes we'd have cyber-sex as well." I looked down at the dark polished floorboards.

"On my computer?" Rojer burst loud short laughter.

"You're not upset about me having internet sex with your wife but you're pissed off because it's on your PC." I gently shook my head and he laughed at himself.

"You're an idiot Rojer."

"I'm digitally dittling your wife and I'm the idiot?" He lay back flat with self-indulged chuckling. I wasn't sure if he wanted to, or needed to, but Rojer changed the conversation abruptly.

"Look Danny can we please talk about my conversations with Pami another time." I said nothing. He added; "Tonight. Maybe." Walking towards the kitchenette he said over his shoulder; "You do need coffee. Pami is right." I ignored him. He was trying to get another response. I didn't feel like playing anymore.

Ending The Howling, Rojer began anew with the still developing day and how it should unfold for us. 'Us' yes; but his explained agenda was more so for me. "A.I.S. at 8:00."

"A.I.S.?" I questioned. He looked at me as if I had been living in the Rain Forest.

"A... I... S?' He stared eyes wide and asking. I shrugged, asking as well. He defined what he couldn't believe a cool dude like me didn't know. "Ass... In... Seat. Damn Danny, Pami is right again. You don't live in the same world as the rest of us." These words I knew were not Pami's; they may have been her thoughts. So I ignored; again.

It had not gone unnoticed to me that Rojer woke in a playful mood. I did not know if this boded well for the day. Verbal-ling away from the game's play, I gave him his win. "Where do you keep the coffee mugs?" With a proud glow from his face he handed me a mug. One from an assorted collection. Very single male. The cup in my hand had Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street fame on it. (Please don't ask me. I don't know and I didn't ask.) He was very pleased with himself. Touché.

At 7:58 I was A.I.S. That seat belonged to a Midnight Blue 1970 Ford Falcon. It was Rojer's Baby. Mint condition and purred like a Mountain Lion. The engine was beyond clean and mirrored chrome. An engineered sculpture. He's owned it for at least thirty years. The upholstery was perfect. The paint job was cherry. Imbedded in a 21st century sound system was an 8-Track player. Retro cool and awesome sounding. (Google 8 track youngsters). So with a dozen 8-Tracks cased and ready for play, we headed out. 'Rock n Roll.

Our drive afforded us an hour and a half to re-live High-school. We exaggerated about the girls we knew. We reminisced of The Farm. We laughed about all kinds of stupid shit. And we sang; vigorously, emotionally, and horribly. We surely were a sight cruising. We jammed to: Jethro Tull, Aqualung' Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run; The Who, Who's Next; and Janis Joplin, I got dem ol Kozmic blues again... It was great! We felt that free-from-all young again; if only for brief minutes. Brief minutes that gave us cause to pause.

Approaching the East Gate at Quantico I suddenly felt paranoid; sure we were going to get busted. Having left the 70's just seconds ago. Peace Dude!

Traversing through the labyrinth of Quantico we arrive at building 'E' and ease the Falcon into a parking spot. "10:09! Perfect timing." Rojer was man-proud of himself.

We walked towards building E. In the errant way that it tends to, my mind filtered through my happening. I was on Quantico; the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My situation sent me in only one direction: profiling. I was not sure what I was expecting of Quantico, but my cortex was not being surged with adrenaline. Without the expected super-hero feeling, I was surrounded by... well, normalcy. I felt let down. No G-Men wearing perfectly tilted Fedoras. There were no young female CSI agents with picturesque faces and Playmate bodies. Not a single black helicopters chasing a suspect armed with more weapons than the Taliban. "What do you think Rojer? We are walking on one of the most famous law enforcement facilities in the world. Do you feel anything?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said; "Looks like a medical campus." I knew that Rojer was not in the same spiritual nostalgic place as I was, but his reply did disappoint me. Disappoint, because he was right.

"You need to calm down Rojer. There is no way that you can keep this pace up."

"Where are the people Danny? Why are there no people?" This had not escaped me either. It all seemed kind of sterile eerie.

Approaching the entrance I mumbled; "I wonder if Marge is here?" He looked at me.

"What was that?" I shook my head and pulled one of four doors open. We entered building E. Two rather large men greeted us. When I say rather, I'd rather they didn't hurt us. My acute profiling skills told me: Agents. Agents I supposed, but now barriers. They could have been part of the Chicago Bears defensive line. I could tell by the outline of their jackets that they were packing Heat. Gats, Rods, Metal Muscle.

One behemoth spoke and his oration was not what I knew I would hear. It was not the deep booming sound-wave I expected. He was rather tenor and spoke succinctly. He was educated. My thought: No doubt a graduate of FBIU. This entertained me and I chuckled. Rojer glanced at me. No... sorry it was more of a what-the-hell glare.

We turned over our ID's as requested. Rojer wanted to speak for us and I had not a problem with that. Perhaps it would keep me out of trouble; as it did not feel to me that the Twin Towers were in a playful mood.

Rojer addressed the graduate; "We have an appointment with Assistant Director David Conner. Mr. Conner is in charge of the Forensic Analysis Division." Rojer hands the other Neanderthal our Pass. The Pass that said we were not here to free Dillinger.

He pulls the pass from Rojer and says; "I know who he is." Those words, that short boom, that's what I'm talking about. This agent had a una-brow the size of a baby's arm. He looks at the pass. "MMMMM... This way please," he grumbles.

"Lurch! Lurch Right. You're doing Lurch from The Adams Family." That is what I would have said if I was playing; if I wasn't afraid of being trash compacted.

Security protocol dictated that we be poked and patted, scanned with a wand, and personal items through the machine. I kept quiet and all went without incident. Given visitor's passes we were directed to the 3rd floor. We were in. Curiously, without an escort.

Rojer was in charge of getting us to our final destination. Rojer was always in charge of such things. Perhaps we have stayed friends for so long because his strengths are my weaknesses. We were versed with vices.

We entered the elevator alone and the door closed. Alone surely meant one thing. Rojer softly said; "Did you see the size of those two?" No anticipated Rojer lecture. So... of course I felt free to be an ass. I jerked in all directions looking for hidden microphones. I covered Rojer's mouth.

"Shhh! They're listening!" His relaxed face stiffened as he frantically searched.

"Danny you don't think they are-" My devious smile caught himself. "Just once. Please just one time Danny." I enjoyed a snicker but knew I needed to keep it brief.

"I'm sorry Rojer but this whole thing seems a bit ludicrous to me." Rojer made an offer.

"Okay I'll make a deal with you. If you don't make a single joke while we're here I'll buy dinner." My ears perked up like Bubba's hearing food going into his dish.

"Okay but not Mickey D's." Expectedly I got a look of disgust. Knowing my jest had just broken our deal I was quick with; "That doesn't count. Starting... now!" He shook his head indignantly.

"Why did I want you here?" I turned my face away from him and towards the doors.

"Dumb-ass!" is how I left this infantile banter.

Rojer led us towards our destination. Following him I noticed that there were no templates on the doors; only numbers. Stopping at room 326, Rojer grabbed the door knob and pulled the door open. Holding the door open Rojer wanted me to enter first. I walked passed him; ignoring a stare that had intent to warn.

Entering the room I could not help but to notice the similarity between this room and the one I had been in at the CBI. This room was larger and the furniture was a different make. However, the lay-out seemed bureaucratically similar. Cubicles, tables, book shelves, they were in the exact same places geometrically. I assumed the CBI stole the lay-out from the FBI. How anal is that. My son would be proud.

Peter's voice appeared before he did. "Rojer, Daniel, glad you made it. Right on time. Gentlemen this is Director Conner. David this is Rojer Ousten and Daniel Rengaw."

The Director sticks out his hand to Rojer. "Mr. Ousten, Peter tells me you are the one that keeps Monticello going. He speaks highly of you." He then offers and I accept; "Mr. Rengaw I have heard good reviews of your work. I however have not read any of your work. Not much of a personal reader I'm afraid. The paperwork here seems to keep me busy. Government after all." Henderson gives his best Ed McMahon chortle.

Rojer curiously fakes his own and then adds; "Thank you for taking your time to meet with us."

"No problem. Anything I can do for Peter and the Foundation." The Assistant Director's hand directs us towards a door. "Peter, gentlemen, this way please." Peter leads the way, followed by Rojer. My eyes swing through the room one more time before leaving. Still profiling. Still playing.

We enter the briefing room. I know this because a bronze placard says so. There is a large oval table; wooden and shined like a glass mirror. At both ends of the room are large White Boards; writing-less and smudge-less clean. Directly behind and over a podium is a 43 inch Sony flat screen with accompanying sound system. (A Japanese television in a government building? I guess they all are now days.)

In one corner there is a small computer workstation. A multi-line- phone is centered on one end of the briefing table. Everything is in excellent condition except the phone; it seems to have had a tough life. And of course everything is immaculate. Twenty or so standard office chairs surround the table and line the wall. Three unfamiliar individuals are already seated. Two females and an older gentlemen.

One of the women, a tall woman in her mid-forties, gets up and closes the door; locking it as she does. This seems a little over top-secret spy stuff to me. I look to Rojer. His blank face tells me he has no idea why.

The woman who locked the door guides us to our seats. She is wearing a purple business suit. It is well made and a bit snug. On her it is not a good snug. It appears she has not been in the field recently. She presents the controlling mannerisms of a supervisor.

Stepping to the podium and grasping its top she opens. "Gentlemen if you would like to take a seat on the far side of the table we can get started." Rojer Peter and I proceed to the other side of the table. We make our way to our assigned seats. More correct; they were social protocol assigned. As we settled she continued her narration. Rojer sat right of Peter and I right of Rojer. Although I felt we chose seats that were properly called for, seating protocol must have been violated. Peter looked right. First at Rojer, then to me. Rojer gave Peter a look I imagined to be apologetic. I was fine with being Third Chair. Peter's left flank being exposed must have been the protocol broken. Whatever it was, a certain piece of Peter's undergarments were bunching.

The agent, standing at the podium across the table from us continued; "My name is Special Agent Whiten. Director Conner assigned the responsibility of coordinating the analysis of: 'Jef.Doc. 1', and 'Jef. Digital Recording 1'."

It was not her fault. She did not know better. I corrected her; "The digording!" I was disappointed that I said it with weak conviction. I did not see, but I assumed a look from Rojer. She looked at me with questioning. "Excuse me. I'm sorry what was that?" I sensed just an FBI touch of rudeness.

"The digording," I repeated with more confidence. I paused. It was definitely for affect. I followed with; "A digital recording." The door was ajar. If FBI Geeks adopted the term, it would surely become a staple of techno-language nationwide. Maybe... maybe even globally. I could tell she was mentally flipping through her neurological Thesaurus; wondering if it was a term that she should be familiar with.

Disoriented and looking for a dignified clear of my correction, all she had was; "Yes thank you I will at this time turn the briefing over to Special Agent Lewis," she said this pushing aside punctuation.

The doubt I had unintentionally placed into her mind caused her to logarithm a flow of 1s and 0s. She stepped away still searching her RAM for verification. As she took a seat next to the Director I felt she was the only one still considering my word. Even Rojer had tossed my Scrabble reject. I did feel bad for any professional embarrassment inflicted. But it wasn't a choice; I had to.

Agent Lewis was a young woman in her early thirties. She was very attractive with light brown hair. She was well tanned and appeared to have an athletic physique. Although her white lab-coat left interpretation available. She was the CSI agent that my misguided imagination had expected. My misguided sense now caused me to ask if she was the exception. Not the Network CBS rule.

Agent Lewis reaches across the table and hands a group of papers to Peter. Three sheets. The special agent then changes to her preferred deliverance space. Almost without us knowing that she was doing it, she glides to the long end of the table to Peter's left. I surmised she felt more confident with a larger personal space. Maybe she wanted to better view all present; including the Director. In just seconds it would be noticeable that she was confident with her FBI prescribed Toastmaster training.

"Thanks Agent Whiten and good morning all. My name is Kaitlin Lewis. I am an Organic Chemist here at Quantico." She's a chemist! Not a Field Agent. This may explain the previous rule questioned. After my Prozac-less mind interrupted reception of her words, she continued; "My team and I analyzed 'Jef.Doc. 1'. The Analysis Report on that document was just handed to Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson can share that report with you if he so pleases." She smiles at Peter. It's polite but without any sincere feeling. Agent Lewis' presentation was being delivered with more softness; less government mechanically.

Kaitlin's point of interest clearly laser'd in on Rojer. "I would like to give you a summary of that report at this time. Our analysis was divided into three distinct partitioned areas. Which are: the age of the paper; chemical composition of the paper; the chemical composition of the writing ink."

"The report Mr. Henderson was given contains a complete list of all elements."

Rojer inquires; "Are they listed by atomic number or atomic weight?"

Without hesitation, as if she was answering what her name is, cute Kaitlin the Chemist snaps a reply; "Atomic number." She briefly looks at Rojer; a mental analysis by an analysis. That's my boy! After processing she continues; "I will not go into specifics of this list." Again looking at Rojer; "If anyone is interested, the organic composition of the paper is listed by atomic number. I am sure Mr. Henderson will be happy to share that with you." Rojer smiled, nodded, and thanked her. His smile was returned with one less polite, and one more genuine. The yet to be named elderly gentleman, softly leaked an amused giggle.

With what I believed as intellectual titillation, put aside, she moved on. "The document to be analyzed will be called: 'the document of inquiry'. The paper to be compared will be called: 'the paper of comparison'." Where have I heard that before? "Both the document of inquiry and the paper of comparison were furnished by the Curator of Monticello." Her hazel eyes flashed at Rojer. "The chemical composition of the two papers is identical. Identical in elements, compound structure, and manufacturing process; both organic and synthetic. In other words they are exactly the same." She said this looking directly at me. I guess she figured me to be the stupid one.

Rojer; "That is not surprising." My ears grabbed his supporting; for later. She picks up again; "The only variance between the two papers is Degradation."

"Excuse me Agent."

"Yes Mr. Henderson."

"Can you please explain to us what degradation means as used?" Peter asked this as if he already knew the answer. Like any good Trial Lawyer; don't ask a question unless you already know the answer.

"Yes sir I will. In just one moment."

"Oh I'm sorry. Please please continue." Pathetic.

"Are there any other good questions?" Was she asking; are there any other good questions? Or was Kaitlin asking; are there any other, good questions? She inquired a look. There were no questions. Either type. "Okay then... moving on." For the first time she flashed a little nervousness as she rustled her papers as if she was reading them. Kaitlin continued; "The ink on the document of inquiry was chemically analyzed for composition. Again, the report has a list of elements and compounds."

"Upon initial analysis, the ink seemed to be made of fairly common compounds found in ink. But further analysis showed several deviations from ink common today. First, the die in the ink, the compound used to give it color, consisted of Boysenberry and Blackberry. Secondly, many of today's inks contain alcohol. Alcohol is used to prevent congealing. The deviation comes forth in the fact that the type of alcohol used in this ink is Grain alcohol. Grain alcohol is not used in inks made today. Also, Boysenberry and Blackberry are not used as dye in inks that are made today. I supplied our research department with the chemical composition and asked them for details on its possible origin. Let me read you the summary of their findings."

It appeared as if she was becoming acquainted with the words; as if she had not read them before. "Research on the chemical properties of the ink designated Jef.Doc. 1, yield the following findings:

1. The ink was a rather expensive but widely used. Commonly used in the early 18th century and through the mid-19th century. It was most common in South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia, and Virginia.

2. This composition of ink, was last produced no later than 1833."

My brain was actively pinging for a target. None found, no tactical words were launched. However, I was intrigued and the Chemist had my undivided.

She started to continue, but Rojer wanted to play Devil's advocate. "Excuse me-"

Peter slashed in on Rojer; "Are you saying that no one has used this kind of ink since 1833?"

"No that is not what I am saying." Her rebuff brought a chuckle from the old man. Both brought me a wry smile. (Did you doubt it would?) Still searching for that elusive 'good question', she clarified; "This ink was last produced in 1833." It clicked in me; Peter had an agenda. He knew his questions were obvious. Peter, in a behind the clouds way, was trying have Kaitlin make a specific point. He wanted her, as the expert, make the point. I knew the point, and I tried to dull it. (Did you have any doubt that I would?)

I asked; "Agent Lewis is there a possibility that this chemical composition, if properly sealed, and stored under the right conditions, could be useable today?"

Maybe with intended snotty-ness towards another, she replied; "A good question. This chemical composition, stored in an air tight container, kept in a cool environment, could easily still be useable."

"Thank you Agent," I snapped quick.

Peter, rebuttal; "But these conditions would have to be perfect; is that not correct?"

"Yes but duplicating-"

"Thank you Specialist." Director Conner cuts her short. She looked at the Director with questioning in her Hazel-ness. The Director prodded; "Please continue the briefing Agent Lewis." This unanswered dismissal did not go unnoticed by Rojer. And the now chivalrous Rojer wanted it answered. He threw down the gauntlet.

"So it could be done right?" Peter wanted this topic tabled. No, more he wanted it removed from the table and thrown into the In-Sink-Erator.

"I think we have spent enough time on this." With Peter's words the Director continued his prod with a nodding to Kaitlin.

Rojer retrieved it from the trash. Sitting forward and noticeably slapping the table with his left hand, he tried to bring the proceedings to order. "Wait a minute! We are missing a valuable solution here." The Director seemed taken aback that he had lost control of the briefing. Rojer went on; "Agent Lewis, if the chemists of the 18th century could make this ink, certainly someone with the chemical make-up, the recipe, could make it today. Is that not correct? Am I missing something?" He looked at her. I looked at her. Everyone was looking at her. A perfect Perry Mason moment.

Rojer didn't mean to, but he'd put her in that moment. She looked to the Director. He only stared; motionless. "Well yes. A chemist could easily make it. Almost anyone with a little chemistry knowledge. Someone with the recipe as you put it. Yes. They could duplicate it."

Kaitlin was twisted along with the moment. She took a cleansing breath, straightened herself, and began again. "Mr. Henderson, let me now address your earlier inquiry on the meaning of Degradation. Through Degradation Analysis of the document of inquiry, it was determined that this document is approximately 185 years old. With a variance of 1.6 years." I sat forward. Listening with a new intent I was forced to consider the possibility. Without choosing words brought from thought I asked my question. I was pretty sure it was not a 'good' one. "Agent are you-"

"So you are saying this document is 185 years old." Rojer stomped all over my stupid with his own.

"Yes! Plus or minus 1.6 years. That is what I am saying. Yes." Her eyes were on me taking in my temperament. I could feel it. A subtle push of eyes. I turned to Peter. I told you so! It was all over his face. And his face, that snide face, it was all over me.

With reality in question my chest was choking my mind. I needed a thought Heimlich from Agent Lewis.

"So how was this determination made? Carbon Dating?" I was barely able to get it our as my saliva had left without saying goodbye. My stomach was slow rolling as my forehead glossed.

Kaitlin; "No. CD is no longer the preferred method for anything less than a thousand years old. The preferred technique is Degradation Analysis."

The Director leads the specialist; "Please explain what Degradation Analysis is."

Rojer not knowing why he was, quickly interjects; "Degradation Analysis is a scientific way to measure how much radiation has depreciated from a known element. Thus being able to determine the age of that element. Is that right Kaitlin?" I know why he interjected. She smiles at Rojer. I was sure her Chemist's women-parts were all a tingle.

Still smiling, Kaitlin: "Very good sir. A perfect explanation."

"Please call me Rojer." Uh oh! We might have something here. Rojer returned the smile.

Let me slow this Match Maker session down. "Radiation. You test the radiation?" Still enamored, my question forced her to break visual idolization of Rojer. With a dissolving smile she looked back to me.

