 
### All Things Return

by

W.H. Harrod

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by W.H. Harrod

Smashwords Edition License Notice:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Although this is a free book all rights are reserved. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Debra, whose assistance and encouragement were invaluable in my effort to write this book.

## CHAPTER ONE

Twenty-seven years of existence did nothing to prepare Howard Douglas for the mental anguish he felt this day, not even the loss of his parents in a car wreck during his childhood. That tragic experience had come close to destroying his young life, yet it paled when compared to the grief confronting him today. This pain was evil.

Recent events, now forever etched into his consciousness, unfolded before him. Henceforth, all his thoughts would filter through this horrific, never-to-be forgotten period of his life.

Howard recalled the surprise phone call from his estranged fiancée's parents coldly informing him Whitney had committed suicide, and they were bringing her home for burial. That's all he was told.

Two and a half years earlier she had disappeared without so much as a 'goodbye' or a 'go to hell.' He'd pleaded with her family to tell him what they knew about her sudden disappearance, but they refused to tell him anything. Now, with no apparent regard for his feelings, they informed him that the lifeless body of the single human being he came to realize too late meant more to him than anything else in the world traveled back to him as mysteriously as she left, in a metal box.

What would he do now? He'd always expected her to return some day. No matter the circumstances surrounding her absence, he had intended to do everything possible to make her want to stay, never again giving her reason to leave. He loved her. She must have known he did. Never, in his wildest dreams, did he expect her to return home this way. Instinctively, he realized that somehow he must bear part of the responsibility for this unspeakable tragedy. No suitable explanation had been provided to him so far. Her parents merely informed him that Whitney had suffered from depression and had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. No one found her until it was too late. His personal grief mattered little to her family. All his familial rights had ceased the day Whitney left town. He became history to them. The fact that they notified him at all surprised him.

He sat alone on the patio as the darkness of the encroaching evening enveloped him. The descending blackness seemed appropriate. It symbolized the moment better than anything. Whitney's death had smothered the light from his life—from his soul. Darkness covered everything.

"How can I go on living feeling this way?" he cried out as he raised his forearm to wipe the tears from his swollen eyes. His watch scraped his face as he pulled a tear soaked shirtsleeve across his moist cheeks, causing him to partially regain his senses. He vaguely recalled some chore awaiting his attention, but what it was escaped him.

He remembered the strange man who had approached him while he stood alone following the graveside service. At first, he hadn't understood the stranger, and only after asking him to repeat his statement did he comprehend what was said. The stranger addressed him as if he knew him, and requested a meeting at Howard's home at 9 p.m. that evening for the purpose of relaying important information concerning Whitney. Stunned, and unable to reply to such an unexpected confrontation, Howard merely nodded his assent. The stranger confirmed the 9 p.m. appointed meeting time before turning and walking away.

Relieved at the interruption of this intense grieving process, Howard thought about the stranger's request. _What can this stranger tell me about Whitney? Who is he? Will he show up here as he said he would?_ Before he had time to think about it further, the front doorbell rang. Startled by the sound, he nervously glanced down at the glowing numerals on his watch. He easily made out the time, 9 p.m. exactly. This unforgiving day wasn't finished with him yet.

## CHAPTER TWO

Howard's journey to the front door halted momentarily as he stopped to turn on the interior lights, revealing a pathway through the messy living room to the front hallway. A shudder ran up his spine as his hand reached forward to open the door to the same strange man who had approached him at the grave site hours earlier. Words escaped him as he confronted the casually attired, middle-aged, Caucasian male standing before him under the glaring front porch light, so he simply stood silently waiting, his despair apparent to the world.

The stranger spoke first, "Thank you for taking the time to see me during what must be for you a terribly painful experience. I promise not to keep you any longer than is necessary. May I come in?"

Howard moved aside to allow the stranger passage into his home. Not knowing the man's intentions, he wondered if he erred in allowing him inside. Maybe the stranger intended to perform some mischief. But, it matter little. Howard didn't care anyway—nothing could make him feel worse than he did right then.

The stranger walked into the center of the living room and took a seat on one of the two soft leather couches facing each other across a glass-topped coffee table. He didn't bother to look back to see if Howard followed along behind. The stranger's nervousness apparent, he sat with arms on his knees, clasping and rubbing his hands together. Howard's barely functioning senses detected the man's agitation as he came over to the couch across from the stranger and sat down.

Neither party seemed inclined to talk as they glanced furtively towards each other. The stranger broke the silence. "You don't know me, and I'm not going to tell you my name. You will know why soon enough. I'm not from around here, and when I leave, you will never see me again. However, there are things I feel you need to know. I've told myself a hundred times on my way here to mind my own business and keep quiet about what I know. But in the end, I couldn't. Whitney deserves better."

Howard sat quietly unwilling to commit any of his dwindling emotional reserves to some strange man's story. Yet, he nurtured hope that somehow this person might bring some sense to this craziness.

"Whitney was my dear friend. I came to know her soon after she left here and came to Dallas. She moved into the same condo complex I lived in," said the stranger. "I—"

Howard came to life. "Dallas! Dallas? She was in Dallas all this time?" Even coming so late, it gave him relief to know where she'd been during all those painful months.

"Yes, Dallas," answered the stranger. "I got to know her very well during that time." He hesitated for a moment to regain his composure. "In fact, I may well have been her only friend during that entire period."

Howard tried to make a comment, but the stranger cut him off.

"Please, let me finish my story first before you ask me anything. I know what needs to be told, and I don't want to leave anything out. So please, be patient and bear with me." The stranger collected his thoughts and started again. "The Whitney who arrived, hurt and outraged, in Dallas two and a half years ago wasn't the same Whitney who took her own life last Monday night. Many things changed while she lived there, as many things happened. One thing, though, never changed. She loved you just as much the day she died as when she arrived there. I know this for a fact; she told me this only the week before she killed herself."

Howard, upon hearing this, exhaled as if the last vestiges of life within him escaped his pounding chest.

The stranger again paused. "I never really knew what was going on until much later, and for that matter, neither did she. This is, I sincerely hope, the last time I'll ever have to relate to another human being the details of such a sick and disturbing affair." Having said this, the stranger sat back.

"This is going to take awhile, but there's no short version of it. You and Whitney were the victims of an evil, self-serving bastard's sordid scheme to destroy your relationship to serve his own purpose. As this story progresses, I believe you will begin to see the light. Many things that most likely confused you will become painfully clear."

"Unless you're a complete fraud, which I seriously doubt based on what Whitney told me about you, I'm sure you remember the brief affair you had with the beautiful young girl in Cancun in 1978. Right?"

Howard looked stunned. Color returned to his pallid skin tone. He had felt certain no one else knew about that.

The stranger nodded. "Good, I can see that you do. Well, you were set up from the start. You went to Cancun by yourself supposedly to gather information on property your company might be interested in purchasing in the future. While there, a beautiful young lady approached you, made your acquaintance, and then plied you with booze and proved that you weren't a paragon of morality after all. She played you like a rube. Without your permission, she arranged for photographs to be taken of you two together sunning on the beach. I saw the pictures, by the way. You looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Later, you purchased the photographs and destroyed them, thinking that ended it, but it didn't. Copies were saved for later use."

All the color, plus more, returned to Howard's face. His eyes glared as things started to come together.

"And later turned out to be November 1, 1978. You, no doubt, remember it as the day Whitney disappeared. She received copies of those photographs in the mail that day. That's right. A large envelope from the resort where they were originally taken, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Howard Douglas, contained an invitation for the happy couple in the photographs to return to this scene of connubial bliss for another exciting and romantic vacation during the coming winter months," he said before pausing again. "Whitney later told me she actually fainted from the shock of seeing the photographs."

"The worst was yet to come," continued the stranger. "By an amazing coincidence, someone you're very familiar with showed up at the door under the pretext of needing a company file you maintained at home. Finding Whitney experiencing a complete emotional breakdown, he offered to help in anyway he could. At first he insisted there must be some mistake, but after awhile conceded that even if the photographs couldn't lie, she needed to give you another chance. He insisted that you were really a good person inside, and surely this, hopefully, single incident wouldn't ruin your happy relationship."

"By the way," said the stranger as he halted his exposé, "if you doubt any part of this story, maybe this will convince you that I know what I'm talking about." He reached into his coat pocket and brought forth two items. First, he produced a photograph showing Howard and the scantily clad young woman on the beach in Cancun. Then he handed Howard another photograph of the stranger and Whitney sitting together on a park bench. Although Whitney displayed a warm smile, Howard saw immediately that the spark typifying her zest for life was missing. Written on the photograph in Whitney's unmistakable neat style was a message, "Thanks for being such a wonderful friend. Whitney."

The stranger rested a moment as Howard stared at the photographs. "But," he continued, "Whitney was inconsolable by this time. She felt violated. Nothing in her life made sense any longer. You, the one true source of love, trust, and loyalty in her life, turned out to be a fraud. She started ranting about running far away and never coming back. She never wanted to see you again, ever. She couldn't possibly stay here any longer after what you did. She needed to go somewhere, anywhere."

At this point, the stranger shook his head from side to side and displayed a look of incredulity. "And wouldn't you know it. Guess who just happened to have a comfortable condo located in a large southern city totally furnished and available for her exclusive use at no charge for as long as she needed it? Why, he couldn't bear the thought of such a good friend being driven out into this cold, lonely, and very dangerous world, if he could help it."

The stranger sat back into the folds of the soft leather sofa and stared at Howard for the first time. "Pretty slick, huh? Send you away on business. Concoct some scheme to expose you as being a lying scumbag. Show up just in the nick of time to help the innocent victim. Stash her, most willingly, in a comfortable nest in a big city hundreds of miles away, and then take his time getting down to the business of developing a very, and I mean very, close personal relationship with this totally disoriented, disillusioned, and most importantly, indebted young woman whose entire world had just collapsed around her."