"You see, all organic elements known to man contain a specific amount of radioactive iodine. So when the paper was produced, when the compounds were formed, the paper had a defined amount of radiation. Degradation Analysis tests how much radioactive iodine has degraded. This allows us to determine its age. It is very complicated, but very accurate." I think she is talking down to me again. I guess I'm not as smart as her new boyfriend. This Chemist is insightful.

The room settled into a calm quietness. Our thoughts had each of us into something different. Agent Lewis' pheromones were in full emanation. Rojer... I didn't want to see where Rojer had gone. Me, I was thirsty. Asking no one in particular; "Could I please have a glass of water?"

A condensating glass pitcher and eight small gold embossed FBI water glasses are geometrically set in the center of the table. Rojer pours me a glass and hands it to me. My brain channels the realization that the pitcher and glassware were not there when we sat down. When, and who put it there, is not channeled.

Agent Lewis thoughtfully allows me time to refresh. I raise logo to my eyes, tip and swallow. She continues; "Are there any other questions?" Refilling, I say nothing. I had a dozen questions but couldn't seem to separate one from the many. "Okay then... since there are none for me I will pass the briefing back to Special Agent Whiten." My dealings with the CBI and now the FBI have made me evident of the emphasis on titles. Director, Special Agent, Department Head. 5 Kings flashed my thoughts.

Had I a Manicurist, she would be appalled at the destruction fingering her craft. Tooth on nail, I was staring into the glass-like table as if it was a crystal ball. Searching and not finding. Looking left to Rojer, he must have glimpsed my motion and his shoulders shrugged movement of unknowing. I couldn't tell what was winning his battle for cranial space; emotion, or science. Was he in chemical lust, or processing the facts presented? I needed him to be here. He needed to be thinking with the head on his shrugging shoulders.

Agent Whiten gathered her feet. Remaining behind her chair she pushed the deluge of perceived facts towards us. "Thank you specialist Lewis. At this time I will begin the briefing on the analysis of the digording." The older Agent gave a brief snicker followed by a mischievous smile. As I didn't know why he did, it caused me to again consider who he was. In an inner way; a personality way.

The word she used, my word, passed through my ears unnoticed. Had digording become so common in my vocabulary that her use of it went without notice? Or was my mind so overwhelmed that I missed something I'd been waiting to hear. It wasn't until several weeks later that Rojer told me of her vocabulary choice. I felt that I had missed a defining event in my life. An event without true life define-meant. But it was defined to me.

She began in earnest. "The video that was supplied to us was of a 24 hour period. November 21, from 0600 hours, to 0600 hours on November 22. This was the time period that was in question. The only period that the document of inquiry could have been placed on the writing desk, in the Study, at Monticello. This according to Curator Ousten. The surveillance video was supplied by Mr. Peter Henderson."

Peter mumbled under his breath; "Chairman."

"Our scope of inquiry was focused on human behavioral abnormalities." Not being the smarter of the two, I didn't know what was meant by 'human behavioral abnormalities'. I knew I was a human behavioral abnormality, but... She didn't care what I was as she continued. "Our investigating agent on site determined that the area where the document was found is off limit to visitors. Agent Manning found the writing desk and surrounding area cordoned off by velvet ropes. Thus making direct contact with the writing desk unavailable. However, the desk was easily accessible to anyone so inclined. Therefore our task was to determine if the document was placed on the writing desk during this 24 hour period. And who placed it there."

"Our analysis of the video used two perspectives. There was a perspective from a digital camera within the study." Rojer gently and quickly slapped my thigh. "This camera was aimed at the writing desk and the surrounding area. Secondly, there was video acquired from outside the building. All four profiles of the building."

"Both perspectives were analyzed using the following techniques: real-time viewing performed by three different specialists; digital zoom enhancement of the desk top, with digital motion sensing; a real time viewing of the building from the outside perspective."

"We felt that implementing these three techniques would yield the information sought. Again, this information was when and who placed the document of inquiry on the writing desk. This is the information requested by Mr. Henderson and Mr. Ousten."

I mumbled under my breath; "Chairman."

"Our objective was to detect human interaction of abnormality in the study and immediate area of the writing desk. The findings of our analysis are as follows:"

"The real-time viewing yielded no abnormal behavior by any person on the day of November 21. Real-time viewing did not detect a specific time period that warranted additional detailed viewing. Therefore, none was performed."

"However, a single anomaly did present itself during this viewing. At 1:20 a.m., on November 22, there was a technical malfunction within the recording equipment. This glitch lasted approximately two seconds." 'Glitch', 'Malfunction', 'Anomaly', I didn't think them synonymous.

"Secondly, the digital zoom enhancement, with digital motion sensing analysis, determined no motion detected. And no human interaction. The only anomaly was the technical glitch at 1:20 a.m. on November 22. Because this analysis was performed using the same perspective, the glitch was expected and confirmed."

"Lastly, the result of the real-time viewing of the outside perspective determined that there was no detected human abnormality, and no human interaction out of the normal parameters."

I was feeling more real and more normal about the video analysis and I shared that feeling. "So the video seems quite normal. No sign of any Black Ops." I thought this would be a cool government thing to say. I was wrong.

"Please let me continue Mr. Rengaw." I'd like to say that I mumbled under my breath; "Doctor." But no.

"There was one abnormality that needed further analysis. At 1:20 a.m. on November 22, the video showed a two second period when the study, and only the study, was filled with a consuming white light." She toned the word white as if it was a significant adjective; more descript than simply a color. "More specifically..." She pauses and files through her paperwork. Finding her read she did. "At exactly 1:20 and .177666 seconds, there was a white light filling the study, and only the study. This perceived light had a time period of exactly 1.77666 seconds." 'Perceived'; the word didn't settle easy.

These facts presented she went back to the summary. "Since this was a second independent, verifiable anomaly at 1:20 a.m., on November 22, further analysis of this anomaly was required. The results of that analysis are as follows."

"Reexamining the perspective from the inside of the study, using video zoom and enhancement, it was visually evident that the top of the desk had been changed. Further study revealed to us that the papers now on the desk were that of the document of inquiry. This detection was impossible with real-time viewing."

Rojer, apparently still with me; "Let me see if I have this straight. What you are saying, is that the document just appeared after this... this glitch, or light, or whatever. Is that right?"

"Yes that is correct." "Wouldn't your motion sensing thing catch that?" I asked.

"The motion sensing equipment did not detect any motion."

"No motion. It was just somehow mystically conjured? I asked. She paused slightly with a noticeable head tilt.

"It was not there before the light, and then it was after the light," she answered.

I denied; "Einstein says that is impossible." The Chemist looks at me. I know I'm the stupid one.

Again with a tone indicating he knew the answer, Peter asks; "Agent could someone have entered the study and placed it there during the two second glitch?"

"No sir." She was emphatic as she strengthened her short answer. "We have determined it would have been impossible for someone to enter the study, place the documents on the desk, and exit the study in two seconds."

Rojer defines time; "1.77666 seconds."

She accepts clarification; "1.7766 seconds." Rojer gets a stare.

"Was anyone detected entering or leaving the house at this time?" I ask.

"No one. We used every perspective and every technique available to us to determine this."

My chair called me, asking me to place myself back into its grasp. I eased back contemplating. I let loose a breath I didn't know I was holding. Rojer wasn't with me. He wasn't seeking calmness. He was firmly dug in with forearms heavily entrenched on the table's top. After an unabridged pause the Director interjected; "Please continue Agent Whiten."

Whether she was pleased to or not, she did continue. "The source of the light is unknown. By our analysis there is not one. The light, as we are currently calling it, has no heat, no Absolute Zero; none. Yet it has both density and mass. The light is not light. At least not as we know it."

Rojer responds to a physical impossibility; "Einstein says that is impossible." Why did it sound so much better coming from him?

Looking directly at Peter she stops speaking. The pause was unnatural and her awkwardness reflected such. I didn't know if she was finished so I asked if she was. She was frozen in time; fumbling in thought.

Rojer; "That's it? There is no more?" My glaring asked the same. Help; she was fixated on the Director looking for some. Unnaturalness had turned to something far worse within Agent Whitten. Her professional flag seemed to be stressed in a typhoon and attempting to separate from its mast. Finally, sensing her painfulness, the Director sprang to his feet.

"Thank you Specialist Whiten."

Rojer muffled; "What?" The Director kind of wiggled back into his chair. He wanted to defend their cause but did not have a tactical plan to do so. He looked into an open binder. He did not seem to be reading and did not turn a page. With at least four eyes upon him, waiting, anticipating, he smoothly and abruptly sat back in his seat. With quickened movement he placed his hands flat on the table-top as if gravity had just switched off and the table no longer had to obey Newton.

With the required time for thought spent, the Director began; "After several days of analytical study, using all tools and minds available to us, our best scientists and technicians have developed a hypothesis."

Rojer's adrenaline was still contained within his neurological system. But it wouldn't be long and all that adrenaline would dump into his muscular system. His chest first leaned toward the table and then he straightened back his frame parallel to the seat's back. It would only be seconds. Nope. It was now. "A hypothesis?" He shouted. Rojer was once again entrenched.

The Director condescended to Rojer. He shouldn't have, but here it was. "Yes a hypothesis. A hypothesis is an educated guess."

"Mr. Director I know what a hypothesis is!" I had seen Rojer erupt before and this is what it looked like. Gather the children and take cover. Rojer briefly looked at Peter and then back at the Director. "But you are going to do further testing right!" This was a side of Rojer that his new girlfriend had not seen before.

Peter spoke; "Rojer it would take months to do further analysis and the cost to the Foundation would be prohibitive." Peter's reprimand was nearly that. Rojer aimlessly searched the table top. After finding something, he squared his ever tightening face on the Director's.

"So what is that hypothesis?"

"Our best guess-"

"Best guess? I thought you had an educated guess?"

Peter snapped at Rojer; "Rojer!"

The Director; "It's alright Peter." He went from Peter to Rojer. "I'm sorry Rojer, I meant hypothesis." The Director remembered that this was his ball-field. He was now playing the confident and calm Super-Star.

The Director chose words carefully. "Our scientific hypothesis, is that this was a plasmic event."

Rojer; "A plasmic event. Some sort of physical element or compound of substance? Something like that?"

Rojer's mind was calculating even faster than he could keep up with. The palms of his hands were working hard on his eyes. His hands dropped to his lap, he sighed, he asked with trying accepted-ness. "Let me ask you a question. Your best scientists, and your best technicians, can they explain how the Study, the only room in the building, was enveloped in some kind of plasma?"

Peter's face was beginning to angry flush. His tolerance with Rojer was slipping. The Director was having his composure tested as well but was holding scientifically stoic. The male agent's eyes were darting from person to person with all new words. Except for he, I may have been the calmest person in the room. I knew only one thing for sure at this moment; I needed to help Rojer.

Attempting to divert wrath that was building against Rojer I jumped in all stupid like. "Director I am not even sure what a plasmic event is. Does your team have any idea how this phenomenon may have occurred?" I threw this at him quick in a more than miffed tone. His pause told me he was measuring an answer.

"No we don't. Not at this time."

Did I mention that I was the stupid one? I wasn't sure what it was that made me so, but it was working for me. Agent Whiten rose and stepped in like a referee separating two fighters.

"Why don't we take a five minute break. Reassemble in... five minutes." She was asking the Director with a look. He sat silent staring at nothing.

As if electrically shocked he jumped to his feet and said; "Good idea. Let's take five everyone." He said this trying to hide the frustration.

Like the Christians not wanting to flee from the lions, or with the lions, or something, Rojer and I remained in our chairs. The mostly silent elderly gentleman joined our sit-in. Peter departed; but not without mumbled grumbles. The Director, Lewis, and Whiten all followed order as it must be. The only difference was no noticeable grumbles.

My comfort level with the elderly man had become that of a harmless uncle. Without any good reason to, I placed cautious trust in his being. Slapping Rojer enthusiastically on the back I tried to clear some space in him. "Way to go stud! You got a new girlfriend and you pissed off your boss at the same time." Tilting his head back, the graying agent let out a perfect Santa chuckle.

As you expect Rojer was not amused. Rojer with a troubled voice; "I think I'm in trouble here Danny."

"Ahhh! It's all good. It'll be alright Rojer. Let me carry the rest of the conversation. You be calm. It'll all work out." Rojer had doubts as to my anticipated behavior. I know this because it was a worried questioning look that he gave me. "It'll be good. You just sit there and make Goo Goo Eyes at the cute chemist lady. I'll change the direction of Peter's wrath." He smiled a bit.

"She does like me huh?" The agent laughed again. It really was a great laugh; full, totally enjoying.

"My name is Raymond Tiltwell." He spoke his first words. He did not stand or extend a hand. "I am a mathematician. My title is Special Agent, but I'm not very well versed at being an FBI agent."

Mr. Tiltwell was a man in his early sixties. His full and kind of out of control hair had at one time been light brown. The dusting of gray made it... well gray. A one square inch patch of milk-white hair was outstanding over his right ear. I appeared to be self-groomed. He did not spend his money on salons. He was age appropriate soft lumpy. He wasn't obese but he didn't spend his money at a gym either. His outfit, not really an outfit, began with a white short-sleeve button down shirt. It was decorated with a loosely hung Hunter Green tie. A barely visible black belt, overly visible black nylon pants, and red Chuck Taylor's, finished the Ensemble. Oh... and you know it... there was of course a calculator ready for use in his right shirt pocket. I profiled: Right pocket; he was left handed. Mostly his attire could be described as comfortable. Profiled: The Mathematician didn't care what anyone thought of his attire. I addressed him; "Well Agent-"

"I just told you I am a numerologist. And please call me Raymond." He said this with a tone that was not upset. But he did want it to have meaning.

"Raymond it is." He lifted his chin slightly. "Well Raymond, since you are still here and you haven't spoken yet, can I assume you are soon going to?"

"I am." Raymond's perspective went from my words to Rojer's ears. "Look fella, take your friends advice." Rojer's aimless contemplating eyes found Raymond's. "You just need to sit there and let your friend take over. The numbers will all add up for you." His words tickled me but they also told me that Raymond had been doing a little profiling of his own. Seemingly eased by the fatherly advice, Rojer's face softened noticeably. He nodded a thanks to Raymond.

I wondered why a mathematician, or was it numerologist... why here? Why now? Questions aside, math was more of Rojer's thing than mine. My brain cramped my throat as I considered my promise to carry the conversation. Rationalizing that I could bullshit with the best of them, confidence eased my gullet.

Raymond still looking at Rojer wanted to share more. "And your friend is right you know. The Chemist, Agent Lewis, she seems quite smitten with you." Oh it's over! That should do it. Rojer was gone. Analytical was replaced by... well I'll let you decide.

It seemed before five minutes that the door swung open. Wanting to know what I was up against I study the faces of those entering. Being careful to strain emotions that were hiding from the emotions that were present. "You must first know your enemy, if you are to defeat him." General Dwight D Eisenhower.

The Director enters first. He really wasn't mad when he left. He won't be a problem. Peter is next. He is a tougher read. He left embarrassed and pissed. Peter's redness had drained from his face, but he wasn't smiling. I had hoped for more. He would be both my problem and my quarry. Agent Whiten showed no emotion, and that hadn't changed. She wasn't significant to me at this time. Four had left and only three had returned. Agent Lewis was missing. I was convinced that her absence was not her choice. And I wore convinced that her absence was noticed by Rojer.

All actors on their marks, the curtain was raised. The Director introduces the mathematician; formally. With the vigor of an 18 year old, Raymond found his legs and accelerated to the white board on my left. He picks up a black marker and with School Teacher skills, he simultaneously starts talking and writing on the board. His back is front to us. Raymond's apparent unprofessionalism was noticed by all. But it only mattered to the Director. The Director leaked air. But no doubt this was just Raymond being Raymond. And no doubt it was an aneurism in waiting for the Director.

"I've been introduced so no need for that formality." Raymond spoke these words still writing on the board. I already liked him. The Director's annoyance with Raymond was amusement displayed for me. Rojer's demeanor seemed steady so far.

I could only partially see what Raymond was writing. He was working furiously. Squeaks, dotting, and other marker sounds were filling the otherwise quiet room. His words continued; "I was given the report that you just received verbally. It seemed fairly homogenous until I read the signature on the document. I'm a fan of our second Vice President. With my intrigued scope of thought, and studying the report with a new perspective, certain numbers caught my attention. As they do." A Historical Numerologist; what's not to love. Maybe he is a long lost uncle.

He turned to face us, stepped aside the white-board and presented the fruits of his labor. Numbers, written with a slashing penmanship that was hard on the black marker. Numbers that in his hold of reality were living breathing creatures. His friends.

I instantly took to deciphering.

.........

1.77666

1:20 .177666

(9 8 3) (9 7 4) (9 6 5) (8 8 4) (8 7 5) (8 6 6) (7 7 6)

.........

Again teacher like, he give us a few seconds with his playmates. A game of Visualization. He began to introduce them; "At 1:20 a.m., there was a..." He paused in thought. "Oh yes; a Plasmic Event. This event lasted exactly 1.77666 seconds." He paused hard. Looking first to Rojer and then to me. Thinking he had enlightened us to all the truths of the universe, he was looking for that enlightenment on our faces. Since I was holding nothing, my poker-face showed it. However, I wasn't bluffing; he had my attention. His friends' significance was not completely lost on me. But I wasn't yet buying what he was trying to sell. He needed to close; 'ABC'.

Not getting any kind of reaction that he was looking for, he got more mystical. "We have here a document with Thomas Jefferson's signature on it. This very document was found on his writing desk at Monticello. And a plasmic event that lasted exactly 1.77666 seconds." He was quick to see that he still had not rung the bell and only stopped briefly. "Okay... if I delete the last two infinity 6's..." He turns to the board and crosses out the last two 6's. Still talking with his back to us; "If you also delete the decimal point." Which he does. "You have 1776." Like an Orchestra Conductor, his arm exaggerates and circles the edited number. Turning and facing us he repeatedly taps the marker to his bulbous nose. His thespian play on thinking leaves black marks. He doesn't notice, or doesn't care. Or more likely does care for its visual oration affect. It wouldn't work for me. But for Raymond it somehow did. I'm humored. The Director fidgets in his chair. Rojer is locked on.

He continues; "1776, Monticello, Thomas Jefferson." He nods suggesting that we must by now be with him. "Okay. Now let's look at this." He turns again and circles 1:20 .177666. With this my mind grabs the .177666. Until now it had not. I inwardly chuckled at the numerical cliff he was skirting. His thumb smudges the last two 6's; leaving only .1776. The decimal point then suffers the same deleted fate. 1776; he's starting to close. He has my attention. Rojer is sitting back in his chair; finger-tips rapidly tapping his lips.

Holding up two fingers he briefly turns to us. "Two coincidences. Two big coincidences. But are there big coincidences and little coincidences? Or are there only coincidences. "Hmm?"

Raymond again addresses the board. Attentiveness describes the atmosphere in the room. Peter glances back at me. His glance is largely ignored and wholly unreciprocated. This Santa, who once had an abacus and now has a computer, continues; "Let's now examine 1:20." He circles the to-be-examined. He spins back towards us. Is spin a good word? I didn't say gracefully spins.

"There are seven sets, of three digit single numbers, that add up to 20." He turns back and circles the seven sets. (9 8 3) (9 7 4) (9 6 5) (8 8 4) 8 7 5) (8 6 6) (7 7 6)

Stepping aside and still facing the board, he quotes my thought; "You see it Doctor Rengaw don't you?" It was the first time anyone here had called me Doctor. I was surprised that is was Raymond. And yes I did see it. With a magician's sleight of hand, the set (7 7 6) was corralled with a near perfect black ellipse.

He closed; "If you take the 1 in 1:20, and add 776 to it, you have 1776. For a third time." Sherlock Holmes sharing the mystery solved couldn't have done it better. Raymond circles the 1, smudges away the 20, adds 776, turns, pauses, and says; "Three times the times defining the Plasmic Event calculated to the same number; 1776." Raymond took a deep sip of oxygen and finished. "Do you know what the odds are of that happening?" He actually waited for an answer. The numerologist; "With an assist from a mathematician's best friend, I was able to calculate the odds of that happening. I was able to determine that the odds of these three sets of numbers occurring at one exact moment, is 1 out of 322,185,524. You have a better chance of winning Powerball twice."

Rojer shows no emotion and creepily remains perfectly still. His eyes open, his chest inflating and releasing, I think him still alive. As if physically exhausted and mentally spent from his presentation, Raymond's chin dips and his shoulders slouch. Slowly he turns and gently replaces the marker. Returning to his seat he drops into it with a huff of breath.

It was so silent in the room I could hear Rojer's hard-drive whirling. It was searching for the file named 'Reason and Reality'. And he was not alone. My thoughts were also diagnosing and debating. Facts or opinions? Reality or fiction? Coincidence or predetermined?

The Director cuts into my neurological autopsy. "Peter do you have any questions?"

Mr. Henderson pauses briefly and begins his political ending; "Director, I would like to thank you and your team. I think collectively you crossed all of your T's."

It was time to help Rojer. "Really!" I exclaimed intending to ruffle. I continued my rant in earnest. My tone was only decibels below angry. "Crossed all of your T's? I am not sure you have penned anything accept a question-mark. I am very confused and questioning. I am sure you can see Peter that I have a torrid rain of emotions. I don't think any person would be calm after all of this. I am sure that both Rojer and I will eventually make sense of this. However it makes no sense now and I need time to process this."

I hoped that would make me the villain. Removing Rojer from Peter's target. Trying to punctuate like a dramatic actor, I stand and deliver my line. "If this briefing is finished, I feel the need to depart here." Still in character, I politely thank the Director and his team. Only the door was keeping me in the room. Without forethought, I stop my scripted exodus and turn to Raymond. Calmly, and with punctuation considered, I ask; "Raymond, do you know, how many different men have been President?"

Without hesitation he answers; "Forty Three." I nod.

"Thank you Raymond." He is wearing the slyest of smiles. Winking at him I turn back towards the door. Peter stops me.

"Doctor Rengaw do we still have an understanding?"

Wishing to drive home a great exit, I turn deliberately and look into Peter's eyes. For emphasis one quick breath. "Peter, I don't understand a damn thing!" It was 'Gone With the Wind' like. If only in my little mind.

Entering the hallway, Rojer collected me and made me wait to be escorted through and out of the building. He looked at me and so wanted to laugh. I whispered; "That was perfect!"

"Danny hush!"

Still at their post, the twin Gate-keepers eyed us as we left the Fortress of Senselessness. We exited through the double set of doors and entered the sterile air of Quantico. I'd have preferred it the air of reality. The warming chill seemed to invigorate us. But would it be enough to replenish our minds with understanding?

Several steps across the building's apron there was a metal click from behind. Then a re-click. The sounds weren't loud but tink'd distinctly in the ambient quiet. A metal door slipping its latch and then grasping it again. "Mr. Ousten?" A woman's voice newly familiar to us. Rojer and I turn towards building E and the inquiring question. Special Agent Lewis was in search of us. Truer; looking for Rojer.

"Mr. Ousten-" She stopped mid-sentence and gave me an asking for my departure look. Although I was not recently familiar with this look, I eventually recognized her request and did what any good Wingman would.

"Rojer give me the keys and I'll meet you at the car." Without mental awareness that he was, he tossed the keys to me. They hit me rather hard in the chest and fell to the cement. I chuckled; maybe only in thought. I retrieved the set from the gray and looked to Kaitlin. She nodded a thanks. I headed for the 70s.

Settling into the Falcon I look towards the area that I left the two. Rojer was giving the Chemist a hand shake and looked very mechanical as he did. I studied Rojer for an inkling of emotion. When he was close enough to be defined, his face looked like a cartoon character. Goofy; I thought. Watching him as he slid behind the wheel, he said nothing. So I did. "Well?"

Pulling the keys from me and flicking a business card on to my lap, he cocky nonchalant said; "She wants to get together for dinner." He starts the Bird of Prey and turns to me. The nonchalant was gone. He'd lost control and Goofy returned. "She asked me out." Stupid-fifteen-year-old-boy lit his face and crackled his words. In his mind I'm sure he heard nothing but suave. In me I heard and saw only a Lobotomy. In a testosterone driven display of male stupidity, I howl.

"You dog! Rojer! You are the man!" My reaction made me question my age. It was a very short question. Then very un-wingman-like; "You know you could be her father?"

"Shut the hell up! What was that?" After a moment of adolescent high-fives and other not so mature displays of emotion, silence crashed us back to unappreciated adult reality. The still undigested briefing came back into focus. Our mellow was harsh'd.

Once the Falcon achieved cruising altitude, our attempt at detangling the truth from the mystery, the known from the unknown, and fact from fiction, began. We crunched times and numbers. We over-discussed events. And we sampled blackberries and boysenberries. After all scenarios were contemplated, a reasonable and explainable course of events eluded our grasp.

With our oral debate concluded and my singleness of thought continuing, Rojer offered the only conclusion that I thought was reasonable. "Danny I think it comes down to a single question. No matter what a Mathematician or Chemist tell us, do you believe Thomas Jefferson wrote The Document? I know, that when I answer that question, it has to be no. Common sense, logic, right?" Rojer's question made me ponder the single question.

For the moment that was where Rojer left it. It wasn't left very long. "Danny what are you going to tell Peter?" I stared out the window and was watching Virginia slip away from me.

Rojer flinched as I awakened from my Sphinx-like staring. My Lap belt clicked, my left arm reached over the seat as my legs pushed and twisted. Draping my abdomen over the seat-back I searched. My bag jostled Rojer as I bumped it into the back of his seat. With little grace I dragged it onto my lap. "Damn Danny." With a smooth slide I released the steel teeth that were clenching it closed. I reached in and pulled out my phone. My fingers began tapping; aligning 1s and 0s within my had-held computer. "What are you doing Danny?"

"Punching in an address to the GPS."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"We're going to see a man about a thing."

"A man? Where are we going Danny?"

"We are going to visit Mr. Patrick Thomas."

"But I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

"Drive we'll eat afterwards. I'll give directions. Damn! You're always hungry Rojer."

### 'Common Sense has to answer the question.'

In my best digitized voice; "In fifty meters, turn right on to Sunny Dell Way."

Rojer didn't think it humorous and gave me placid. "This neighborhood looks pretty Yuppie to me. Are you sure this is right?" I was not sure what he meant. I was sure I hadn't heard Yuppie in a decade. And I was also sure he didn't want me to tell him that.

Still playing co-pilot; "There it is. Turn here Rojer."

"I'm still hungry."

"This won't take long. I want to see if he's home. Ask him a couple of questions." Rojer picks up the address.

"There. Do you think I should park in the driveway?"

"It doesn't matter I guess." Making the conservative choice he pulls the Falcon to the curb across from the house.

The house did not look Yuppie to me. 746 was a two story white Colonial with a large porch running the length of the living area. Best described as: Well Kept Conservative. The house, the two car garage, and the porch, were trimmed in light blue. The yard was lightly cluttered with large Juniper bushes and a single Eastern Maple. The tree seemed too-south out of place. It was majestic; an artist's canvas in oil.

Rojer led up the driveway. The garage doors were shut, but the octagonal windows revealed empty space. No vehicles lowered the odds of Patrick being home. We Walked the Paving Stone path to the porch. The porch with eight mathematically spaced hanging baskets. Now through a winter, the baskets held remnants of once living summer flora. Rojer suddenly stopped, turned aside and yielded point.

Stepping up and on to the porch step I heard a familiar rattle. Second step and it was followed by the sweeping slide of a door opening. Stepping onto the porch and not wanting to startle, I froze. The door swung fully open. Revealing a slender man wearing well-worn jeans, a plain yellow t-shirt, and Timberline work boots. The same pair that were in my closet. His pair had seen much work; mine near pristine.

He appeared my height; which made him about 5'10". Mr. Patrick Thomas I hoped. He sported jet-black hair that did not appear to be dyed. His hands were clean and callused; a craftsman's. Late fifties, maybe early sixties.

"Doctor Rengaw!" Freezing did not help; I was startled. "I read in the newspaper you were going to be in town. I am pleased that you are here. Not sure why, but thrilled that you are."

"Mr. Thomas, I take it." He politely nodded. I turn to Rojer who is still off of the porch. "This is the Curator of Monticello; Rojer Ousten."

"Yes Mr. Ousten we have met before at Monticello. It was shortly before Thanksgiving."

"I see a lot of visitors at Monticello. I'm sorry but I don't remember you."

Patrick said softly; "A visitor." I thought his tone a little questioning. Patrick continued; "No need to apologize. I don't really stand out amongst the others. I guess I have a common face." Indeed he did. Patrick Thomas looked very common. He did not stand out amongst the others.

"Oh hell where are my manners. Please won't you come in?" With a hand wave he offers his home. As I slide by, Patrick asks; "Mr. Curator did you know that Thomas Jefferson had an enlarged prostate the last eight years of his life? He did. Benjamin told me so." His question so far from anything, I paused slight my entrance.

I was not sure if I actually asked, but I thought I asked; "Benjamin?"

"Please gentlemen come in and be welcome."

Mr. Thomas leads us through the foyer and into the front room. All the while speaking as he opened his home to us. "Doctor Rengaw I do not know... why have you chosen to visit me? I guess I can guess. No matter. I am glad that you have. My instincts tell me that you have come to inquire."

Rojer had formed an instant bond with Patrick. If not, he would not have engaged so easily. He answered Patrick; "We have-" Ignoring my knowing that it would be rude to interrupt, I did anyways.

"Mr. Thomas have we met before? I don't recall-"

"You want to know why your face was familiar to me." Apparently he had ease with ignoring his knowing; or perhaps he was unknowing. "A fair question Daniel." His face and eyes look up and to the right. Patrick asks the ceiling; "Do you believe in Providence Doctor?" His head resets itself to address us. "Oh my Dear, I have again declined you my manners. Would either of you gentlemen like some tea? I am bringing to a boil some water. And I also have some fresh baked Scones."

Rojer still hungry; "I would love a Scone. And some tea as well."

"Excellent! Would you like some as well Doctor?"

"Some tea would be fine thank you."

"I hope Black Tea is suitable."

"That would be perfect Mr. Thomas," Rojer replies.

"I'll be right back. Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

Patrick in the kitchen, I look to Rojer for clarification of his word. "Perfect?" His visual response was one that nice people should not share in public; or in text.

Looking about, the room was decorated Quaint Functional. A small Knotty Pine coffee table centered the room. Matching Harvest Rust loveseat and sofa were on each side of the light brown table. Book-ending the table was a pair of Over-stuffed Wing Back chairs. We chose the white leather chairs for our Tea Party. Taking our seats, they were as comfortable as they looked.

A childhood memory, a summer cabin that was beautiful in Knotty Pine, has given the wood a special place in my heart. This hand crafted table made with this memory was topped with a single large picture book. The book's title; Scenes and Memories of Lake Doster. The creator; the late Joseph Langkamp. A man that I had the sincere pleasure of knowing. The memory'd wood and memory'd man, warmed fond remembrances. At this moment I didn't see this coincidence as even a coincidence. Later, now, I see them both as intended.

Several Landscape Oil Paintings were strategically displayed on the walls. Not being knowledgeable of art, I did not recognize the artists; if I should have.

"Here we are gentlemen." Thomas reappears carrying a white ceramic tray supporting a matching Tea Set. Ceramic I assumed, once again not being knowledgeable of such things. The tray was garnished with three Scones. Each Scone seemed perfectly symmetrically placed on its own plate. The treat wasn't on the plate, the plate was under the treat. "The Scones are of apple cinnamon. I hope no one has a pertaining allergy."

"No I think we're good. They look delicious." Rojer being gracious. Thomas distributed the tea and snacks. Rojer carried the conversation forward. "Mr. Thomas, that tray and Tea Set look like Western European Glazed China." Who are you? I hoped my look given to Rojer asked that question.

"Yes your eyes are gifted. The set's been in my family for several centuries. The story is that the nephew of Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Franklin Batche, gave it to my Great Great Great Grandfather. Mr. Batche was the Editor of the Aurora; an 18th century Philadelphia newspaper. I am sure that Daniel is familiar with him. Are you Rojer?"

Rojer; "I have heard the name before. The Tea Set is very beautiful Patrick."

Patrick; "Yes it is. It is the oldest keep-sake that we have from my ancestors who first settled in America." Thomas hushed a chuckle. He continued; "1607... My family likes to tell that our ancestors were at James Fort in 1607." He paused waiting for anything from Rojer. There was nothing and he went on; "Jamestown!" Rojer grunted with understanding. "But I know the story not to be true."

Now realizing that I was holding history, and certainly something of financial value, I was feeling a self-fulfilling prophecy in the making. I knew, I was going to erase history if I broke anything. I also knew that it would send me to my therapist if I did. Rengaw... easy... slowly... place the cup and saucer down. Two fingers through the delicate handle, and the other hand supporting the saucer, I drained the tea and gingerly placed it on its home.

Semi-patiently I listened as their polite oral foreplay continued. Listening to Charlie Brown's teacher, I noticed a hutch against a wall. Two etched-glass doors were swung open. There was a space filled with emptiness.

Rojer looked to me. The lack of pace in my face told him that our Tea Party needed to end. My well of politeness was a single bucket from drained. He turned back to Patrick and tried to politely move on. "Patrick-" Rojer's politeness told me this was going to take way too long. Rudeness epitomized, I interjected.

"Mr. Thomas, First of all the tea and pastries-"

"Scones!" Thomas defines.

"Yes Scones." I said, pondering his definition far too deeply. I sensed his patience with me might be at an end as well. I stumbled with words again; "Yes, sorry, Scones. They were scrumptious. I hope you don't mind me asking you a few questions."

"No not at all do you know Joseph Ellis Doctor Rengaw? I hope you do not mind me calling you Doctor. Were you surprised when I recognized you? I saw your face on the Jacket of your first book. I never read your second book The Virgin Dynasty. Perhaps when we are through here I will. Excuse me, please allow me to put these away." Patrick gathers the tray and quickly slips back into the kitchen.

All now completely drained, I look at Rojer. My lips part. "Those Scones were good weren't they Danny?" Tickled by an inner laugh, I sit back into the leather comfort.

Patrick returns saying; "I am guessing you want to discuss the document I sent you. Did you read all of it? I am certain you did." He takes his place on the sofa. "How did you like it? Did you know I wrote that in one sitting? It took me almost six hours. Hand written you know. I'm not much with a computer. It just came to me. Never wrote anything like that before. Well I did once but it was a long time ago. After I wrote it I read it and I thought it unusual. I was rather befuddled as to why I had those opinions. Not sure why I wrote them down. Then later, why I sent the document to you. Doesn't that seem strange? Can you figure that? Not sure I can"

Rojer attempts to slow his ramble; "So you don't know what possessed you to write that?"

"Possessed! Hmm." Patrick light laughs briefly considering Rojer's chosen word. "Interesting word that." He smoothly rises and circles the couch in a slow thoughtful manner. "You know, when I wrote that, time did not seem to be truthful. It lied to me. As soreness cramped my hand, and the clock was long evident, I knew a long time had elapsed. As well, the gathering of pages told me time had elapsed. But when I was writing it, time did not seem to gain distance. Before the ending of the start, I was at the beginning of the end. Tell me Daniel... when you write, does time stand motionless? You know and still travel."

My thought traveled to times wasted; is this one of those times? Was our trip to visit Patrick time I would never get back? Indeed Patrick Thomas was a unique character. A character whose faculties I was beginning to question. At times he was lucid and articulate. Others, he presented rambling and wandering. Eccentric? Dementric? Were those two words my only choice? He does make a killer Scone. But should he really be using an oven?

I felt like it was time for us to leave. With the question of dementia subdued, I had to ask; "Mr. Thomas..." As if he had just noticed I was in the room, his head snapped to me. With him now intent on me I asked; "Who is 'SDW'?" Intently he changes to questioning.

"SDW? Do you mean those as initials?" Waiting for me to reply his head tilts slight. "I don't know Doctor. Am I supposed to? Should I?"

Rojer tries to bring him back to functioning. "Patrick those initials are in the document you sent us."

He still looked confused. His index finger tapping his nose, thinking, he responds; "I did know a Samantha Wilson. It was a long time ago. But I believe her middle name was Marie." At the last possible instant Rojer pulls Patrick back onto the ledge of reality.

Standing and forcing an offering hand to Patrick, he says; "Mr. Thomas I think we have taken enough of your time." Mr. Thomas stands and accepts Rojer's hand. With his still unused hand Patrick grasps Rojer's forearm. The same two handed shake is granted me.

"Thank you again for the Tea and Scones," says Rojer.

"Well thank you so much for visiting me at Tea Time." We thank him again, he thanks us again. Much thanks to Rojer, less thanks to me, we more thank he, we leave.

Feeling as if ceremonial to an ending, the driver's door latches closed. The driver leaks air and starts laughing. Rojer composes himself and asks for a conclusion. "Well... what was gathered from that?" It was rhetorical as he never slowed. "Granted, the Scones were amazing and I did get to eat. But personally I don't know what to think of Mr. Thomas. Do you think he could have written that long document Danny? Or for that matter, The Document? Did he seem like he could write a coherent hand written 68 page document? But... but if he didn't who did? And how is it he knew of it?"

Rojer's questions had my neurons spiking and my receptors denying. I had neither an answer nor reply. I sat staring with no perceived view. I chuckled to myself as it suddenly hit me that lately I had done so often.

I tried to form a sand castle of reason. But with each attempt the sand heaps to the base of thought. So unable to construct a complete structure I sift the sand; looking for a single granule that I could start a foundation of conversation upon.

I could feel Rojer waiting for an answer. So I gave him one. One that he wasn't ready for. "I don't know Rojer. I don't. Maybe this is all some kind of a delusional dream! Am I really here? Are you? I mean really here. Or, or, am I going to wake up next to Pami perspiring with an elevated heart-rate. I'll look around and recognize where I'm at. Shit. Or maybe I'm going to wake up next to your ugly ass. No that can't happen; that would be a nightmare."

"Wow! What is wrong with you Danny?" His inflection was of attempted humor with underlying meaning. Then it went to an attempted humor hidden-on-anger. "Oh... my ugly ass? Do you have a date with a thirty something gorgeous chemist?" I laughed and he tried to console. "Danny it's okay. Hey all that... all that bullshit you-"

Grasping ahold of whatever I was at right now, I interrupted his armchair therapy. "What was up with that? How in the hell did that just happen? See this is a dream! I'm telling you this is a dream. I mean have you looked in a mirror lately? No, really, look in a mirror, you have a face that a mother would have a tough time loving." Rojer's eyes lock to my face. That face erupts in laughter. Seconds pass still laughing at how funny we think we are. Low thunder follows a click. We pull from the curb and toward The Hill. Rojer's residence; Jefferson's home; my white whale.

'The William Tell Overture' sounds from Rojer's cell. It is a Rojer familiar ring-tone. "Shit that's Peter! What am I going to tell him?"

Uncaring of his concern and ignoring his question, I quip; "Are you kidding me. The William Tell Overture?"

"Shut up what am I going to tell him?"

"I don't know. Wait! Tell him that if I'm there in the morning... well... then I'm there in the morning."

"What does that mean?"

"Work with me Rojer."

"Hello Mr. Henderson." Listening, I play the figure out the question game. "Yes he is. Yes we have. He hasn't decided. He said to tell you that if he is at the press conference, then he is. I don't know. Yes. Yes. No, I don't know anymore. Yes sir. I will try sir. Yes sir. I understand. Okay." A pause. "Sir?" A shorter pause. "Mr. Henderson?" Rojer's jaw-line clenches pissed. "That ass hung up on me. That ass! He practically threatened me with my job. That ass! I have a contract you know. He can't just fire me. I'll suit his fat ass!"