Howard's face displayed an even deeper sense of anguish. The words crawling upward from the depth of his throat sounded more like a growl. "Richard? Richard? Of course, Richard! That greedy, weaseling little bastard would do something like that. Of course, he would; he has the ethics and morals of a pig. That son-of-a—"

"You may want to restrain yourself for a while longer because I'm not done by any means," interrupted the stranger before Howard had time to get a good rant started. "Let me finish my story first. That was only the beginning. It gets even sicker. I'll start with the fact that I know the company you work for is up to its ears in criminal activity. Your boss, Richard, and the companies he supposedly owns are nothing more than fronts for a powerful Mexican cartel that uses him and those companies to launder millions of dollars of drug, prostitution, and gambling profits. You spend most of your time finding business opportunities that will allow your employer to stash and later launder even more dirty money."

"To your credit, you didn't always know what you were involved with. In the beginning, they enticed you with a large salary, one much too large for a young man right out of graduate school with no experience in much of anything. And the perks: cars, expense account, country club, vacations, mixing with political high-rollers, you name it and it's yours if you want it. They deceived you, but, eventually, you figured it out. Though by then, you knew too much. They couldn't let you simply walk away. If you leave, you die. These people have no regard for human life. That's what they deal in. So there you are, working for a scumbag crook who fronts for international criminals, and there you're going to stay forever."

"But how could you know this?" asked Howard before the stranger could begin again. "I mean, Richard wouldn't have told you this, and how else could you have known it?"

"That brings us to the last part of my story," said the stranger, "and very possibly, the saddest part. You're right, Richard didn't tell me this. As a matter of fact, I don't think Richard is aware of who I am, at least I hope he isn't. Whitney insisted that it be that way. But he did, over time, reveal some of his activities to Whitney, and she felt obligated to do as he requested and help him at times to at least partly repay him for maintaining her so comfortably in Dallas. She found out you were stuck here forever; she eventually found out everything. And knowing everything put her in the exact same fix that you were in. She couldn't leave either. Not ever."

After another lull, the stranger started again, but this time in a more subdued manner. "Although troubled, given her mentally depressed state, Richard's activities really didn't bother Whitney that much until she found out the worst. She learned he set you both up. She discovered how he contrived for her to find out about your brief affair by having the same woman he hired to get you drunk and entice you into her bed send photographs to your home using letterheads and envelopes stolen from the resort. She eventually learned everything. Richard, she discovered, was a liar and a crook and involved with the Mexican cartel."

"You weren't the only one who got set up like that. There were others. After Whitney accidentally discovered the relationship between Richard and a mysterious young lady in Cancun, she hired a private detective to go there and find out the truth. Then, when she learned that both of you were victims of Richard's treachery and your lives forever ruined, she lost it. She became more and more despondent. She hated herself; she hated her life, and especially, her relationship with Richard. Even worse, she hated not being able to do anything about it, except, what she finally did. She waited until an entire continent separated her from the person she detested most in this world and until her only friend would be out of town for a couple of days, then she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, laid down on her bed, and waited for the pain to go away."

The stranger sat back, signaling the end to his story and looking as if he expected Howard to go off on a screaming diatribe. But nothing happened. Neither man moved; rather, they sat quietly staring at one another without saying a word. Howard appeared to be entering into a state of shock. He couldn't believe it; he now felt more pain than before. A stronger emotion fought its way to the surface—anger. So intense, he could taste the bile rising up from his churning stomach.

"Well, I've done what I needed to come here and do, and although I do regret that what I've told you makes your pain worse, somebody besides me needed to know the real reason for what happened to this sweet lady whom I'm certain never did anything to harm another person in her entire life. She deserved better than this, and even though I'm not normally a vindictive person, I figure that if there is anyone alive who has the responsibility to do something about this, it's you. So, there it is. I've said what I needed to say, so I best get out of here and leave you to your business. As I said earlier, you're never going to see or hear from me again, and for the record, I won't be going back to Dallas."

With that, the stranger rose from the couch and without waiting for a reply from Howard, headed for the door. Still in shock, Howard was unaware of the stranger's sudden absence. When he recovered, he turned in time to see the back of the stranger come to a halt, only steps from the front door. The stranger mumbled something unintelligible, reached into his vest pocket, pulled out an envelope, and then turned and walked back to where Howard sat. Once there, he raised his hand holding an envelope and extended it towards Howard, saying, "If you should somehow manage to live through all this, which I seriously doubt, you should know about this. I salvaged it from the files I saw Richard attempting to destroy. I know in her heart this troubled Whitney for you not to know." Then the stranger left, leaving Howard alone with his growing rage.

## CHAPTER THREE

The sight of the professor studying a racing form still seemed strange to Terrance. He witnessed this same scene many times during the past year, yet he still found it difficult to believe. It simply didn't fit. A former renown and respected professor in the Department of Religious Studies at the same university from which he, Terrance C. Butler, graduated a year ago this past May, 2002, reading a racing form while riding in his Jeep Cherokee as it sped down the interstate between Kansas City, Kansas, and Lawrence, Kansas, fit none of the scenarios he might have imagine.