I wanted to laugh, but I was pretty sure that would be bad. I looked at him, he looked at me, he began a pensive laugh. I joined him with a noticeably uncomfortable one. I wasn't sure how much I was allowed to enjoy his predicament. Rojer's laughing didn't completely quell his anger. With more ease than anger, he let fly; "That ass! Bastard! I have a contract."

"Suit his fat ass Rojer!" That did it; his laughter was full and genuine.

The Sine-wave of emotions completing a full cycle, we ventured forward within my dream. Tranquil; melancholy; solace; none described my current state of mind. None seemed possible at this moment. I thought to strive for indifference; if only momentarily.

"Rojer let's end the business day. I want to enjoy the rest of the evening. Maybe take a walk to 'The Throne'. Watch the sunset. Just take it easy. No more business talk okay? None. I am only here for another twenty four hours and I would like to enjoy some of my time here. I don't want to leave without some relaxation." I turned to him. "Okay Rojer?"

"Sounds like a winner can we eat now? I owe you dinner anyways. Do you have a suggestion?"

"Yeah... I do... Mickey D's. You're getting fired soon you have to save your money."

### "How I wish you were 'Hear'."

It was the perfect place to eat. The relative normalcy. Being amongst the unfamiliar and the nameless. All of those that didn't give a damn about our day's trials. The expected screaming children. The foreseen mothers battling too many children and not enough money. The predicted fathers yelling at the screaming children. It was all normal, expected, perfect.

Our stress melted amongst fries and special sauce. I left feeling strangely refreshed. Peter pissed was gone from Rojer. As we slipped into the Falcon Rojer said; "If you don't write me a check right now for a grand I'm gonna tell Pami that you ate here."

"I'm not afraid of her." I said it with belief in tone. This threat failing, he altered his demand.

"Okay okay how about I tell Sarina then?" I thought about paying the extortion. Sarina does scare me a little, and he knew it. He chested a deviant laugh.

I had to believe that Rojer's feelings were unsettled as he unlocked the door to the former slave house; his current house of servitude. He had to be wondering; his future at Monticello.

We enter and take care of our personal needs. Mickey D's may have been the perfect choice, but the facilities here are certainly better.

February Virginia days are short of hours and sunset arrives early. With the disappearance of the sun and the arrival of a full moon less than two hours away, and the weather still appreciatively warm and seasonally defiant, I determined a walk to be immediate. However, the disappearance and arrival would no doubt bring a winter chill. I gathered my parka, two bottles of water, and my cell.

I yelled to Rojer, who was brushing his teeth; "I'm going for a walk that will put me on The Throne for sunset." Rojer spits and pokes from the tiny bathroom. With winter-mint paste slowly slipping from the left corner of his mouth, he had a Mervin look. One of being denied a car ride.

"You want... do you want some company?"

"Yeah of course I do. Just, just give me a half hour head start. I want to call Pami." With the paste clinging to his square chin, I chose this moment for a parting shot. I had to. It was right there. "Is there anything you'd like me to tell her? Oh yeah! I haven't forgotten." He smiled.

"Yeah tell her you're a jerk. Never mind she already knows."

"Oh, ouch!" His smile broadens and the drool heads to the floor. He places his hand to catch the impending and darts back to the bathroom.

After a muffled laugh accompanied by a washcloth wiping, he adds; "No it's cool. I have a little work to do anyways." I had another comment loaded to fire about his 'work', but I left it alone.

"I'll see you in thirty Roj."

He verifies; "At The Throne right?"

In the doorway I say; "See you there."

Heightening always upward to tickle the clouds, the Loblollies form a curtain drawn against the sun. Parting only in the middle to graciously lend light to a path that is narrow and gracefully curved. My path is a tunnel of fauna and flora. Both are massive and minuscule. A natural path forested with the hint of a view of unequalled fineness in splendor. Light flickers and dashes my eyes as I walk to a historically holy place. The Throne.

One furlong west and then another. Walking within the entombing darkness there is a sudden awakening; sky blue, sun yellow, and tropical green. Littered amongst the green, but not visible to men of this time, are footprints of men past. Men of significance.

From this place of old, Jefferson would have seen only a sprinkling of mankind. Small farms and single dwellings. Barely peeking from the Virginian landscape. But visible to those with awareness of their hiding. For two centuries and then some, The Throne has held all would-be monarchs who wish to absorb the imperial feeling and the few seen sight.

The Throne is the title that Rojer passed to me upon first showing it to me. I wonder if he and I only define it so. It matters not. It is our term and we use it with admired hidden reverence.

In its physical orchestration, it is engineered and constructed with a marvel of 18th century stone cutting. Local stones, including the Limestone that drapes the flat where visitors old and new rest, are so geometrically entwined that they are immoveable. This is accomplished like Egyptian craftsman; without mortar. The Throne is 8 feet long, 3 feet high, and 3 feet deep.

My wishful heart supports my belief that it has weathered time in its current artful condition since 1770. If Rojer knows differently, he also knows that this is a belief I wish to let linger.

This place, where I now sit, once held the physical Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, Washington, and the others documented in history and alive in my imagination. What conversations took place here? What plots unfolded? Did Jefferson mentally write and rewrite a declaration that might one day be penned? Is this the exact spot that Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton, agreed upon The Great Compromise of 1790? I have devoted countless hours of thought cultivating what might have transpired on this hallowed site. My list of such imagined grows with no foreseeable end.

Having the pleasure of living in Colorado for over fifteen years, I have seen some spectacular sights. I have been to the tip of sixteen Fourteeners and have witnessed overwhelming beauty. However, I have found that when Tipped, it is not the view that is the dominant sense fulfilled; it is the silence. The silence that I know I can't describe with deserved sensation. A silence so encompassing that it can not be fully actualized unless experienced. A silence so complete, that it creates sound. This created sound can not be experienced in any other natural setting on our planet.

This experience, I have described to others in the past. However, I know that I have failed in a true depiction of its soul consuming experience; each time. Although I know I will fail in this text delivered attempt as well, I wish to try and share just a sampling of its experience.

If you have ever been lucky enough to be atop a mountain where nothing in your sight soars overhead accept the mightiest winged creatures, you have realized Perfect Zero of silence. In this environment you can close your eyes, relax, and channel pure thought. Zen-like thought undistracted. The stated goal of 60's LSD users. No Yoga training or narcotics required; only acceptance of thought with crystal clarity. Unencumbered by anything not from within yourself. A mind free of any distraction can be used to view pure sterile thought. Thought that can be understood, accepted, and distributed.

As I sit here witnessing the beginning of a sunset, I know that I have come in search of those same pure thoughts. Hoping that I will find it, yet doubting this to be the place or time. So much has been in play today that I accept I will most likely fail.

Thought, it looms amongst the darkness always stretching forever.

Thought, singular and yet amongst others.

Thought, close and distant, eternal and finite.

Thought, none more important than others.

Thought, some arrive undeveloped, never instituted, never amongst the realm of reality.

As I sit on the same stones that our Founding Fathers did, I have to ask myself; what is the realm of reality, and what should be instituted within that realm. Maybe more important, what should be left undeveloped?

"Pami do you have time to talk?" There was a brief digital silence.

"I guess... I know what that means Danny. Everything okay?"

"I'm fine. I think. Umm... It's been interesting."

Hoping she was ready to listen and wondering if she would regret answering her phone, I began my purge. I littered her with all the garbage that had transpired. Pami has been my best friend for more than half of my life and nobody knew more about the workings of my mind than her. Nobody had cleaned out more cobwebs than she. I spoke, she listened. I rambled, she tolerated. I whined, she changed my course. During the thirteen minute confession, she got it all. As my breath of thought exhausted, I exhaled. This is when she was to prophesize. "Well Danny what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

She lovingly snapped back. "After unloading on me like that you must have an idea. You must know Danny. What is your head telling you? I think you need to use your head Danny not your heart. All I am going to say is that I very much like our house Danny. Unless you plan on going back to Chef-ing, you better use your head if you go to that press conference. And Danny, I'm not sure if you've noticed Dear... but it has been a long time since you last did that. You are a few klicks older my love. Look Danny... just use some common sense. If you do attend the press conference, choose your words wisely. Choosing words is your profession now. Don't let that get away from you."

She was Japedo and I was starting to feel like a real boy. "Yah I know. Thanks Babe I will. I still don't know if I'm going, but if I do I'll choose wisely. I'll let you go-"

"Hang on! You're coming home tomorrow right Danny?"

"Yah, I'm scheduled to arrive DIA at 4:32."

"Well I'm off the next three days..." Her pause, I didn't get. She tried to give it.

"Why don't we spend a couple days downtown. We can do some shopping and have a couple of nice meals. I'll make a reservation at The Brown Palace. We can get a massage. And... if you're lucky you might get a little somein somein. Oh! We can get a room with a Jacuzzi tub. What do you think?"

"Do I really need to think? You have such great bad ideas."

"Okay I'll get Sarina to watch Mervin. I'll set it all up. I'm excited!" Looking back at this exact moment, I wasn't feeling it yet.

"Sounds good Pami." See!

"Oh yeah Danny; I rescheduled your eye appointment. It's the middle of March."

"That's fine."

"Also some guy called the house. Let me see here... Okay, his name is Todd Mortson. He said that his father spoke with you years ago. He thought it might have been around 96. He said something about his father being a Bomber crew member in World War II. Do you remember?"

"Oh yeah I remember him."

"Well anyways, he said his father needs to speak with you again."

"His father is still alive?"

"I guess so."

"He was in his mid-70s fifteen years ago."

"I have the phone number and his son would like you to call when you get home. He seemed pretty adamant."

"I will. Anything else?"

"No I guess not. I'll see you tomorrow. Keep thinking about that Jacuzzi!"

"Bye Pami. Love you."

Sounding like Jade from an adult chat line, she wanted to imprint anticipation; "Bye..." Drawn out dirty long.

From behind me, the path yields a scuffled sound and then another. A kicked rock bounces to my seat. "Looks like it is going to be a nice sunset. I can't believe this weather. I don't remember it ever being warmer here in February." Rojer joins me and searches the life from below the mount. "I brought you a water. Didn't know if you needed it or not." Out of his other coat pocket he pulls one of two Miller's.

"Thanks for the water." Pause for affect. "Did you get your... ordering done?"

"Umm..." His pause was without intent but did have affect. "No. I kind of got distracted." I looked at him questioning. He returned a smug smile. "I called the chemist lady. Kaitlin."

Choosing words for a living, I chose; "Hmmm!"

"Yeah we had a nice conversation. She wants to see Monticello next weekend and then have dinner. Where do you think I should take her?" I looked at him again questioning.

"I don't know! You're the one that lives here." His face told me that I was being stupid and should know that he was not much of a socialite. "Take her somewhere nice. Probably someplace you've never been." I paused to make sure he was looking at me. "Someplace with cloth napkins and everything."

He turned from me looking across into the unfolding colors. But he wasn't seeing anything in focus. Rojer had something to say. Something he wanted me to know. I waited. Still looking away he said; "Did I tell you I got my teaching certificate a couple of months ago?" He looked to me knowing he hadn't.

"I didn't even know you wanted to get a teaching certificate."

Looking like Jack Nicholson as the Joker, he gave me; "Pami didn't tell you?"

With play aggression poorly played, I jumped to my feet. "Okay let's have it! You've been calling Pami once a month for years and not a peep out of her or you?"

He laughs. Stopping just long enough to say; "No I don't call her every month. Sometimes she calls me." He laughs harder. Wondering my next move I stood there looking down at him. He looks up at the clown in front of him. "What! You gonna hit me? I'll kick your ass!" So un-Rojer it was hilarious.

Still playing the bit out, I suppressed a smile and said; "Yes you would." I sat with emphasized passivity.

Enough time passed to recognize that the bit had failed. Rojer offered; "Danny I don't know. Pami asked me not to say anything. She told me not to say anything. I'm not sure why. I guess you will have to ask her." I gathered my direction.

"So when... why did she start speaking with you so much?"

"Like I said Danny, she first started calling when you were really hitting it hard."

"I guess I don't get it. What did she want from you?" I think that insulted him.

"I don't know she just wanted to talk! It seemed like she wanted a Sounding Board. Danny she was worried about you. You know she thinks the world of you. Don't know why! I never understood what she saw in you. She could have done so much better." My head drooped towards the ground with a shallow laugh. With a deeper laugh he patted me on my back.

We both looked westward in momentary reflection. The best I came up with was; "Okay that was a long time ago; why does she still call you?"

Rojer; "See that's what I mean right there. You are such an ass! Have you ever thought maybe we'd became friends?"

"No no how would I think that? How would I know that? How would I? Rojer that's why we're having this conversation."

Rojer hushed: "That's not why." I looked to him. "I'm sorry Danny that's just the way Pamila wanted it."

The moment came and went. We both took a second to let it flow to past. There was no real anger. Feelings I didn't think were in jeopardy. I was the one that needed to let it settle. It was mine to deal with. A something-was-settled-moment was how I chose to file it. I understood it as my bad and this made it all good.

A sliver of the yellow orb was now behind the Virginia horizon. Its colored dance of the vanishing had begun. But not before we were to be immersed in colors that only God could display.

We enjoyed a few unbroken minutes of appreciation. Like a chemistry student trying to read a meniscus, Rojer held his bottle in front of his eyes. I was guessing what his words might be, but I had no feel. Softly, with care in his tone, he said; "You know, you have never really spoken to me about it." He said 'it' like 'it' was real and right in front of me. But I dare not touch 'it'. My chin dropped partially and I turned slightly towards him. I remained in this position as if I was searching. As if I was trying to pick a distinct sound from the ambient noise. He knew I held for clarification. "You know... your drinking." I finished the turn to him. I meant my eyes to say it was alright. They let him know he was free to speak. My heart knew I needed him to open this talk. "I mean you have never said a word about it to me. Pami said one day you just stopped. You never talked about it. You just did it. She said that after a couple of days she became keenly aware of your sobriety. She didn't let on. She didn't say a word to you. Then a week went by and she could see what you were physically going through and she supposed mentally as well. She was confused. She felt helpless. That's what she said; helpless. She wasn't sure what to do you know. She called then and asked me the same. Poor thing she wanted to know what she should do. Hell I didn't know." I'd waited for this conversation for years. But suddenly I didn't think there was any air in Virginia and I wanted him to stop. I had to let it run. I looked into his face again but he didn't want to look at me. Looking straight ahead was how he wanted to continue. "Danny I didn't know if it was the right thing but I just told her to give you space. Watch you, but let you go on. Help him physically if you can, but just let him go. I told her you were a tough bastard and it would be okay."

"Hoping I gave her the right advice I spent the next three weeks worrying about you. I wanted to call you but I didn't know how to start the conversation. Finally she called me. Oh God she was crying and she scared the hell out of me. It had to be the worst I knew it. I didn't know what the worst would be but I knew this was it. She tried to speak but I couldn't understand her. Finally I made out; "It's been a month. He's made it a month!" Then there was nothing but tears. Danny she was so elated. She told me you weren't sleeping and she was still worried about you. But she was so happy." Tears were starting to well in my eyes. As they are now.

"Danny if you don't want to talk about it just tell me to shut up and I will."

"I'm not talking," I said.

It was true that I hadn't really discussed that time with anyone. Somehow I was fine with that. I didn't really feel like I needed to. For me, I thought it would be destabilizing; not healthy. Someday; I always knew that someday I would need to. That day hadn't come. That day had come.

I forced myself to sit upright; stretching my back and rotating at the hip. I took a breath and said; "Why is it, we are so afraid to talk to people who are recovering from an addiction? Do we think we might break them? You are the first one in almost four years that has asked me about it. I mean anyone that really wanted to know and wasn't just being polite. It's okay with me. I'm fine with it. I don't know, just an observation."

I looked briefly at Rojer and then back to the west. "Even Pami doesn't seem to want to wake a sleeping giant; a sober one. I don't think she is embarrassed, but I do question that." Thinking I was done, I paused.

"I do think about it every day. Not a desire-like thought. It is like a ghost that follows me and every once in a while reminds me that it is still there. Anyways it is in the past. I have enough to worry about in the present. That time passed, it seems like such a long time ago. It will never go away but that time is not who I am anymore. But damn it was time wasted. Time I can't ever get back. I will never waste the time of my life like that again. Never!"

"Danny, Pami is not embarrassed of you. I know that. But I do think she doesn't know if you need to talk about it. She does know that you are a stubborn bastard! But she does hope that you will talk to her if you need to. I don't know I just think she feels a little distant from you on this. You two are so close and you've built this solitary wall. I'm just telling you that's how she feels Danny."

Rojer stopped and stepped toward a ponder. Amidst swirling thoughts I took the minute to do the same. Rojer; "I hope you don't mind Danny, but I would like to know more. You are my friend and I want to know what you went through. Is that weird?" I chuckled. He continued; "And not just when you quit, but how you got there. Do you know what I mean?" Rojer did not wait for a reply. "I never really knew what was going on with you. That last year we didn't speak much. I was glad when Pami and I started talking. It was my connect with you. A lifeline."

Rojer swathed in perspective leans forward. His arms weigh heavy on his knees. Sad, torn, or just thinking, his head hangs loose. His words are light. "Danny... I feel terrible. You've always been there for me and I let you down."

"What do you mean?"

"I should have been there for you. It was... it was that I didn't know how. I didn't know what to do." His head fell a touch. I placed my hand on the back of his neck and squeezed.

"Rojer you didn't let me down. You didn't. No one did. Look. I was in a bad way. I was the only one that could help me." Wanting to look into my friends eyes I gently pulled him up. His glossed eyes found me. "You're my bud. You know that; right Rojer."

Rojer placed me into a moment that I hadn't had time for. My trouble laced thoughts had always been kept mine. It was my choice; my thoughts kept mine kept me secure. Fighting through was hard enough. If I shared, control might slip from me. The only way out is through. I was through. Was this moment waiting for Rojer? Was it always meant for The Throne? Maybe it was much simpler. Maybe it was as simple as moment's patience outlasting me.

Should I have spoken to someone; anyone? That question is where I am. It was a recovery rule broken. My set recovery rule. But maybe now, at this moment, it wasn't a breach of my guard. Would I be fined? Was I a failure as a recovering alcoholic? Would I be ostracized by the alcoholic community? No worries. I am through. I wrote it. I want pie.

You'd think I'd have had thoughts long time stored away. But I had nothing. No chosen words sentences or paragraphs. However, rambling was a plenty. And so I dumped freely delivered emotions upon poor Rojer. "I have to wonder when medically, or in alcoholic definitions, I scientifically became an alcoholic. When by definition did I become an alcoholic? Was I predetermined to be an alcoholic at birth? As some subscribe to. Personally I don't read that magazine. Or was it later but still early in life? I did start drinking in high school. Since then I have drank too often and too much. Was that when? I don't know and I don't much care. But wait... maybe I'm not an alcoholic. I mean, not within me, but certainly within society, the connotation of an alcoholic is a loser. I'm not sure. I really don't think of myself that way. I have noticed though that the word alcoholic does not roll off my tongue easily. I'm not sure why I am uncomfortable with its use at certain times. I'm not accepting of that word defined as derogatory. In fact sometimes I think I should wear it proudly. You know, like a badge of courage. But that doesn't roll easily either. Probably rightly so."

"I don't care much, and I don't know less. I certainly don't listen to the tune that others might like to play. Like you like to say Rojer; "All that shit, it's just shit." An instantaneous spark of thought flicked myself to ask myself; am I making any sense, any at all? A second spark flicked; I don't care.