He enjoyed these trips to the track with the professor because when the professor rode along it meant they held a winning ticket. The professor took great pleasure in coming along to cash in their Pick Six tickets. Today they headed home with a sizable amount of winnings in their pockets. If Terrance's memory served him correctly, they had made five trips together during the past year since he entered upon this arrangement with the professor.

Each trip resulted in another much-needed infusion into Terrance's nearly empty cash coffer. Today, his share of the winning ticket amounted to thirty-one hundred dollars. Ten percent of the winnings belonged to him for carrying the professor's bets back and forth to the track.

It didn't happen every day or even weekly for that matter. The professor wouldn't bet on any Pick Six offered daily through the simulcast betting facility in Kansas City. He watched and waited until he believed his chances of picking the winners of six consecutive races looked best. He followed the daily results of all the horses running at a particular track, and when the right combinations came together, he made his move. That's where Terrance came into the picture. He carried the bet to the track and made himself available to take the professor back to the track on those occasions when they won. Today they enjoyed their biggest payday so far—thirty-one thousand dollars.

Terrance interrupted the silence. "Are you sure you've only been doing this for the last couple of years?" he asked, with more than a hint of playful distrust evident in his voice. "You're awfully good at this to be so new at it. What do you do with all the money you win? You haven't taken a vacation since I moved into your garage."

"It's a garlow, not a garage," responded the professor as he perused the form, "and I make good use of the money we win. I take great enjoyment in the many civic opportunities afforded me during this period of my approaching dotage. And no, I have not been at this very long, much to my profound disappointment. I shudder to think about all the good I could have done with the money I may have won."

"I guess I can understand giving money to your favorite charities, you being a religious person and all," responded Terrance, "but don't you keep any of it?"

"First of all, I'm not necessarily a religious person. I taught religious studies, and there is a difference. And I have no need for the money. My wife and I are amply provided for. We have a wonderful home, good health, good friends, and sufficient funds to live on, so why hoard it? Many others in the community can use our help, and I, and my wonderful wife are only too happy to do what we can to assist them. We have had this conversation before if you will but recall."

"I recall," said Terrance. "But, I don't see how you can say you're not religious. You do more to help people than most of the other so-called religious people I've met. If you're not religious, then what are you?"

"Like the Buddha," replied the professor, "'I am awake.' Or, I suppose in the parlance of this 'New Age,' I am simply a spiritual entity aware of his oneness with the universe and my fellow man. Whatever others want to call me is all right with me if they will stay out of my way and let me do what forty-five years of teaching has taught me. Simply stated, my basic and most important purpose as a human being is to help others."

Back in Lawrence twenty minutes later, they approached the rear of the professor's residence, a stately one hundred year old, three-story wooden home situated on a large shaded lot a few blocks from the university. Terrance rented the apartment above the garage right off the alley behind the house. Religious discussions with the professor always invigorated Terrance, and he often prattled on and on about some aspect of one of the many areas that make up the field of religious studies.

"So, you don't believe in all that stuff about praying and kneeling and asking for forgiveness and so forth?" asked Terrance in a tone of voice that reflected a person seeking confirmation more so than knowledge.

The 1997 Jeep Cherokee slowly came to a stop in the parking space along side the garage. Neither occupant appeared inclined to move, pending the conclusion of another of their seemingly never-ending conversations regarding this subject.

"Did you listen to any of my lectures when you attended my class? Surely you didn't pass the course, did you? I'm sure we've been over this many times before. My official response to questions regarding prayer is that continually resorting to making pleas to a supposed vindictive and potentially malevolent entity created by our ancestors, apparently frightened by events they couldn't comprehend, who subsequently proceeded with all manner of attempts to pacify this entity through sacrifices and rituals, is totally inconsistent with contemporary science and advanced intelligence."

"Then tell me, what were you doing there at the counter while the guy counted out the thirty-one thousand dollars? You sure had a big smile as you looked up at the ceiling mumbling something. What was that all about?"

"What do you think I was doing?" answered the professor, an impish gleam in his eyes. "I was giving thanks. What do I really know for sure about anything?"

As the professor exited the Cherokee laughing, Terrance glanced at his watch and realized he needed to hurry to avoid being late for work. Without bothering to go inside his apartment and pick up his mail, he backed out and headed off to his place of employment.

By 3 p.m. he should already be at his cubicle located in the farthest corner of the editorial section of the local newspaper. He, along with several young staffers, wrote articles on any number of subjects of community interest. Or another way to put it, he wrote on anything that never had an opportunity to come anywhere close to the front page. Social events, charitable events, supermarket openings, graduations, street closings, anybody riding anything through town going coast to coast for any cause, he was your man. But if the subjects held any possibility of approaching an excitement level of maybe one point five on a scale of twenty, they went to the gray-beards or rather, the more seasoned scribes. Anyway, they never got to him.

Only twenty-four years old and already his life and his work bored him. He worked at the paper strictly for a paycheck. By saving his money, he hoped to enroll in law school next year. He refused to accept the inevitability of working at some meaningless job for the rest of his life like so many people he knew were either doing or preparing to do. Life offered more than that, and he intended to grab as much of it as possible. Right now though, making a living took priority, and this job served a purpose.

His parents had told him all along, as soon as he graduated from college and had his Political Science degree in his hand, they expected him to start making a living. He, more than once, expressed his desire to attend law school, which is why he graduated with the Political Science degree, but that didn't seem to resonate with them. So for the time being, he scribbled lines for the local newspaper's gossip section while figuring out a way to attain the law degree he considered essential. This job served a short-term purpose until he found another way. If the professor ever hit one of those million dollar Pick Six cards instead of the small ones, all his problems disappeared. His ten percent share would more than cover the cost of law school. _That's what's needed_ , he figured, o _ne big deal to come through so I can get going with my life_. A big break awaited him somewhere; he knew it.

Terrance's watch read 3:10 p.m. by the time he finished parking the Cherokee and raced though the employee entrance hoping not to be seen coming in late again by any of his supervisors. His file already contained two official warnings relating to this very subject. One more and he might expect some type of formal discipline. He didn't give a crap, except he did need this job for now. His luck held, as he saw not a single person interested in a skulking young man scurrying around the partitions while making his way to the farthest corner of the still busy pressroom.

"Well, okay then," said Terrance as he sat down in his ergonomically designed, keyboard _pounder's_ chair and pulled up to his cubicle's desk. Six-foot high partitions faced him on three sides, all brimming with shelves, slots, hanging files, drawers, and of course, one of the most sophisticated computerized work stations ever made available to the working world. It did about anything imaginable—as long as it pertained to things that made the company money—like work. No personal e-mails, no chat rooms, no anything that didn't have something to do with the job title. To attempt to use these amazing machines for one's own enjoyment constituted grounds for immediate dismissal. With this thought nowhere close to his present consciousness, he hurriedly set about checking his personal e-mail inbox. _Hey, it's just a job after all. It's not as if I expect to be around long enough to get a gold watch_.

Terrance completed his e-mail correspondence and determined he should begin to display some semblance of job interest. Upon review of his personal project's schedule, he verified that all his current writing assignments were complete and awaited the right opportunity to be used to fill a hole in the back part of the paper on a slow news day. _Ah, it's good to feel needed_ , he reflected as he began to review the new assignment file on the computer monitor.

At times, Terrance had no reason to talk in person with any of his supervisors or his fellow workers for days at a time. He only needed to look at the assignment file, find his assigned _snoozer_ subject, review the background information available along with any comments from the individual assigning him the project, and get to work. "What torture awaits me this day?" he asked as he scrolled down the screen.

Automatically scrolling to the bottom of the weekly assignment sheet, he failed to find anything directed to his attention. Maybe they already fired him? Were they aware of his lack of punctuality all along? "What a bummer," he mumbled while scrolling back to the top of the screen to make sure. With a mixture of surprise accompanied by relief, he found his initials TCB prominently displayed on the first line at the top of the page. He never made the top of the page before. What caused his editor to bestow this honor upon him now? Possibly, he'd been a bit hasty. Maybe they did recognize the untapped talent lying right beneath the surface concealed by the undisguised dullness inherent in all the writing assignments dumped upon him so far. Excited, he placed the cursor on his initials, left clicked the mouse, and waited for the machine to reveal his future.

Recognizing his editor's laconic style, he hurriedly scanned the text.

TCB (Terrance Carl Butler) DROP EVERYTHING. NEED THIS ASAP. PLANNING TO RUN PIECE IN THIS SUNDAY EDITION—LOCAL SECTION LEAD STORY. FILES FULL OF INFORMATION ON THIS GUY. HE'S BEEN INVOLVED IN EVERY FORM OF COMMUNITY SERVICE LAST TWENTY PLUS YEARS. DIED YESTERDAY/HEART ATTACK. ESPECIALLY NEED EARLY BACKGROUND. GET COMMENTS FROM FRIENDS, NEIGHBORS, CO-WORKERS, ETC. FUNERAL IS SATURDAY. BE THERE! COUNTING ON YOU! GET BUSY! TOM.

Scrolling down the page, Terrance saw the attached obituary from yesterday's paper. "Mr. Joseph D. Right died unexpectedly at his home last night from an apparent heart attack. Mr. Right, fifty-one years old, was director of the local North Side Homeless Shelter for a number of years as well as a longtime volunteer and coordinator of a number of other community and civic projects. Funeral arrangements are pending."