My nano-second battle between sense and caring now over, I continued; "It's always been unhealthy, but it didn't really get away from me until 2006. I seemed to get into an ever increasing circle of drinking to excess every night. It became such an ever increasing pattern that I drank until I was ready to pass out. Once I got that drunk, Pami would get me to bed. In bed I'd complete the circle. This circle was geometrically perfect and growing ever larger. I drank more and more each night."

Rojer was leaning forward and locked in as I continued. "Then I became sleep dependent on alcohol. The problem was that if I didn't drink enough, I would wake up at two or three in the morning. I wouldn't be able to sleep anymore and I'd feel awful. A horrible feeling. Anxious, scared, a heavy chest. Scared, mostly scared. So... I drank more every night. I needed to guarantee that I would pass-out for at least seven hours. I drank more and more. This was the circle I had to complete. This became the addiction that forced the circle. The circle I couldn't seem to break. Addiction defined. Did you know that at the end I was drinking a half gallon of rum every night. Cheap rum. Nasty rock-gut. Real shit. I would work all day and start drinking as soon as I got home. I was always aware of how much rum I had waiting for me at home. I was buying two and three gallons at a time. I remember Pami would get so mad at me when I wanted her to stop on the way home and buy more. I would freak-out if I didn't have at least a Fifth waiting for me. I knew I had to have it. It was so much of the circle. Sometimes she would hide the rum and I would lose it. I feel bad that I put her through that. It must have been hell on her."

Rojer reflected on part of their conversations. "Danny she was scared to death that you wouldn't wake up." Reflecting, my chin swayed slight.

"So was I Rojer. How crazy is that? That's what I mean about the addictive circle. I was genuinely worried about not waking up, but more worried about waking up too early. I had to stay passed-out through the entire night. I had to."

"Do you know that when I was drinking that much I didn't get hung-over anymore. Holy shit! Can you imagine how screwed up your body has to be to stop getting that hung-over feeling." Taking in the sunset as it had progressed, I was reflective. Reflective defined me at this exact moment. Half of the sun had slipped away for the day. The surrounding clouds were a soft glow of yellows and reds.

Rojer turned to me. "What made you to stop Danny?" I can't count how many times I'd asked myself this.

I answered without hesitation; "I don't know. I don't. I have been wondering that for four years. What made me stop? What made me decide that I was done? I don't know. Maybe I was scared of dying. I knew Pami and the kids still needed me. Rojer I can't answer that. I wish I could. I feel like I missed an understanding.

"It doesn't matter Danny. Don't let it eat at you. You did it. It's amazing. That is all that matters. You're a blessed man Danny."

"Amazing no that's not it. What is amazing is that I ever got to that state."

I was deep in releasing years of thoughts. "I guess you have to believe the doctors that say alcoholism is an illness. You know, you can be predisposed to it. I kind of have a theory." Rojer sat rigid upright. Over our friendship I have presented many theories to him. Some were okay. Many I presented only once. Ignoring his visual questioning of what was to follow, I laid it on him. "I think that there are two types of alcoholics; the ill, and the weak. I am of the weak. To me it just seemed like weakness. I didn't recognize it. I didn't deal with it."

"I don't have cravings like someone with a neurological illness. Do I miss it. I won't lie at times I do. Beer, mostly beer. I enjoyed a good beer. Fat Tire. Yeah I like Fat Tire. But now I can't drink NA beer. It sucks! And it does seem to be a bit of a trigger. When I've had a beer it does seem to be a neurological trigger. My mind anticipates the mellow that a beer will bring. So I tend to stay away from them."

I came back from the beer veer. "However, I do know that I became physically dependent after I became mentally dependent. I guess they happened at the same time. But I only became mentally dependent on alcohol when I failed to control it. I mean look at you.

"What?" he asked.

"No no. You have been drinking that same beer as long as I have known you. But you don't get drunk."

"I've been drunk Danny."

"Well I know... you know what I'm saying." I didn't expect some kind of Plato like response from him, yet I waited for a response.

None coming forth I continued; "Do you know that when you pass-out, you don't dream. I went almost a year without dreaming. I missed seeing them. And when I started dreaming again, it was really cool. And kind of scary."

"What do you mean scary?"

"More creepy than scary. So real. Powerful! They just didn't seem like the dreams from before. Before.... I don't know how to describe them. Actual? Maybe actual? High definition actual. That's it. They were so very real. And they almost always had some kind of mystical and spiritual overtone. I remember one more than others."

The evening's wind was almost none. A sudden gust was noticeably awakening. A melancholy suddenly washed over me. I recognized it pushing me down. Unaware of what sent me there, I knew I didn't want to talk anymore. I missed Pami.

"You alright Danny?" I didn't answer. I wasn't sure if I could. Rojer put his hand on my shoulder giving me a comforting squeeze. He didn't say a word. In a minute my throat loosened. With effort I said; "Rojer... there were times during my first six weeks of chasing the devil... I thought goodbye to everyone. I wasn't going to wake up. This was it. When I'd wake up I'd grin. Beat him again. Damn!"

This was not mere melancholy. I was about to clear happenings that I'd held tight as dark remembrances. "I couldn't sleep, my back wouldn't let me. I had terrible back pain when I'd lay down. I spent almost six weeks trying to sleep in my office. Sitting upright at my desk with my head on stacked pillows. This was the only way I could sleep without excruciating pain. I was only sleeping three or four hours a night. Minutes at a time. That was the worst. Damn that was the worst. I almost broke. But I didn't. And damn I don't know how I didn't."

Rojer; "Buddy you have got to stop worrying about why. That shit doesn't matter. Danny you've been given a second chance, you made that chance happen, and that is all that matters. All that other stuff is just shit. It's just shit Danny." He paused, and then continued with Rojer-ism; "You're a good man Danny and that is all that matters. All that other shit doesn't. I'm glad that you're here." He looked away from me with a pause. I think he felt his perceived overdue help was now being paid. I was sure he had no debt. He felt differently.

Along with the wind, our conversation changed. Rojer, boastingly, nauseously; "Now, let's talk about my new girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" I asked. "Rojer what are you gonna do when she puts in her contacts?"

"Oh see... that's why Pami calls me."

"Yeah?" I asked, said, stupid'd.

"Yeah! She gets tired of talking to the ass that you are."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" Rojer punched as fact.

The sun had finished its job for this day. We sat and talked into the late evening. The conversation was light and mostly stupid. We didn't want it any other way. The evening went the way we both wanted it to; enjoying each other's company. All that other shit didn't matter.

Heading back, looking forward to tomorrow, or wishing it past, I gave Rojer my decision. "Rojer I'm not going to the press conference. I don't want to-"

"It's okay Danny I understand. After all, I don't want you going broke and coming to live with me!" We both enjoyed the final light moment of a wonderful evening.

"Rojer, I still want to attend the dog and pony show. I just don't want to be in it."

"It's all good. Let's go home and get some shut-eye."

Both of us stepping up to his home, a drained feeling suddenly smacked me. Physically, I still had adrenaline. Mentally, the light was getting dim. Unless it was frivolous, I was leaving it in the shadows.

Lying in my roll-away, ready for a peaceful slumber, Rojer came from the bathroom working hard with a toothbrush. He removed it and with a pondering look recited; "Benjamin Franklin's nephew's name was Benjamin Franklin Batche. In 1776 he was the Editor of a Philadelphia newspaper called the Aurora. Isn't that what Patrick said?" Not surprised with his recall, I was surprised with his timing.

"Yes that is what he said."

"Is that fact Danny?"

"Yes."

His toothbrush back in place, he ended with; "Hmm?" He returned to his work in the bathroom. I could tell he was wondering if I had missed the connection. I was fully connected.

### 'Mystical and Spiritual; in Hi-Def.'

Slicing and pelting my face, stems cutting and stinging. I duck under and around the leaves wind driven and directed. The Virginian's breath is cold. It's not frozen, but it has no temperature, no feel. Wobbling, sometimes there, mostly understood as there, the blackest sky void of all mythically named celestial patterns. There is only one celestial light that is recognized. This only parting of the curtained darkness directs the dancing shadows. The shadows that creep wavering along the dormant dead. Creeping to change the now yellow to darker shades of gray.

Unoccupied; it is so large and even grander hiding in its pure white. As I approach it, its face of windowed eyes sharpen to razor's edge. Now only is its total-ness; its relevance to time as I glide upon time. Time that ticks not.

The gate-keeper that guards and either allows entrance or denies the same, is within an arm's reach. Reach, it won't. The entrance morphs from obscure to perfect. It flashes to never ending up to a mind's normal identification. Reaching, the keeper denies grasp. It is no more. The White wills me to introduce myself within. In sight before me there is only the dark of light denied. A dark that does not hold a single sprite of color. My presence of thought is enveloped in the dark that the White gathers. Alive is all that the Dark has gathered. Thousands of sprites have arrived. Tables, chairs, clocks, more; they reach to and through me. Not with motion I wash passed. I am without physical movement as I am not physical in being. Only awareness follows me through the Labyrinth. No senses; only comprehension.

Only of comprehension, there is a second third and fourth guardian. Only one guardian of obvious choice stays with me. Without reason to, I am now physical in being. Perfectly I have clarity. My senses pop. Abstract has said its goodbyes. Perfectly, I will remember what happens forward. Because of what has passed, I understand this as the way that this always happens.

The door to the Study pulls away from me. A vacuum unsealed pushes out a translucent cloud. The light that I can feel envelops me with a touch comfortably warm. My view is of a room without boundaries. The floor must be there as it holds me. But walls and ceiling; no. The fog, as I think it, is lit brilliant white from no apparent source. Only the middle of the room is hollow. This void leaves room for identifiable sight. Slow and continual the White's motion is in all directions. It is the finest of soft on my eyes. Yet it has the brilliance of all suns. Held in the unlit are three entities. Two, as knowledge of man is, have mass and density. One, as man wonders about, seems without weight or substance.

Jefferson's polygraph machine is guarded by his writing desk on the left. A man's hand is firmly planted on the top of the desk. A tall man supports himself with his right hand flat on the top of the desk. His lean back is towards me. Nothingness, as I think it, he is in deep gaze to. It comes to me that he is in a mental connect with the source.

The lower halves of his legs are not there. But I know they are. His textured trousers are a dark green; corduroy like. I knew he would be wearing a jacket. It is black velvet with satin cuffs. Not seeing them I know his lapels are as well. His long hair falls over his coat's collar. The back of jacket is Sparrow Tail split. It hits me hard how perfectly tailored it fits hm. The tips of the tails length perfectly to the back of his knees.

His at one time auburn hair drapes his still broad shoulders. His mane is now royally laced with silver and gray. His build is steady; strong slight. It hits me hard that the supporting hand is more of a pose than for support. My mind wished to step towards him. Physical movement was not in the script.

Barely noticeable, there was a deep hum. It was continual and never wavered in tone ore volume. What I was within was without any other sound. It hit me hard that the time was 1:20 a.m.

"Mr. Rengaw, what did you think of our sunset this evening? It was as glorious as I remember. The perfect passing of amber blue and yellow. It was written by a great poet of color. One of my favorite memories of my home was watching the sun setting. Slowly, sliding amongst the water-colors. Hiding itself behind the Cedars and Oaks. Always a celestial canvas. A Rembrandt in real time. Those twenty three minutes between sundown and sunset... it tranquilly signals the end of each day. Unfortunately far too few embrace this daily splendor."

With his words at an ending, he eases his stare. His connect is now a sunset gone by. With eloquence that is only in imagination, he turns to pull in my eyes. His face in my vision has long been of reverent relevance in my heart. This gentleman of relevance has a face of years and time understood. It is warn and wrinkled. It is a philosophical gift of knowledge and life experienced.

In a voice that was lyrically pure, he effortlessly began unveiling my gift. "For the generations that have transcended through the portal of time; looking first into the mirror of the 18th century and then seeing where we are this day, their reflection would be most distorted. Thought with reason would tell the knowledgeable that the light of the past does not beam today. It will not reflect clear in time being marked present. The responsible that sent us on our quest into democracy were a mere pair million. Today there are hundreds of these mere. They all are ever seeking guidance, security, and freedom. The looking glass indeed will ever display these seeking's. The clearest reflection of the Founding Fathers. This must be understood and undeniable."

I try to speak but my mouth is packed cotton. My mind hears my mumbling. This has always been normal, but always I try words. My journeys always wish me only to listen and take away. He barks; "No! Listen only. Gather what I give." His eyes that I hadn't seen, pierce me in pause. Milder he continues; "Please don't now clutter you mind with trying to reason. Clear room for what I have; what you desire. I am only now. Do not waste now. Wasting would leave much not learned." It hits me hard; 'A mind is a terrible thing to waste.'

His chin dips slightly. His eyes pull mine deep as he lifts. "America's past history must be studied and used to strengthen us. Endlessly. Always as needed. However, the strengths of the past must be recognized as possible weaknesses today." My mind filtered for his meaning. "Daniel! What worked in the past may not work today."

His brow scorned me slight. He quickly forgave my little mind and went on. "Though the cornerstone is still intact, and the foundation sound, this house is starting to falter. Our ideology does not need be considered for change. But without visualization in thought, creativeness in action, and forced blossoming of education, the living testimony of the American experiment will perish."

Constraint of questioning is something I was not born with and never learned. His scorn also failed to teach me. I ask; why is he telling me all this? My question is neurological; his answer is verbal. "It is for that very reason that I tell you these things. You are not held within constraint. It is this constraint that has too long kept your leaders on a path that circles unto itself. An endless looping of over and over. You are open to absorb. Your being thirsts to consume thought. Ideas are the cards that you continually shuffle. You are comfortable with change. You can take and make change. The change that others cannot; or will not. There are people that have a wonderful gift; the ability to see the natural and proper flow of the world. You are lucky enough to have this gift. We ask that you share it with the consenting others." His face hardened. "Daniel, you do need to know that this will not be easy. I've been there and I have seen that there will be sacrifices."

He paused and I tried not to speculate. I worked for the constraint that he denied me. He developed a smirk that I did not understand. His eyes once again were piercing. He was trying to persuade whatever it is that holds a man's ideology.

"Daniel you must let your mind be enlivened by Patrick Thomas. Understand who his is. The acronym SDW; don't let it play on you too strenuously. When you understand you'll understand. Do let it pull you. It won't be long. You'll realize. You'll understand." He so unexpectedly chuckled to himself. "We are just having a little fun with you."

Amidst this haze of happening I understood his reference. Along with an emotional chill, my questioning was prevalent. "Now; your questioning must not only be allowed Daniel, you must be fierce with it." He gave me a warming look of confidence. "Daniel. An answer, is, and what, you need to seek."

His piercing ended and released me from a magnetic field. My listening was now passive; almost watching. Turning from me only his head, staring into a cloud of knowledge, he continued; "The stormy sea that the USS America has wake upon, can only be traversed with creativeness and accompanying change."

Please help me. Please; define your request of me. A hindering wall pushes back the clarity of your words. Those words I again tried to say. It was only my thoughts that were heard. This time there wasn't scolding; only emphasis. "Defining is something you can work on in years to come. Those years are not now. There are but two shores that you need to sail to. You need to drop sail in those harbors. Understanding these two concepts in their simplest form will much aid both you and the Consenting. All Americans, past current and future, need to scrutinize historical relevance. Passed men; John Adams, George Washington, Benjamin Rush, and James Madison, were all time relevant. A time that has passed without return. These men had moral compass. There ideologies were unquestioned and their determination unfailing. But time seems to have erased the fact that they were mortal. Many today place us amongst Gods. These men brought together by single-mindedness. A free and united republic. Their vision of the future cast the stone of democracy. Today their concept is globally aspired. "My brothers, much as the leaders of today, faced a daunting task. While kilning a nation, all philosophical differences were stoked, melted, and molded. All to forge a single united republic."

His words again brought thought; but we don't have these men today. "Do you believe America to be void of greatness? Greatness needs to be sought and allowed to lead. Women and men of ideals and fortitude towards national prosperity need to be called to lead. Perhaps they are not yet in place. Perhaps they are. This is your task; to task the people. The consent of the people is the soul of our democracy. The body may live on, but if the soul is not strong, a healthy body it will not be. However, consent without a kinetic force is not enough at this moment in history. And it will not be in any moment. Silent has so many of our voices become. Voices not heard through voting are removed as the kinetic force of thought. Removed, the force of change is not. I being aware that the right to vote, a right that all Americans are blessed with, is a right discarded by most. This right being unappreciated was never considered. It was never considered as a possible weakness. It was a part of why we were assembled. A part of why we were fighting. Why we were dying. Our missed perspective has brought us to where you are. If the governed do not inspire or demand that our leaders act for the good of the most, and the prosperity of the nation, this test, our democracy, will be Romanesque in its demise."

"Many aspire to be a leader, but only a true leader aspires us to prosperity. A will to lead does not guarantee a leader with will. I fear that many of today's leaders do not will us to aspire to prosperity."

"Our creation of a democratic Union, the same that has morphed into its current form, is not perfect. Its plant is still young and its roots are needing nourishment."

"Equality as defined, was an ideology that we initially and irrevocably failed to protect. Though it is closer to reality today. But less we be fooled, equality and the seeking of equality still needs completion. Yet it is more complete then our Declaration defined."

"If I impart nothing else, and you take away only one concept, it must be this; the governed, the people of the republic, are responsible for the change. The citizens must force the leaders to lead; to compromise for the good of the country. If they will not or cannot, they must be voted out. The people must initiate a new Enlightenment. Your voices must be heard. Not meek voices or few voices; loud voices of the all. This is what falls upon the people. It is the time of the people. 'Lead us to prosperity, or leave us.' This must be their voice."

"I've come to believe that the people of this great Republic do not understand how blessed they are to be a part of this Union. How lucky they are to have the liberties that are afforded them. Yet I fear that in this time and this place, without their determined solutions of opportunities, their liberties may dissipate."

'How do I start this guidance?'

"You do not need to start the guidance. It has already been initiated. You are asked only to help it along. This helping must be repeated and continual. The millions must be reached. The millions can make a difference. This you need to believe."

"This is our asking of you. This is what the Consenting need to grasp firm; "One snow flake does not conceal a single blade of grass. However, millions will blanket a field.""

"Charles Dickens tells us that few endeavors are more important than reclaiming a solitary life. Is reclaiming America any less important?""

He played it perfect. He knew... he knew Dickens would impress. It hit me hard that our conversation was at end. I understand the finality of an impossible meeting. He turns from me and then quickly back. Had he forgotten a nugget of guidance? "Daniel, I want you to believe, I want you to trust, that when the darkness comes, it will enlighten you. Do not be afraid." In this exact moment, I understood these words in a context that was wrong. In an exact moment later, I would understand these words in a context that wasn't.

Deepest of dark. A labyrinth. Not grasping reaching. So much pelting. Wobbling.

"Danny what the hell are you doing out here? Are you alright? You must be freezing!"

"Rojer? What. Am I"

"Come on buddy let's get you inside."

Returning along the same path that moments earlier was a fantasy of reality, a single sentence went to Rojer. A long, more long, single sentence. It began with uncontrolled emotion. After most long, it ended without logic in another place. As we donned our nightcaps to find lost slumber, my rambling was calming to a slow. Rojer had heard about what this was, but never being a part of one, he left me to go on. The end-of game-buzzer within me sounded. There were no words. Our looks were only. We had a lie-down.

5:33 a.m.

As I define one, my restlessness is not a Newton. Possibly it is un-definable, certainly it is undeniable. I don't really care what this is, and I seriously doubt that you do either. You only need to know that my sleeplessness is over.

(Over written? Perhaps. But hey... who's writing this?)

The time since Rojer found me walking the grounds in a Zombie-like consciousness and put me to bed like my mother use to, sleep was intermittent. A continued recount of my travel and visit allowed less than more. Dissecting words and assigning meaning, sleep is for a different time. I smile. "The boy has apparitions."