His heart sank into his chest—another glorified obituary piece. He'd never heard of this guy. "So, he ran the local shelter; how hard could it have been to make soup?" Plus, they expected him to attend the funeral. He really needed to get some money and get into law school. Surely, he could do better than this. He sat there staring at the computer monitor for sometime while mentally reviewing his prospects regarding life, love, and the all important, pursuit of happiness. He reluctantly admitted that things didn't look too good at this moment, especially, if he must continue to sit around manufacturing enough boring information to allow him to write dull pieces about soup kitchen managers.

Soon sanity prevailed, and he began to organize his thoughts around the job at hand. He saw it all very simply. In the end, it's all the same crap, just a different day's ration. It's all about sucking air. You either did, or you didn't. You either lived, or you became fertilizer, and if living appealed to you, you better be in the game. Unless of course, you became one of those pathetic millions of living, yet comatose, people who choose to sit around forever holding their breath scared out of their wits over the prospect of having to be engaged in life while, ironically, praying to stay alive forever. Not Terrance, he envisioned himself as a player.

## CHAPTER FOUR

"Could I possibly be involved in a more boring activity?" mumbled Terrance as he reviewed the paucity of information collected. He'd found little of note to write about apart from the several generic articles published over the years relating to the North Side Homeless Shelter and its publicity shy director, Mr. Joseph D. Right.

Mr. Right arrived in the community in late 1981 from no one knew where. He lived alone and none of the articles ever mentioned anything about a wife or family. He never owned a home, choosing to rent the upper floor of an older home owned and occupied by an elderly widow woman, for the entire time he lived in the community. He received a modest salary as director of the homeless shelter, and the ten-year-old Dodge van he owned and used without reimbursement in his many civic activities attested to his frugal lifestyle.

He'd never received a traffic ticket, had never been in jail or prison, and hadn't been sued. He never registered to vote, never secured a gun permit, and always paid his personal property taxes on time. He didn't smoke, drink alcohol, or associate with those who did and maintained a lifestyle consistent with the numerous youth programs he supported that promoted abstinence. No records existed that provided a previous work history, a military record, or any educational achievements. A published photograph of the guy did not exist. "How could anyone be involved in so many civic and public activities and not have had at least one photograph taken?" asked Terrance.

The information obtained from the death certificate provided by the State Health Department included his name, address, occupation, and date and cause of death. Terrance summarized the basic information at hand: Joseph D. Right, fifty-one years old at the time of death, born in Joplin, Missouri, on September 10, 1952, to John F. Right, and Nora M. Right. To write an article, based upon the scant information available at the present, he could only repeat the information previously alluded to in the earlier articles and include the date and cause of death. That's all he had.

Terrance reconciled himself to the fact that a more determined effort must be made before he dare present a first draft to his editor. Not interesting or vital to the interest of the community mind you, merely acceptable. _Well, okay then, what's the plan?_ Asked the small voice from the skeptical part of his brain.

Terrance decided he needed to request deeper background information from Joplin, Missouri, relating to any known relatives or old friends. Meanwhile, he would talk to the landlady and the neighbors, as well as to the subject's fellow workers at the shelter. What did they know about him? Somewhere a photograph of the guy must exist. "That should help me put some meat on these bones," he mumbled as he finished the e-mail instructions to the paper's contractor for securing background information through outside private detective agencies. He expected a response within twenty-four hours if things went as usual. By late tomorrow afternoon, Saturday, the day of the funeral, he planned to finish the article. This would be well before the Sunday deadline.

Terrance grabbed his tape recorder and notebook, stuffed them into his canvas backpack, and headed for the door to go talk to the landlady and the neighbors. Maybe this wouldn't turn out to be such a loser assignment after all. It allowed him to spend time out and away from the newsroom with no one watching over him or observing him coming in late or leaving early. Gathering information for the remainder of today and most of tomorrow appealed to him much more than sitting in the office. They couldn't say anything about his absence because he had to have the information.

The sudden sensation of cool early evening, mid-September air on his face revived him as he exited the building into the parking lot. Terrance took a deep breath, exalting at the prospect of being out and about on this beautiful fall evening. "At least, I'll never end up like this poor loser," he said to himself as he settled into the Cherokee for the short trip to Joseph Right's former residence.

## CHAPTER FIVE

After the stranger left, Howard sat alone absorbed in his thoughts on the sordid scheme his boss had foisted upon him and Whitney. _This could never have happened if I hadn't turned out to be a petty liar and a cheat. My blind ambition created this nightmare_.

Howard believed the stranger's story. It all made sense to him now. His boss reveled in pathetic schemes such as this. He often contrived bogus deals to have his way or secure the inside track on something that piqued his interest at the moment. He had an insatiable appetite regarding money, sex, power, and position. He wanted everything, and he wanted it now. He offered a favorite piece of advice to associates. "Always get to the money side of the deal, and always get there first." He preached that most people only talked about deals, and ninety-nine percent of all deals never got completed or made any money. He said, "Do everything possible to make sure that your deals get done and that you get the biggest or best part even if that means losing friendships or changing the deal to better suit your interest. You can always come back later with the money in your pocket to patch things up. If you can't, don't worry about it. New friends are always out there—if you have the money."

The longer Howard sat there, the more subdued he became. His initial rage subsided. The bile receded back into the pit of his stomach. Clarity of purpose replaced the rage. His mission was before him. The people who participated in the destruction of his and Whitney's lives must be held accountable. They, too, must suffer.

Howard planned to turn over to the FBI all the information he secretly collected for his own safety, proving beyond any doubt he worked for a bunch of crooks. He had everything: addresses, phone numbers, bank accounts, off shore locations of shell corporations, banks used to funnel the illicit profits through to prevent their being traced, and most importantly, names, starting with his boss, Richard Whiting.

Howard then needed to vanish from the face of the earth forever, leaving everything behind—all of his possessions, his few friends, and most importantly, his name. The criminals he intended to expose would never stop looking for him. They would track him down and kill him, no matter how long it took or how far they had to go.

Howard needed to do one additional thing before leaving town after he posted the criminal evidence to the local F.B.I. office. He would take the nine shot hand gun he carried with him for protection when traveling and fire every one of the bullets into the sick brain of Mr. Richard Whiting.

Howard experienced complete calm. He felt at peace with his mission. Only the hurt from Whitney's death and an intense desire to seek vengeance remained. Once he got up from the couch, he intended to proceed without interruption to execute his plan. With no other reason to live, nothing stood in his way. But, before Howard Douglas ceased to exist, he felt a compulsion to reflect on his short life, if only for a moment.

Pertaining to his personal life little mattered prior to him meeting Whitney. He had little memory of his parents who died during his childhood. He remembered them mostly through the events and descriptions he heard from the aunt and uncle he lived with afterwards. They lived in a small Illinois town right down the road from where he lived now. They raised him as best they could, with money always being tight and hard to come by. They seldom had any extra, so he learned to get along on the bare necessities. He never owned a good bike or a ball glove, nice shoes, clothing, or any of the neat things that come along from time to time that kids go nuts for, like stereos, cassette recorders, electronic calculators. He knew he placed a burden on his aunt and uncle, so he never complained.

As a result of this, Howard determined never to be a burden on anyone again. He would work hard to become somebody, be respected, and be able to afford all the things denied to him as a kid. When he had a family, he would make sure they, too, had all the things that made people happy. Those goals caused him to focus his efforts while he attended school. He worked, hustled, and borrowed his way through college and graduate school, earning an MBA, which he was sure, would earn him respect and provide him the opportunity to make his fortune.

Howard's plan went as designed until he met Whitney after his second year of graduate school. Only three years younger than his twenty-four years of age, she had just finished her third year of college. She operated her own lawn cutting business during the summer, and she worked her rear end off. She did a great job, charged a fair price, and received more offers for work than she could handle. Her good looks and disarming personality helped, also. Many red-blooded males who lived to get out of mowing their yards for whatever reason jumped at the chance to have a very pretty, well-endowed, five foot five inch tall, tanned, naturally blond, twenty-one-year-old coed, clad in cut off jeans and halter top work in their yard every week—all summer long.

Howard sure noticed her, and he didn't even have a yard. He worked as an intern in the office of a real estate development and syndication company during the summer and rarely found time to do anything. His job as an intern loaded him down with all the unglamorous work that can go on in a busy organization: research, copying, court filings, personal errands, and anything else employees of the company came up with to keep his days filled. When he did get out during the day, he often saw her either in her truck or cutting the lawns. He was smitten right from the first moment he saw her cutting one of the largest, most beautifully landscaped lawns in the community. After awhile, he knew what days to expect her at any of several lawns located on his normal route.

Fate played a hand in bringing them together. Howard gazed longingly at her every single time he saw her going about the business of mowing yards and ignoring the hordes of gawking males who happened by her work sites with regularity. Because of his shyness, it took nothing less than a wreck to bring about their initial meeting, and it came about quite innocently.

Out and about one sunny afternoon, Howard anticipated seeing her at one of her regular jobs. Forgetting to watch the traffic, he stared too long at a yard hoping to catch a glimpse of her working and failed to see her pull out in front of his barely drivable 1963 Ford Falcon. He crashed into the rear of the small pickup truck she used to haul her lawn equipment from job to job. Both vehicles sustained minimal damage, but Howard got his ears burnt. She told him to pay attention to his driving or get that scrap heap off the street. Howard took no offense as he relished having a reason to be talking to her. A suspiciously large number of additional meetings followed to work out the myriad details of getting her vehicle repaired. Over time, she eventually warmed to the unassuming and pleasant personality of this shy, nice looking young man.

Soon after that they started seeing each other regularly and within six months they moved in together. It didn't make any sense on the surface; she was energetic, vivacious, outgoing, and a practical joker. Howard, on the other hand, all six foot, one hundred seventy-five pounds of him including the shoulder length dark brown hair he wore until he got his first and only job after graduate school and the ever-present brown corduroy jacket with the padded elbows, possessed all the charm and personality of his favorite slide rule.