Standing bedside, looking down at a motionless Rojer, I very softly whisper; "Rojer." Very loudly yelling; "Rojer!" He moves slight and then plays possum. Oh... okay. I lean to within a couple of feet from his ear. A hand slaps and pushes my chin away.

"Danny no! I'm up I'm up." Disgusted but momentarily feeling safe, Rojer rolls abruptly back. Eyes closed he wants an answer damn it. "Danny what is wrong with you!' His eyes blink open. Much softer; "What's the matter?" Waiting for a reason why his sleep has been so obnoxiously interrupted, he tussles to a sit.

I still want. However I sense that I may, I may have been rude. Nicer, I demand; "You have got to get up Rojer."

His torso twists and his red eyes look to the Howlers. "Is there something wrong Daniel? It's only around 5:34."

"It is 5:34 and you have to get up we have to look at the digording."

"Digording? Danny-"

"Yeah come on get up."

Rojer is not at all with me and murmurs; "What digording? Can't it wait Danny please?"

Being as compassionate as any man, ever, I understand his wanting to escape this early morning interruption. Therefore I gave him a very insincere out; "Okay Rojer. But can you please point me in the direction of the security system? And tell me how to access it. I can check it out by myself. You can go back to sleep." His gives me a pissed off look that most wouldn't want to receive. But me, I smiled. A child on Christmas morning, I grab my Dad's arm and pull to raise. My pissed Dad pulls it back.

With leaking air that is heavy with disgust, he pulls free and reaches to the nightstand. Finding and placing his glasses upon his nose he asks; "Danny what are we looking for?"

"I don't know come on." I really did know what I was looking for, but my explanation would have only delayed the search.

Interest, enthusiasm, Rojer had neither as he headed to the bathroom. My thought that I didn't put into words was: Rojer you can pee later. It was a near unprecedented mental intervention. I was kind of proud. Almost normal people like.

I then relapsed to abnormal people like. With Rojer's release undergoing, I stand feet from the bathroom door. A puppy waiting for his master's return. Awakening obligation complete, Rojer reappears and doesn't seem pleased with my proximity. I heard only a mumbling of Pami and what my problem might be. With me steering he makes his way to the workstation. Jerking his arm fee he plops into a chair. I slide another to his right and join him. Rojer gives me a look that says... Well... I'll leave that to your imagination.

"Rojer make it go!"

He flings himself back into the leather chair. "Daniel!"

"I'm sorry! Go ahead." I tried to force a face of calmer restraint. Silently staring at me he slowly leans into the desk. Mouse in hand, he clicked, clicked, double clicked, and opened a file. The screen popped a list of dates.

With sarcasm that I didn't catch, Rojer says; "I assume you want to see last night. I mean this morning."

"Yes! Yes go to around 1:15." As soon as I said it I hoped he wouldn't catch my subtle mock. A single click told me that he hadn't. Six black windows popped from the monitor. Another tap of the mouse brought them alive with color. Four showed the main house from all angles. The other two showed inside views of the Study and the Master bedroom. I leaned forward and tried to watch all six at once. It seemed that minutes passed.

"There you are Danny." Rojer pointed to the upper right window and then froze the video. His words and actions held more of the excitement that I was looking for.

The window showed me just coming into frame. The video was looking at the north façade. I asked; "What time is it?" Rojer selected the window; bringing it to full screen. I found the date and time bar.

Just in case I couldn't see it Rojer told me; "One eighteen and thirty five seconds."

"Okay let it run in real-time." Rojer clicked and we watched as my digital being approached the door to the kitchen. I... it reached to and pulled the door open. Rojer instantly froze the video. He sat back staring in thought.

His tone wavered with confusion. "No way! I locked that door. Danny I know that I did." Rojer looked at me. My eyebrows lifted slight. He looked back to the screen. "I don't understand. I mean why is that door unlocked?"

Not knowing and not caring why I replied; "I don't know." I tapped the time-bar. "Okay it is one eighteen and forty six seconds. Let it go Rojer."

We watched as I disappeared into the kitchen and time beyond. Another grumbling of the unlocked door. A sixty second minute passed. Another sixty. Sixty more. Half those sixty and I reappeared. Rojer slammed the video to a keyboard stop. "It's one twenty one and sixteen seconds," he said. Rojer freed the pixel me. I disappeared from the camera in the same direction that I had come from.

Rojer pressed hard back in his chair. With a quick short rocking he grumbled still more. "Get over it! Rojer... that's it. That's what you take from that. The unlocked door?

Without a plan for what I was going to do with it, I grabbed the mouse. He grabbed it back. It was his football and if he couldn't play he was taking it home. He actually held it up in front of my eyes. Remember... it is my story.

Rojer; "What do you want me to do now?" Rubbing my face quick I hoped friction would give energy to thought.

"I don't know. Wait! Rojer go back to the window that shows the Study. Start it at one nineteen and... uhh... forty five seconds." He made it so. The Study was dimly lit. The furnishings were barely visible but you could define them. Seconds ticked by slowly; I could hear them. Leaning forward I was gazed intently. Rojer joined me forward.

It was not so much a flash as it was a window briefly awash in soft white light. The non-flash shock waved me upright. Rojer; "What the..."

Just that quickly the dimly lit room was as it was. Hand hiding his mouth, Rojer was standing and staring. "Danny..."

"I know I know." Rojer crashed back down into leather. I was nearly a clean miss as the chair had been pushed away from him. Recovering and jerking the mouse through a maze, he reset the video. Left-click index finger poised, he let it roll. Locked on, Rojer's face is a foot from the screen. I watched time counter click. A non-flash. Rojer unloaded on the mouse. The white numbers on black background displayed: 01:20.00.13

The counter had stopped on a dime. That dime's time was what I knew it wouldn't be. My fixation was expecting it to change to 1:35 or 2:33 or anything else that I'd understand. Understanding hadn't begun, but I knew 1:20.01.

Both of us were staring silent. Slight belief starting to flicker, I tried one last time to extinguish it. "This can't be happening. This can't be real. Rojer?"

Leaving this exact moment I now briefly must. See... this is the way it always was. There was always denial, then understanding, and lastly eventual acceptance. There had been so many. Why couldn't I just accept? But more it was that I couldn't accept not accepting. I was forever trying to figure this out. I couldn't accept that I couldn't accept that I couldn't accept.

I looked to Rojer who was still facing the unchanging screen. He wasn't seeing anything. The part of his brain that controlled sight was napping. Rojer already knew and I was getting there; one thought still needed to be explored. Rojer fell deep into the silent. "Should I... You know..." His hand reached for the lifeless rodent. There was only one answer to Rojer's asking, but I didn't give it. He wasn't waiting. Rojer for a second time reset the video. The clock ticked, the white washed, the dim returned, and the mouse clicked stop. The counter displays: 1:20.02.29.

Arms folded upon his chest, Rojer matter-of-factly says; "Two seconds." Rojer pauses. He looks to me. "Danny? A two seeped anomaly?" Rojer is reliving our Mathematician's percentages. With a huffed laugh Rojer's chin drops to his chest. "What are the odds Danny?"

Rojer's thoughts must have been everywhere. Mine I was much surer of; what happens next. "Danny I think you need to tell me what happened last night?" My assumption was correct; Rojer had only been hearing my rambling in the earlier hours. In fairness, I'm not sure I was making much sense. My mouth probably was not keeping up with my mind.

Seconds passed as I rewound the VCR tape lodged in my forehead. Rojer's eyes were fixed on me. His reality was in a cloud. He waited for me to rain it back down upon him. "Rojer I'm not sure you want to know... Hey! Coffee. We need coffee." Time bought.

A steaming cup of coffee before him, he sat at the tiny kitchen table. He seemed ready to bolt. Pushed back from the table he was leaning hard on his knees. I feared a good cup of Java may go wasted. My cup perfected without realizing that I had, I sat down across from him. Trying to set precedence I exaggerated pulling tight to the table. He stared waiting for me to bet. Being a perfect Wyatt Erp I pulled twice on my Rio River Water. He didn't want to play. "Danny!" His rebuke of the game did disappoint me some. But with as much clarity as time had bought me, I eased into my wakeful sleep. With comfort that comes from order, I revealed what I had now accepted. There was what the wobbling was. He knew, but still I told of the white. But most curious to me, I told of his words; every one of Thomas Jefferson's words. Total recall; not a vowel missed.

End. I'm back. My hands lay flat on the table top. I see Rojer. And there is his coffee mug; it's both full and cold. Sad.

Rojer shifts in his chair. He's not comfortable but he does settle. He runs his fingers nervously through his hair. I grab his mug and nuke it for 43. As good as it now can be, I replace it in front of him. Rojer lifts and sips it. I feel better.

"Two seconds. Your conversation lasted only two seconds. How? No way. How?" I looked at him with a shrug. With the groans of a four hindered pound man Rojer lifts himself from the chair. "I'm gonna take a shower. Why don't you cook some breakfast."

I reach but don't grab his cup. "Your coffee!" Glaring at me he picks it up. From behind me the mug clatters in the metal sink. Brutal!

Knowing that I needed to push away, I let my notions flee to a happy place; food. I would make us breakfast. There was only one culinary treat that felt appropriate. My much repeated preparation of this meal made it a chore that did not require complete attention. My thoughts surely would slide in and out

When I was diagnosed with Chronic Kidney Disease, protein was something I needed in large quantities. I was ever in search of tasty and healthy ways to get my required daily a lotment. From my search I created this breakfast. I would like to say that I have a creative name for it, but I do not. I went with Peanut Butter French Toast. I gathered the makings for this Rengaw Family Famous breakfast.

Take two pieces of white bread; Texas Toast preferred. Spread Peanut Butter medium thickness and make a sandwich. Then soak the sandwich for two minutes on each side in egg-wash. My egg-wash contains a secret spice. (Remember, Chefs never give up their secrets. Hint: Pumpkin pie. Rojer didn't have any.) After soaking, cook on medium heat in an oiled skillet. (I prefer margarine. Olive oil is healthiest.) Cook until the egg coating is lightly crisp. Serve with your favorite syrup. I love it and it is healthier than you think. (Ignore the cholesterol and Carbs.)

Rojer and I ate our last meal together and spoke little. The conversation that we did have was forced and awkward. Uncomfortable conversation was more than strange for us. He did like the breakfast. Even without fresh ground Nutmeg. Damn!

I made breakfast; Rojer did the dishes. It went unsaid. Which was good.

"I'm going to shower, finish packing and get ready for the press conference."

Seemingly distant Rojer was late with a reply. "Gotcha." Another pause. "Danny I probably won't be here when you get out. I have some work to do." Which seemed normal as work was something he hadn't done since I arrived. He continued; "I will be back by ten. We'll walk over together."

"Good. See you then Rojer. He looked at me. From him I took 'expectedly distracted'. But there was also a comfortableness. This made me feel better. Wanting this to be where he was, I turned from him.

The press conference was supposed to start at ten-fifteen. I had time for one more wander of wondering around the property. I hoped it wouldn't be too littered with people for me to enjoy it.

### 'The not good, the bad, and the ugly.'

My morning ritual complete, and my Monticello-ware packed, it's time. At altitude, it was an amazingly perfect Virginia day. It was not Colorado Altitude. But in this region it was high in the sky. That sky was a bluish white. Only few clouds were high and rather diminutive. The temperature I guessed to be in the low fifties. With a light parka in hand, I headed east. My intent was to circle as much of the five thousand acres as time allowed. Circling clock-wise, I planned a path that would get me back at ten o'clock. In time to meet Rojer.

Walking at a steady but not hurried pace I came upon the Braintree. Braintree is a majestic old Oak. As big as I ever remember seeing. Perhaps though, that might be the way I've chosen to remember. Braintree is named after Jefferson's friend John Adams. Named? I've never heard anyone call it that. In fact I don't think I've ever called it that. Braintree is mine.

Are you wondering why I've named it Braintree? Wonder on! Historians know; the rest of you should solve the question.

At its base, Braintree is as big as a large tractor tire. Reported by people who report such things, it is several centuries old. Braintree is located about two hundred yards east of the main house. Braintree is the first of the landmarks that I wish to visit on this morning's excursion.

Approaching the Oak I notice something I had not yesterday when I visited on an abbreviated walk; Braintree was budding. Some of these buds were beginning to crack open. It caught me as early for February. I stared to firm a memory. It was there; tickling my thought; would this be the last time.

I continued on my journey and fell deeper into reminiscing of Monticello. Monticello is located high atop a 987 foot mountain. The top had been leveled off by Jefferson's slaves. That task had taken over two years to complete. This Icon is located in Charlottesville. The original design of the main house constituted of eight rooms. When Jefferson returned from his ambassadorship in France, the construction was still unfinished. Jefferson upon his arrival at Monticello had been greatly influenced by French architecture. This, and his grandiose knowledge of Washington's Mount Vernon, was his cause for redesigning the building. The new, grander, Monticello, would have twenty-one rooms. It would now present a grandiose façade complete with columns. Lastly, it would now support a magnificent Dome. The same building we see today.

Monticello is full of an eclectic collection of art, furnishings, and furniture. While abroad, Jefferson personally collected items of art and grand design. Eighty six crates in all were shipped from France back to Monticello.

One of my favorite pieces is a huge and splendid clock. It is a wonderful combing of craftsmanship, art, and engineering. The magnificent time-piece uses cannon balls as weights. The number of these weights seeable, identifies the day of the week.

Unique, in Jefferson's Study, are two items that I find of great time relevance. The first is a carousel of his own design. This unique 18th century ingenuity, allowed him to have readable access to five books at once. The other is a machine called The Polygraph. This Polygraph is a reproduction machine. This machine allowed Jefferson to produce copies of the thousands of letters and documents that he wrote.

The farm's main crops were tobacco and corn. However, there was also a two acre kitchen garden. This for-in-house-use garden grew 170 varieties of fruits and 330 varieties of vegetables and herbs. Seeds from this garden were used in the Obama Whitehouse garden.

Not knowing when or if I will ever get back to this hallowed place, I still photograph all. Every breath, I taste. Every sound is pitch perfect. A babe; all is first time. All is emotional.

Unknowingly, grasping for retention had slowed my pace. On this circling, at this time, I was farther from Rojer than I should have been. I needed to quicken pace and lengthen stride.

Approaching Rojer's home, it is 10:08. I could see some of the gathered in the front of the main house. Mostly I could hear the sounds of that gathering. Most relative to me at this moment, I could see Rojer waiting for me. I was sure his impatience was passed simmering. As I closed on him he exaggerated a tapping of his wrist watch. The international symbol for I'd screwed up. I tried to defend myself. "Yeah! Yeah! You do know that it is right over there right." My head pointed to the house. Rojer held glare. "Just give me a minute."

"We don't have a minute."

"A second!" I pushed by him. "Just need my stuff. I want to put it in the car." I didn't plan on needing a quick get away, but you never know.

I entered the slave house with Rojer shadowing. Rojer played the part of me to Pami. "It's time to go!" Included with these words is the prison guard follow. I threw on my Traveling Hat. My traveling hat is a blue and red '84' Chicago Cubs hat. It was old, it had Mervin puppy teeth marks, it had been through the dishwasher dozens of times, it was treasured.

To complete my pseudo Tom Cruise disguise, I donned cheap mirrored Aviator sunglasses. They were not my normal pair. I'd left mine in the Rockies and picked these up at a Charlottesville '7-11'. 'Oh thank heaven!'

In my mind, the size of which has been well documented, I was sure that I would not be recognized. Thus ensuring that I would not have to speak with anyone. Upon reflection this seemed a vain worry. Was anyone really going to recognize me. And recognize me as what.

Bag in hand, hat on, glasses in place, Rojer stared at me. Shaking his head, he flatly said; "Let's go." With a chuckle and a smile I followed out the door.

Following a step behind at best pace, we headed towards the parking lot and his ride. Rojer's intended path was to circumvent the circus that was in town. The jamboree was quickly growing. Profiling? No. I'll call it first recognition. There were five news trucks, thirty or so journalists of different media, and approximately twice as many observers. "Quite a group Rojer." He left me hanging.

The parking lot was maxed out. News trucks were set up on the Deadpan. "Have you ever seen the parking lot this full?" I thought I toned it rhetorical.

"I don't think I have," he answered anyways. "There certainly are a lot of people here to see Doctor Daniel Rengaw." He paused slight and then finished his thought. "The man that wrote two Non-Fiction Historical Best Sellers with a Business Degree." He enjoyed himself with a chuckle and a smile.

Even with his sarcasm Rojer was noticeably tight. I understood but I'd noticed that I wasn't. While he was opening the trunk I asked him: "Are you alright Rojer?"

"Yeah. This is just such a joke."

"It's okay Rojer. This should be good publicity. Good for the foundation and Monticello." He closed the trunk, turned to me and forced a smile. Good enough. But there did seem to be something beyond the crazy-ness of the past twenty four hours that was bothering him. "Come on Rojer let's go do this." I tapped my watch with exaggeration. "It's almost time." Nothing!

Rojer yielded right-of-way and let me lead. This caught me for a second then I took it. I determined that a spot center-back would be the most comfortable. Avoiding individuals that all were in conversations of snobby affluence, we weaved in and out. The trick was avoiding the over animated elbows, and the hands holding clear plastic cups with a red liquid in them. Besides the type of conversations taking place, I had flash-backs of the many concerts that Rojer and I had attended. Okay... so that was a very loose metaphor.

My eyes lazily surveyed. The red brick of a house as the back-drop; the stage centered with the porch; the sun a soft glow just above the dome; painted the scene a shade of historically inspiring. Then there; barely noticeable and overwhelming, the reason wall this had reason. It seemed that it had already been granted monument status. Standing square in front of a podium, three cherry stained easels. Each easel was providence gifted with a framed document. The Document.

Digital cameras were flashing and making fake reflex camera sounds. The Bell of the Ball was forever being digitally captured. As soon as my eyes wandered from the flashes, something caught them. Someone. Someone one thousand eight hundred and sixty three miles from home.

Speaking to no one in particular, but hoping Rojer would hear I said; "What the hell... why is he here?" Rojer looked to me and then snapped to where I was looking. He was searching the stage area.

"Who? Who's here?" I pointed towards the stage, the podium, the five chairs, and The Document. Rojer's phone signaled an inbound text. He read it.

With adrenaline driven anger I snapped; "Rojer pay attention! Do you see Peter standing by the podium? Rojer look!" I pointed again.

He looked away from his cell and towards the house. "Where? Oh yeah I see Peter. What's the problem?"

Speckles of spit flew with my question; "The... the problem? The problem is that man to Peter's right. That's Greg!" He looked at me still not understanding. I looked at Rojer as if he was the stupidest person ever. Again I pointed and said; "That's Greg Tillman! Why is Greg Tillman here?"

Rojer asked; "Greg Tillman?"

I answered; "Rojer that's Greg from the CBI. The CBI. Greg!"

"Oh okay," he said. I glared at Rojer. "Danny I didn't know. How the hell am I supposed to know what he looks like? I don't know why he's here?" I was hard on his poker face. "I swear Danny I didn't know he was going to be here. I swear. Danny Peter hasn't told me anything."

Perhaps it was my actions out of Norm; Peter's vision lit. A large Buck stepping from the forest's edge, the hunter spotted the prey. It must have been Rojer that Peter spotted. I was after all in Tom Cuisse camouflage. Rojer asked me; I think it was me he was asking. His question was smothered by thought. "Why would a guy from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation be here? Danny they're coming over."

Go with that quick getaway. The brave hidden in my mind shut that down. Deer in headlights. I thought of escape once more. Too late. I could feel sarcasm. I was going to get to speak with my buddy.

"Rojer. Daniel. Daniel I believe you know Director Tillman." Peter said it so snotty that he had to have a cold.

"Good to see you Daniel." Greg sinned. He lied. I knew it and he didn't care. That's a day in purgatory Greg.

Peter continued; "Did you know that Greg and I roomed together our first two years of college?" I did not. I did not reply. My mind was busy answering past questions. Peter continued; "The Director was kind enough to come here and be part of today's press conference." Peter emphasized: 'be part of'. My disdain for Mr. Henderson was growing.

Henderson, having pierced me with his barbed arrow, chose to finish with a twisting. "Glad you could at least attend Mr. Rengaw. I think you will find it most interesting. Now please excuse us. We need to get started." He nodded slightly toward Rojer. "Rojer."

Peter turned and headed towards his stage of glory. I'm sure he thought it soon would be such. Greg did not follow. My look was of questioning. Greg's look at me was of contempt floating gently upon a streaming enjoyment. With movement that I thought would turn him to the stage as well, he smoothly stepped to me. Leaning to my right ear, he defiantly whispered; "I'm going to get my fifteen minutes."

I pushed sharply a chuckle and bitch-slapped his delusion of a lifetime. "Fifteen minutes. This is it? This is your Field of Dreams? Your living legacy? How sad of a man you must be Greg." I chortled. "No wonder you are number 15 on the phone directory."

He pulled back from my personal space. His face lost all tone. He looked at me fumbling with the moment. I'm sure my face was pure devious. With his John Wilkes Booth moment over, he exited stage left.

Rojer's face was aglow fired by excitement. He tried to harness his energy but wasn't very successful. "Perfect Danny. That was awesome! I can't believe you said that. Damn that was beautiful. What did he whisper to you?"

"I hate that son-of-a-bitch."

Rojer looked confused and asked; "I understand him not liking you, but did he really call you that?"

"No. No. Never mind."

Rojer quickly accepted my wanting out and lifted his phone to me. He exclaimed proudly; "That text was from my Chemist lady friend. She is going to watch the press conference. I guess it is being televised on a local channel." Wondering why he chose to tell me that at this moment, I gave him a glance that asked this. Even with my well rendered retort, Greg had gotten to me. Feeling that... that feeling. The surge of spoiled blood. The chest suddenly too small for the pumping hard heart. The warm flushing. All the baggage that anger carries.

The stage activities were gathering steam. It really wasn't a stage, more it a setting. The three easels were prominent in the forefront. Behind the Holy Grails was the podium. Five wooden chairs were the third wave. The theatrical historical set was backwashed by the beauty of brick, columns, and dome. The sun's halo glowed it all so surreal. So surreal, it shivered sentiment. Too real, it was photo-op perfect.

Curious to see who was going to occupy the five seats, I watched attentively. Assuming it was headed for Agent Lewis, I heard Rojer's fingers tapping out a text. Or should I call her Kaitlin; as Rojer was starting to.

The Dance of the Like Minded was curtain up. Peter took to the podium and surveyed the setting. A Director checking to see if the participants were on their marks.

FBI Special Agent Whiten took a seat to the far right. Mr. Fifteen Minutes sat to her right. The chair behind Peter was empty. I took it to be his. Standing in front of the chair next to Peter's was a man that I did not know. On queue he sat. A chair not clarified, the last remaining one sat empty. I did not see a Loitering waiting to fill it.

Peter performed the mandatory banging of the microphone. This did build the attention of his invited guests. "Please..." Pause for affect. "Please if you would we'd like to get started. Thank you." Caesar-like he raised his right hand asking for calm in the Senate. I wondered if Brutas might be lurking about.

"Thank you and I would like to welcome you all to Monticello on this splendid February morning." The unclarified remained that way. Of course instantly I knew there was a story there. Was Peter going to develop a story line? Just as instantly it got dark on me. Was I going to be one of his characters?

Although I did not see the purpose, he again paused for affect. Sensing that his pause was causing an awkward affect on his listeners, the Great Orator picked up again. "For those of you that do not know me, my name is Peter Henderson. I have had the honor and the privilege over the past six years of being the Chairman of The Foundation." At this there was brief clapping. "Thank you." Again with the hand. "The Foundation is dedicated in the preservation of this great American landmark. And it will be for the coming decades. The financial help that has been bestowed by the great people of Virginia, and this wonderful nation, has been overwhelming and greatly appreciated. I am certain that the foundation will be blessed with all of your generosity well into the future."

"At this time I would like to introduce my invited friends and guests." The inflection of his sentence was uncomfortable in my ears. "I'm happy to present my long-time friend Greg Tillman. Director Tillman is the Division Head of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation's Forensic Investigation Department." Uninspired clapping. "Seated next to the Director is Special Agent Whiten of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Agent Whiten is a Team Lead within the FBI's Special Investigation Division." Louder and sustained applause. Virginian's are very proud of their FBI. "In just a few moments Agent Whiten will be leading the technical part of this briefing." I wondered how Greg's fifteen minutes was going.

"Also here today is the Managing Editor of the Richmond Times Dispatch. The Dispatch has had the exclusive on this story since its onset. The Dispatch will continue to cover any and all new developments. Thank you for joining us today Mr. Dan Sheridan." Mr. Sheridan nods.

"You're welcome Chairman Henderson." Polite applause.

Peter's visual attention is placed back on the faces in the crowd. Then definitively he turns to the fifth chair. He speaks to the empty seat; "As many of you expected..." Quick-turning back to the media and the givers of funds, Peter finishes his sentence; "Doctor Daniel Rengaw was reported by the media to be with us here today. However, situations have dictated that he cannot join us up here today. As probably are you, I am most disappointed with his absence." I chose to analyze his verbal reprimand later. I was focusing on the proceedings and did not want my thoughts otherwise occupied.

Peter took another long pause. It was noticeably Public Speaking 101. Rod, a Toastmaster friend of mine would be tearing up.

Pausing, studying, he looked like he was going to announce a cure for Alzheimer's. With moment at hand, he began his sell. "Monticello, The Foundation, and Virginians, were fortunate to receive a historical reminder of our place in the evolution of America. A reminder from Monticello's first owner and only true resident. The discussion we are about to embrace, is the relevance and origin of these magnificent documents here before me. We proudly offer them for your study and for all to observe." Flash bulbs pop and are spit to the ground. "Our question must be; are they a direct offering from Thomas Jefferson, or an indirect offering of his thoughts?" Peter lets the crowd rustle. "This question matters certainly. However, surely what matters most, is their relevance. Relevance; I guess we will have to let scholars debate. And debate this they will! Long into the new millennium."

Rojer leans to me and whispers; "He's selling it."

All that were gathered here and listening, most of them seeking a reason to believe, were embracing his words. I had to admit, he'd grabbed them.

The Chairman continued over our observations. "Four days before Thanksgiving, the curator here at Monticello found these hand written pages." His hand opened palm to The Document. "This article is signed by Thomas Jefferson; America's greatest President." An in the moment dwell. "This document is dated November 22nd 2009." Looking into the crowd's eyes he waited for excited murmuring. A couple of camera clicks and repositioning news crews was all the moment was. His disappointed heart missed a beat.

"With the help of the FBI and the CBI we have completed extensive analysis of this document. Along with this analysis, Doctor Rengaw and I have had numerous discussions on the authenticity of this document." My heart missed a beat. "As most of you are aware, Doctor Rengaw has written several books on our Founding Fathers. He is considered one of America's leading experts on the writings of Thomas Jefferson." That was crap. I was flattered, but crap. "If he was up here today, I am sure he would tell you of its striking similarities to Jefferson's past writings."

I leaned and subdued to Rojer; "Expert? Discussed similarities? Where does he get off?"

"Suit his ass Danny!" Not so subdued. Apparently I was now stressed and Rojer was now not. The textbooks of comedy call this Timing. Perfect! The laugh I couldn't contain was too loud. There were furrowed glances and judgmental murmurs. I was fine with both. I was always fine with Perfect.

I'm sure that I missed some of his words, but I regained Peter. "Let me now yield the podium with one final thought. The Foundation is glad to have these three pages available for their premiere viewing. Starting tomorrow they will be on permanent display for the entire world to witness. We will proudly display them in the same study that they were drafted. We invite all to view and appreciate this amazing piece of Jeffersonian literature." There it is! The hook! 'ABC'. You could hear him smoothly building to a close. I have no problem with his promoting. That is if it is going to help The Foundation. I hoped it wouldn't personally benefit Peter. However, I'm not sure the two can be mutually exclusive.

His Pitch had to have been anticipated by the gathered. Peter finished, it brought about a polite Golf Clap. Peter smiled like a proud new Grandfather. I am sure that his desired response was more of raucous jubilation. For now burying his disappointment, he felt that his speech had delivered the wished for attention.

"Thank you." He nods to the crowd. "Thank you." He nods. "Thank you." He... Well, you get it. Politician 101.

"Please..." Hand up. "At this time I would like to bring to the podium my good friend Greg Tillman." Again with the friend; the good friend. Peter turns to find Greg. With the exuberance afforded a conquering hero, Peter exclaims; "Director Tillman!" Peter claps as the Director ascends to the podium. I am not sure if Press Conference Etiquette calls for clapping at this time, but there was only sparse indulgence from the crowd.

There was much merriment throughout the kingdom. Backs were slapped, hugs were hugged, and hands shook. Greg watched and waited for his good friend to take his seat. Mr. Tillman turned and poised for his fifteen. Director, don't screw the pooch.

Greg settled in and waited for the less than enthusiastic applause to cease. "Thank you Chairman Henderson. I would like to thank you for your invite here today. I am glad to help where the FBI could not." Greg gave a boisterous laugh that quickly faded when he realized he was alone in jocularity. Tar began heating and feathered geese scurrying.

Blood a lotted for his brain was pooling in his feet. But he continued; "The Foundation and Monticello are near and dear to my heart." Nice cliché. "I am delighted to be here and to have the opportunity to present you with my expert opinion."

"Leave it." Rojer's advice was instant.

"Approximately three weeks ago, the document in question was indirectly presented to me from my friend Doctor Daniel Rengaw." I felt Rojer's eyes snap to me. My thought; that's going to bite me in the ass. "The three page document was analyzed by my team. Using all of the technology and expert opinion available to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, we were able to determine that the Penmanship and Script Style Analysis gave us a 72.6% probability that the document was in fact written by Thomas Jefferson." Murmurs, stirring, and camera flashes.

I'd rewound and was playing through the same analysis report. Expecting and waiting for Greg to continue, it would be a forever wait. "Thank you." A confused crowd. A gradual awkward applause. "That's it?" I think I said it aloud.

Greg had brought to the podium a handful of papers. He now gathered them up. "He couldn't memorize six sentences!" I know I said that aloud. Rojer bumped me. Are you with me? Do I need to say it? Come on we'll say it together. "Idiot!"

Tillman took his seat only telling one fourth of the story; one fourth of the Analysis Report. Greg's departure brought open conversation in the group. Staring at Rojer he only lazy shook his face.

I wasn't sure what Rojer thought I was going to do. I wasn't sure what I was going to do. But as I turned back to the podium Rojer firmly grabbed my left forearm. He insisted; "Danny let it go. No not now. Later!" I... Rojer kept my emotions in check. Or at least the expression of those emotions.

Some of the Peacocks standing closest us began preening. Our comments had begun to dirty their feathers of this most regal occasion. Stealth mode is where I needed to return. Sensing I'd controlled, Rojer set me loose. However, I knew I was getting an affirming glare. The curtain lifted for act two.

Peter, playing the cheerleader, returned to the microphone and exuberantly said; "Thank you Director. Please make sure to thank your team for their expert analysis."

With Greg accepting thanks and looking like a Bobble Head, Peter continued. "At this time I would like to bring up Special Agent Whiten. Agent Whiten will brief us on additional analysis performed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

After the obligatory photo-op smoozing, Agent Whiten stepped to the microphone. She politely thanked Chairman Henderson and settled in. Instantly profiling, her stage presence was uncommonly docile. The swagger, that FBI bravado, was suppressed. The Agent was noticeably uncomfortable. This confident woman wanted to be anywhere else. Still, the stoic soldier forcibly began her briefing.

She was delivering the briefing professionally. It was organized and without fluff. It was much like what I had seen from her previously. But it was missing... I'll call it 'It'.

She covered the age of the paper and the chemical analysis of the ink. It was abridged, but it was the same report that Agent Lewis had courted Rojer with. It was all factual and objective.

She finished with the chemical analysis of the ink. Which included its use in the 18th century. Before she finished the last vowel Peter sprang to his feet. In an instant he was at the podium. She leaned hard aside as Peter pushed to the microphone. "Incidentally, the chemical make-up of this ink is the same as ink believed to be used frequently by Thomas Jefferson." Rojer looked at me questioning. I shrugged. This was the first I had heard of that.

Rojer wanted more. "Is that true Danny?"

"I don't know. They didn't say that did they?" Lazily he shook his head.

I didn't want Rojer's questions. I was locked on the Agent. Rojer's cell sounds an incoming text. Agent Whiten was initially surprised by Peter's interjection. Then she was confused by this information that she did not have. Hoping she hadn't left something out, she rifled through her papers. After several uncomfortable seconds that turned into minutes in her mind, she knew she had to move on.

Rojer bumps me. "He's lying." Rojer looks up from his phone. "He's lying. Kaitlin says Peter's lying." Rojer's proclamation wasn't hushed.

Agent Whiten seemed to be finished with the analysis of the Ink. Her composure gathered, she looked up to the small crowd and said; "This concludes my report. Thank you for your time." Agent Whiten wasn't convinced that she'd concluded. But she was indeed thankful that her time was ended.

She gathered her now confused documents. Peter rose quickly and stepped to her side. Dropping one of her papers she retrieved it. Raising up and passing by the microphone she added; "Have a nice day." If it hadn't been so excruciating to watch, it would have been comical.

Peter took to the podium. "Thank you Agent Whiten." Rojer made a grumbling noise. If I'd heard it before, I didn't remember it. He was warring Peter out with a glare.

Not softly at all Rojer said; "That's it!" He jerked to my face. "How can that be it? What about... what about Plasma? And the two seconds? What the..." People that didn't want us to know that they were looking at us, looked at us. His questioning got louder. "What about 1776 and 1776 and 1776? One twenty. What about one twenty? Everything? Danny what about everything else? Oh hell no that can't be it I've got questions get her back!" The lookers were now questioning Rojer. They'd also begun questioning his questions.

I didn't think Peter could hear Rojer. But I also didn't hear Peter anymore. A crowd was now blocking my view of the stage. I got a bad feeling. "Easy big guy." I had his arm. "Rojer take it easy."

No longer caring if we knew, a rather large group was now watching Rojer. Because this group was homogeneously socialites, and wanna-be socialites, this was as much excitement as many had seen in months.

All were studying Rojer; all were trying to solve his questions. With this inquisitive group growing in size, and slowly surrounding us, I heard Peter again. "Please... Please if I may at this time I would like to introduce our last speaker. Please welcome Dan-"

Peter had not finished introducing Mr. Sheridan when I heard; "Doctor Rengaw?" The inquiry came from behind and to my right. A reflex; I halted to a flinch. "Doctor Rengaw is that you? It is you!"

There were several, then more; eyes that left Rojer in search of me. Each trying to undo my disguise. Cameras joined in the hunt. Both Reflex and Video. All were searching for the point of inquired interest. Rojer turned passed and behind me. His eyes listened for the voice of my introduction.

It was at this point that I knew two things. First; Maverick was in trouble. I'd been out'd and I needed a save from Goose. Also; the press conference was shifting location. A shift I neither wanted nor anticipated.

I turned to Rojer to see where he was looking. "Doctor Rengaw I knew it was you." The voice was loud enough for most to hear. I swallowed hard. This voice I'd heard before. Peter's voice was no longer emanating from the amplified speakers.

Standing next to a news camera, a camera that was pointed directly at me, stood a young man. High in the sky he'd been.

With questioning inquisition I asked; "Ben?"

Rojer; "Ben who?" Both of our questions were left hanging in the Virginia morning. Cameras moved in jostling for clear shots. Beautiful people pushed forward with extended microphones. Invited faces were painted with expectation. From all directions questions began to pop. I looked towards several but answered none.

A short young woman, attractive with poof'd Final Net hair, won the battle to the inner circle. She had a Kindergarten Teacher's voice and a microphone. "Are you Doctor Daniel Rengaw?" Trying to take-in Sound-bites, other microphones waggled in.

The Tubes in my cranium glowed red. "Be careful Daniel." It was the tiny Pamila on my shoulder. Rojer chose fear with flight mode. "Danny let's go." Goose the bodyguard held the small of my back and tried to steer me to a safe haven. Not knowing what haven he intended, I did not respond to Rojer's physical request. I dug in. I don't know what told me so, but retreat seemed the wrong move. Now entrenched I had to decide if I was going to confirm or confuse.

"Yes this is Doctor Rengaw." Ben chose confirm.

Questions stepped atop others. I looked at each step but did not ascend a single one. Out of the cluttered voices came a definitive one. "Doctor Rengaw I am glad you are here can you please answer a few questions?"

"I can answer a few-"

"What do you think of the document and do you think it was written by Thomas Jefferson?" I thought about going back to Chef-ing. Tiny Pamila: 'Danny I love our home.'

Setting free a ridiculous smile, one that I hope won't be on any front page, or any page, I pretend to look at all those circled. Not focusing on anyone, I develop these smooth words; "Well... we all know that Thomas Jefferson is dead. He has been for some time now." I write for a living.

Rojer still wanting to protect, grabbed and tugged my arm. Not forcibly, but his intent was clear. A male poof'd spoke; "Doctor Rengaw please tells us. The letter. Did Jefferson write it?" It got very lonely quiet. "Yes or no?" I stared into the eyes of the man that might end my career. "Doctor Rengaw?' His volume was inside-voice.

"Come on Danny let's go!" He jerked me with much more intent. Let's do that Rojer; this is what my eyes said as I turned to him. Rojer's look understand that it was indeed time to go.

Breaking my brain-lock; "It's okay Rojer I'm good." I instantly questioned my faith in my words. It was a scared questioning that I had to answer. I turned back. I had this. A usable opening and hopefully an effective close. Rojer loosened the leash. With just this I had the magnificent power of attentiveness.

Stoic, I went for stoic. "I have indeed studied the document in great detail." Pause for affect. "I believe that the document has certain characteristics that reflect the writings of Thomas Jefferson. However, there are certain aspects that do not match anything ever written by Jefferson. And let's face the facts people; Thomas Jefferson died in 1826. If he wrote a document in 2009... there's your story."

Curiosity... no, concern caused me to look to the stage. The press conference as intended was over. I knew that I now was the press conference. I also knew that this was not good. With Peter's thunder unintentionally stifled, he was going to have a large thorn in his paw. Chairman Henderson was gonna be one pissed off pussycat.

Feeling like I successfully had turned into the skid, thus avoiding a crash, I felt safe in continuing. "Look everybody, you will have to ask the scientific experts for more details. There are more details. Just ask them. Ask them about videos. Ask them about times. Ask them to show you the complete Analysis Reports. That's your job now."

I had this. I was done. Just like that I was beating feet toward the parking lot. Questions continued to pass me by. "I'm sorry but I have a plane to catch. Thanks all." I repeated this at least three times too many. Retrieving and rewinding these words back in my mind, I was embarrassed. It was an embarrassment noticed only by me. I was one of those never answering politicians that smothered everything in manure. What I despised, I was. Briefly; I rationalized it as being only briefly.

Playing out in a dream where you are desperately trying to get somewhere, but never do, the questions continued. Journalist one; "What details?"

Journalist two; "What videos?"

Journalist three; "Is that all you are going to say?"

Journalist... I don't know... thirteen; "Why won't you speak with us?" Amongst their pelting questions I continued in my dream to anywhere. Anywhere different.

A question that flew through my ears and landed in the nest of my mind; "How did you sleep last night Daniel?" It was a voice that I knew. I halted now! No one told my leg muscles to freeze, but here I stood in a shiver. Before I could decide if I should, I did; I searched and found that same familiar face. If I have done my job, if you are deeply enveloped in this tale, you'd probably guess that it was Ben's face. I've done my job.

His bright green eyes clasped all that is me. I knew what he was going to say, but it wasn't possible. "I know that you slept... spent the night here at Monticello." I wasn't aware of them, but cameras again had me framed. I accepted.

"Ben?"

"Daniel did you sleep well at Monticello?" His head tilted slight. "Did you dream?" My thoughts ran all over each other. Dream? I am now! Flirting with delusion. An unanswerable question. An irrational answer. Pelting. Two seconds.

Ben's green, mine blue, they were mixed into a single thought color. He held comfortable in silence. He knew. I knew. Both these he understood.

"He slept fine no more questions," Rojer interjected and attempted a third rescue. My arm in his hand and one degree of pain more than tight, Rojer demanded; "Daniel! Now!" He pulled. I couldn't break visual lock with Ben. Ben smiled a friendly knowing smile.

"Wait a minute Rojer." Ben was anticipating my words. "Ben will you please walk with me." There were no words but he and I were both swimming in the same thought pool. "Get-em Rojer. No more microphones. Keep all of them away." Ben stepped to me and I started towards the Falcon. Rojer started stepping towards them.

"Alright you guys we're done here. Leave us alone now." Rojer seemed seven feet tall. Their microphones dropped limp. Their cameras fell from viewing and stopped clicking. The relentless herding Lemmings ended their sea surge plunge. Rojer stood firmly defiant; scanning for any that may have broken from the heard. Satisfied that we were heading off unfettered, Rojer fell in distant behind.

As we gained some separation, a demanding voice divided itself from all others. "Rojer! Rojer wait a minute!" I hadn't chosen another meeting with whom I knew I was about to. Choices; they usually are not. Bad was about to be. I turned.

Rojer was back to me. He was face to the hurrying Peter. He was firmly square to Peter. Bad was about to be. As if the streetlight had suddenly turned yellow, Peter stumbled to a stop. He was personal-space close to Rojer. In his adrenaline driven pace, this closeness was what he'd planned. Confidence drained from Peter's face. In Rojer's firmly square, it was now closer than Peter was comfortable with.

What it was I couldn't see. But Peter definitely saw Rojer's face. Rojer's fists briefly clenched and then eased. Bad was about to be. Again, in planning, I'm sure Peter's words were going to be delivered in a cool steady tone. They weren't that. "Rojer... I just thought I'd let you know that when your contract is over... well... I, the Foundation, won't be extending it."

Rojer stepped and leaned to Peter. Peter steeped back. "Mister Chairman! Peter! I decided that last night."

Again, thunder stolen, paw, thorn, all that; Mister Chairman turned and headed away. "Yes!" I may have said that. Meeting my eyes Rojer's face was a Master's palette mixed with all the colours of every emotion.

I'm busting a Father's smile at a child's graduation. Glancing a questioning look at me Rojer passes towards the parking lot.

While the three of us were making our way to the car, I caught a glimpse of a green and white taxi pulling into the parking lot. It was one of those I noticed that just because I noticed that. We all were muted by thought. Holding to silence, Ben, Rojer, and I reached the car.

I wasn't sure if I was repressing our anticipated conversation, but I seemed unwilling to seek from Ben. Seek whatever it was that might unfold. Moreover the unknown whatever. Rojer's look to me said that it was my turn. Ben's look said that he was ready. I took a breath and opened the unknown. "Ben what did you mean... why did you ask about my sleep? Why did you ask if I dreamt?" There was something queer about the way Ben first glanced at Rojer and then archaeologically explored my face. I didn't know what it was he asking from us. The neuro-physical Ben not still among us, his lips moved as if reading. Plying inspiration from another plane, Ben was asking for himself.

A bit of awkward waiting. Voiced differently; distinction-ally of a generation that preceded his, Ben began orating. "Daniel." The difference winced my mind. "Daniel my friend. I hold knowledge. My knowledge is much of you." His pause was slight. "I am aware of the antemeridian one-twenty, and how its broad shoulders are yoked tight to another one-twenty. There is the whiting and the whiting around you. Willingly not being blasphemous, I know all things completed. I know of it all Daniel. What of it do you hold to Daniel? What is it of it that you sense? Inside of you. What blood is it that heart pumps? What air is that lungs cleanse. It is not possible for you to be without doubt. So you question. A dream?" He smiles broadly. "You know it not. Philosophically you cannot internalize that to be the true course. The tangible is not only what you can touch. You will soon enough, but now you can't see that. There is so much more. What is that slight of this more that you need embrace? Embrace and release it. Daniel you need to share. Through seeking knowledge, you have always walked headlong towards enlightenment. Your walk in now near its end. You now have what so few do. You have come to it in a way that still fewer have. Now, it is yours to let spoil. Waste it, or not. Think Daniel. Choose my friend. It is said that the only difference between wise men and dullards is that the dull ware and the wise share."

Ben's timbre was unwavering. Sullen is perhaps not the proper word. Perhaps, running the edge of sullen and definitely serious, would best describe his façade.

As quickly as it had gone, it was back. He again was a college student. "Well guys I see that my ride is here. Gotta go!" His smile was hugely infectious and I caught it with one of my own. His energy was electric. An unconsumed youth again sparked anyone that he may touch.

Extending his hand first to Rojer and then to me, he said brief goodbyes and headed off to the waiting taxi. As he reached the cab it hit me hard that I had one more question. "Ben!" Hand on the handle he turned for me to continue. "Ben. I'm embarrassed to say that I don't know your whole name." He again wore the same smile.

"Benjamin. My name is Benjamin. Benjamin Rush." His smile eased to one of understanding. With a quick wave Benjamin Rush slid into the taxi and was gone. I assumed gone forever. Again.

My attention drifted to the warming air and the wisps of clouds hanging high above Monticello. To the heavens I asked; "Young Benjamin Rush. A medical student from Philadelphia. Benjamin Rush who doesn't drive. Here at Monticello. Again."

Surprising myself but mostly Rojer, I Jackie Gleason hopped and quick stepped to the passenger side of the Falcon. "Come on Rojer we gotta go get in let's go."

Rojer opening his door; "Take it easy Danny it's not even eleven thirty. Your plane doesn't leave for over three hours." He paused and asked calmly; "Danny, what did you mean just then about Benjamin?" Rojer slides the keys in and fires up the Ford.

"Rojer we're not going to the terminal yet. We've got a stop to make." It already was much so to Rojer, but now it was quite noticeable to me that I was fired up as well. "Back up let's go." Rojer pulls the shifter into reverse and clears the adjoined cars.

"Would it be inconvenient for you to tell me where we are stopping? I wouldn't mind a bite to eat."

"Drive Rojer. Just go down The Hill okay."

"Where the hell are we going Danny?"

"We're going to the seventh month, the fourth day, and the sixth year of Sunny Dell Way."

Rojer; "What-"

"We're going to see a man about a thing."

### 'Perspective looking in, from without.'

Turning on to Sunny Dell, we pull up to 746 and park at the Way's curb. Exiting the vehicle I look towards Patrick's home. An open garage door shows a red SUV. I head up the driveway towards the pathway that leads to the front door. "Come on Rojer we're burning daylight."

"Damn Adams chill out." A rare non 20th century historical quip from Rojer. I gave him a look that I'd surely given Pami thousands of times. He looked disgusted and said nothing. A look I surely had received thousands of times.

With Rojer in tow I was nothing but long strides towards the path. Looking through the widow of the second garage door, I could see the top of what appeared to be an early 60's Mustang. It was jet black. The color doesn't mean anything to the story. Just thought you might want to know.

In few steps I was headed on to the porch and up to the front door. Ringing the doorbell, one of those percussionist chimes that seem to go on forever, I turned my head and looked to the left side of the porch. Two wooden rocking chairs surrounded a small glass-top table. Four hanging planters were filled with new flora. Rojer asked; "Were those flowers there yesterday?"

Not hearing any noise from within and witnessing the two vehicles that were not here yesterday, I set the chimes loose once again. More seconds went by than my lack of patience allowed. I questioned the lack of happening. "There are two cars here there has got to be someone home." A dead-bolt clicked and unlatched. The door knob turned with a smooth action and the wooden door swung inward. Expecting Patrick and realizing that it was not, I hesitated with any greeting. A face that was asking for one, got what was due her. "Hello ma'am. Sorry to bother you this morning. Is Patrick at home?" I silenced; "Can Patrick come out and play?"

Door-handle well covered by her right hand, standing square in the entrance, her body language was not speaking of an entering invite. She was a diminutive woman. Size deflected, I grabbed her to be a person sturdy in stature. Mmm... mid-fifties. But please be advised that guessing a woman's age is not one of my strengths. Her hair was what I thought a natural dark brown. There were numerous gray strands that were gasping for air of their own. She was home from work for lunch. The mid-day hour and her business ware suggested so.

She curiously thought about my inquiry of Patrick longer than seemed needed. Her head angled a single degree. "I'm sorry who?" She didn't pause with her asking. "Patrick? A Patrick Thomas?" She looked passed me to Rojer. "I think you gentlemen may have the wrong house. There is no one here by that name."

Rojer, who as you know has better social skills than I, and sensing a bit of uneasiness in her, offered comfort; "I'm sorry ma'am how rude of us. My name is Rojer Ousten the Curator and Monticello. And this is my friend Doctor Daniel Rengaw." Throwing in titles was an attempt at making her more accepting of two strange men standing on her front porch. She went back to me with a stare.

"The Writer," I said. My attempt was met with a continued blank stare. "Anyways... Rojer and I are here on behalf of the foundation that maintains Monticello."

Studying us more, looking for a hidden clue that she should trust, she added; "There is no one by that name living here. It is only me and my twenty three year old son here." Her head tossed inside. "He is in the kitchen." Her words told us that trust had not been found and a twenty three year old help was just steps away.

The steps were even less now as he appeared and steadily headed towards his mother. With all that bravado shit that an immortal twenty three year old man has, he was on us. Passed over me, his wide warning eyes locked into Rojer's. I'm not sure why Rojer came to this, but he found this protectionist moment to be an opening. Leaving son for mom, he offered; "May we please come in for just a solitary moment? We'd love to have a word with you." His so un-Rojer-like words nearly chuckled me. Now with backup, or more so forefront, mom felt safer. It didn't sound like trusting, there was apprehension in her tone as she asked us in to have a solitary moment with her.

Entering the front room I knew we were not at the wrong house. All furniture and décor was the same. The white Wingbacks and couches were as before. I looked to where the Hutch was, it was. The Tea Set sat pristine within. All was as the day before. However, Joseph Langkamp's book was not on the Coffee Table. I noticed but didn't conspire.

Rojer opened the conversation; "Ma'am...."

"Elizabeth please!" she corrected. We were now first name. Pointing at her son she added; "This is Derrick." Expressionless, Derrick nodded. He was still soldiering the protector role. He didn't want us to forget that he would kick our asses. Good boy!

Elizabeth turned to the seating area and asked if our comfort could be improved. "Would you gentlemen like to have a seat?" Her opening demeanor had clearly eased of us. I chose the same Wingback as yesterday. Rojer settled into the Love Seat. Elizabeth and Derrick took a position on the couch across from Rojer. Rojer seemed comfortable. I was rigid on her Patrick denials.

"Elizabeth, we were in this house yesterday and met with a man named Patrick Thomas. We spoke for around thirty seven minutes. It was two thirty-three in the afternoon." I listened to Rojer and watched her. Edging forward she became rigidly upright.

"I'm sorry but you must be mistaken." She turned to her right. "Derrick were you home yesterday afternoon?"

"Mom you know I was at school yesterday afternoon."

Trying not to sound confronting, I interjected; "Elizabeth we were definitely here. This room appears almost exactly the same." Rojer gave a concurring nod. "We even had tea served on that tea set." I pointed to the hutch. She did not flinch towards the hutch.

"That tea set is priceless! It has not been used for over a century." With a hint of protectionism, she informed me of that impossibility.

I spoke on toward reason; "Patrick was a man in his late forties. He was a tall slim and energetic man." She stared at me. Her stare dented my shield of self-worth.

"Doctor Rengaw..." She took a deep breath. I felt a scolding coming. "No one lives here by that description. Or by that name. It is just me and my son. And no one physically could have been here except one of us. And at that time neither of us were." Without relinquishing her visual grasp of me, she directed; "Derrick please go get Dad's picture from the hutch." She re-directed to me; "Doctor Rengaw, it does sound like you are describing my late husband." Derrick returned and placed the framed picture into her hand. Elizabeth looked deep into love that had passed. Her eyes glazed. She reached across the table and handed her loss to Rojer. I watched Rojer as he examined the photo. Finished, with a concurring nod, he handed the frame to me.

My briefest of inspection brought excitement. "Yes! This is the man. This is Patrick." So delicately and so swiftly she took the photo back.

She looked into it again and said; "This is my husband Thomas! His name is not Patrick!" She raised her eyes and looked into mine. "Thomas passed away years back."

"I'm sorry." My regretful reply was automatic. Elizabeth sighed of missing. Derrick, with his mother starting to become upset, determined that our time was up. Puffing his chest as square as a young man can, he stood walled to Rojer. I understood it, but still I felt slighted. Why was it that Derrick had determined Rojer to be the biggest threat? Almost funny, like a William Shatner over-act, Derrick gave both of us Tasmanian-Devil eyes. This made me feel a little better.

Roger recognized our not so subtle invitation to leave. Non-confrontationally Rojer eased to a stand. Graciously to our inviters he said; "Thank you for your time. Sorry to have bothered you. Elizabeth you have a lovely home."

Not being whatever I wasn't being at that moment, I was not so convinced that our conversation was at end. Therefore I did not ease anywhere. But with all three of them active in the goodbye ceremony, I understood we were indeed leaving. Oh I wasn't happy about it; but what you gonna do?

Elizabeth extended her hand. I took it and thanked her for her time. We all turned and headed for the doorway. Being whatever I was being at that moment, I thanked them one more time and stepped onto the porch.

Walking across the porch I stepped down to the first of three steps. It hit me hard. I stopped, turned, and asked; "I'm sorry Elizabeth but I did not get your last name." I saw her face being somehow different. A bit lighter. Elizabeth paused only long enough to create a beautifully subtle smile. She looked into my eyes and retrieved a file from my mind. One word, she said; "Paine." She directed this name with proud exclamation. Rojer audibly gasped. It was sudden and brief. Into her blue eyes I was held. I was seeing her. "My husband's Great, Great, Great Grandfather, was an immigrant new to this county when he wrote Common Sense." She paused teasingly. "You've heard of it Doctor Rengaw?"

Her words were a hurricane. The calm eye I knew to be true. The frantic winds of the outer bans tossed me about. Still looking intently at the source of the tempest, I heard; "Let's go Danny." Rojer's words broke and wavered. Far too deep in thought, my self-preservation kicked in. Firmly grasping the rail for the last two steps seemed best.

I wanted to speak, but I had not a beginning. Less scared but more loud; "Let's go Danny!" Turning my back to Elizabeth I successfully navigated those two steps and headed down the pathway. I tried to process but lacked a baseline for these events. Rojer was drunkenly stumbling to the Falcon's safety. He wanted to sober himself; from her, from here, from this.

A sense of knowing that I couldn't explain, I was waiting for it. The it that there was one thing more. Elizabeth called to me in a solemn tone. "Mr. Rengaw..." Rojer's eyes peered at her over the roof of the Ford. The one more thing. Mentally bracing I turned slowly. With my full attention confirmed by my eyes finding hers, she popped out; "Forty three."

"Forty three?" I asked.

"We have had forty three different men as our president." She gave me this, paused, and then unwrapped the gift. "The former Governor of Ohio, the man Cleveland Ohio was named after, Grover Cleveland, he was both our 22nd and 24th president. Forty-three!"

Both pleased and confused, I replied; "Yes! That is perfect. But how did you..." There; all of her was the contentment of oxygen molecule'd with the empathy of hydrogen. This was the acceptance that she compounded for me. This was the still water that she wished pooled within me.

With this, Elizabeth was no more. There was a metallic click.

On our way to the airport, silence was our communication of choice. This of course was partly due to my lack of vehicle etiquette. But mostly, revisiting the past seventy two hours was not somewhere that either of us wanted to go. We no doubt would have to come back. But for now, we were out of here.

I knew, or I thought I knew, that this visit to Monticello was reality without substance. It was an allusion that veered hard from the path of anything. But future time would bring a change. An understanding of allusion that would create a reality. A reality that never before had been real.

Pulling up to the drop-off area, my mind was decompressing. It seemed that my imminent departure was allowing my questions to be without attempted answers. I had become reflectively passive. My three hour flight would surely deny my passivity. But for now I was free.

Still, one concept had my full attention. Wherever my thoughts were going to travel, they better have arrived by wheels down. I better have had full reflection before joining and enjoying my wife. My Pamila, my soon to have adventure at The Brown Palace, deserved reflection complete. Or at least shelved. The Incident would have to wait.

Rojer and I got out of the Flying Falcon and made our way to the trunk. Rojer opened it and grabbed my traveling gear. He looked into my eyes and asked for a single slice of clarity; "Danny, what the hell?"

"I don't know Rojer. I guess we'll figure it out."

We hugged like two soldiers that had survived the Normandy landing on D-day. I had turned and was heading towards the entrance. Rojer called; "Danny I love ya buddy!" I looked back at my best friend. "But Danny, I don't think I want you to come back here again." It was perfect.

"No problem Rojer. You're getting fired anyways remember."

"Oh yeah! I guess I'll have to come live with you and Pami." It was our final laugh.

Just as I started to turn Rojer gave me a gift; "Danny, pull down your pants and slide on the ice." Doctor Sydney Freidman's words never held more meaning.

I watched as he started climbing in. "Rojer?" His head popped back out of the Falcon. Looking into his anticipating face, I riddled; "What has four upon. That in time are one, three, sixteen, and twenty six?" Rojer's wheels were spinning. Aggravation was in the shake of his head.

"You suck Danny."

"Yeah I know. Get back to me on that." He smiled.

"I always do Danny."

He got back in the car and pulled away. Back home to Monticello. A place that history holds as most reverent. A place that I no longer do. Not this day.

After getting a quick bite to eat and checking in, I found a seat next to an elderly woman. As soon as I sat I questioned my choice. Remember my recent track record. It hit me hard. Sunny Dell Way; S D W; they were, messing with me.

A few minutes into my choice, the woman asked; "Are you going to Colorado?"

"Yes I am. After a brief stop in Denver I'm going home."

"Where is home Honey?"

"Morrison Colorado." She seemed to be running this through her thoughts.

"Oh yeah! Morrison. I've been to Morrison. Quaint little town." She thought for a moment and enthusiastically added; "Morrison is in Jefferson County isn't it?" A smile of irony eased onto my lips. Maybe afraid to, I did not look at her.

"Yes it is," I answered.

"What do you do there?"

"I chase a feather in a breeze."

### This is the end; of the beginning.

### Words From the author.

### What... ninety seven thousand three hundred and thirty words are not enough? However, The Big Book of Writer Courtesy, tells me that I must marvel you with deep philosophical thoughts, or enlighten you with my wisdom. (I hate that stupid book.)

### The truth being that I am not that bright and only about half as deep as Mervin's empty water-bowl.

### I do however hope that you enjoyed this book, and maybe learned a thing or two. And now that you are about to put the story aside, I hope that you will miss the friends that you have met. If you will miss, you are in luck. Daniel, Pamila, Rojer, others, and new others, will all return in early Winter of 2015. The second part of this tale, 'Two Lost Souls', will bring them all together again.

### (Shameless Plug.)

### I'll leave you with one last piece of advice. When that person who's had their left turn-signal on for the last five miles finally cuts you off, pull down your pants and slide on the ice. (Deep huh?)

### Speak with you soon.

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