She was quick smart, not like Howard who needed time to think things through. She looked at something and made her decision about what to do with it or about it and moved on. Howard needed to complete a research project on the subject. For some weird reason, though, they both brought something to the table that the other needed, and it worked.

"How did I ever let something so wonderful get away?" Howard remarked as he sat on the couch reminiscing. "How is it I didn't see this coming? What happened to my brain at the time?" Again, he drifted back to the year of his graduation when the future looked so wonderful.

Back then Howard reveled in his good fortune as his plan neared completion. He had a wonderful girlfriend plus the essential MBA degree. Now, the money must surely follow along soon; he felt confident of it. His primary ambitions neared completion. He would be somebody, be respected, and have everything he wanted, including the money.

Howard realized now it wasn't fate that brought him together with a successful local businessman who took him under his wing and began to provide him with many valuable insights regarding getting ahead in the world. He concluded two things as he recalled the experience. First, the setup began way back, well before the Cancun incident with the beautiful young woman. He'd been picked out as an easy mark before he ever got going. That's why Richard had seemingly chosen him from out of nowhere. Secondly, his personal obsession to obtain material wealth blinded him to many things.

That explained why Richard early on related to him the story of his personal transformation from a guy not going anywhere fast by trying to go by the rules. Somehow, according to Richard, it had always worked out that he and all the other losers who tried to be good Boy Scouts ended up with nothing or, at most, the dregs. He finally tired of this exercise in futility and decided not to be the flag bearer for that weary army of poverty stricken idealists any longer. Richard started looking around for people going places and getting things accomplished and being financially rewarded for their efforts. As soon as he cleared those idealistic notions of fair play from his thinking processes, he found those people. He watched them to ascertain which direction they traveled, and then he did the smartest thing he'd ever done in his life. He stepped in line with the winners, went along with them, and never looked back.

Howard saw his mistake too late. He sold out before he started. Honesty and integrity are not concepts you leave on a shelf until they suit your purpose. They must be applied rigorously, daily, in all phases of one's life. Once you make an exception, from then on, you're for sale. A special situation will always arise to justify another exception. Eventually, those exceptions add up, and the accumulative result will be that your life is a fraud. Your life, built upon sand, will lack a stable foundation to help you weather the inevitable storms of misfortune and undeserved opportunity, alike. Admiring honesty and understanding honesty doesn't automatically make you honest. Your personal conduct determines that.

Howard returned to the present prepared to go forward and do, in his mind, the right thing. Certain people needed to be held accountable for what happened to Whitney, including him. His mind now clear, he realized a number of important things that needed to get done, and it was time to get started.

As he began to extricate himself from the deep folds of the soft leather couch he remembered the envelope given to him by the stranger. He recalled the gist of the stranger's parting remarks relating to this envelope containing information he may have some interest in doing something about. He opened the envelope and extracted a tattered and torn single page filled with an abundance of typed legalese. He scanned the document. Then he read and reread each line.

PARENTS DENIAL TO RELEASE INFORMATION TO ADULT ADOPTEE. TEXAS CENTRAL ADOPTION REGISTRY. I state that I am the birth mother of the child listed below. On this Second day of May, Nineteen Hundred and Seventy-Nine, I hereby deny consent to the release of my name and address to this child when he is eighteen years of age or older.

Travis Howard McClain

Born: May 1, 1979

Birthplace: Dallas, TX

Birth Mother: Whitney Ann McClain

Birth Mother DOB: May 21, 1954

Current City of Residence: Dallas, TX

Parent Signature: Whitney Ann McClain

The stranger wrote in long hand on the bottom of the wrinkled and soiled page, "Do the math. If you decide to look into this you will want to begin your search in Lawrence, Kansas. This wasn't Whitney's idea. She deeply regretted allowing Richard to pressure her into going through with this. In the end, I'm sure this contributed to her decision to end her life."

First, the excruciating pain of Whitney's death devastated Howard. Then after he learned of Richard's deceit, he experienced the blackest, vilest form of anger imaginable. Now, the microscopically small amount of sanity he yet retained came under assault from another unexpected direction. He had a son—a living manifestation of the love he and Whitney once shared, and even this was denied him.

Howard intended to exact retribution, but this new information required patience. He needed time to affect a scheme. Could he do it? Could he see Richard and not let on that he knew what he'd done to their lives? Could he prevent himself from blowing Richard's brains out at first sight? "Yes, I can and I must. I have a son to think about now, and I intend to do everything within my power to ensure he is cared for, and safe from harm."

## CHAPTER SIX

The piercing sound of the alarm clock aroused an indignant sleeper. Terrance couldn't imagine it being morning already. Why did he set this digitalized byproduct of Satan's misanthropy for a Saturday morning anyway? He hated getting up in the morning and, especially, on Saturdays. Then it dawned on him, "the soup kitchen guy." He needed to finish that _snoozer_ article before the Sunday deadline. "Damn! I have to go to the funeral to boot. What a wasted day this is going to be." He threw the covers off as reality seeped into his consciousness.

A hot shower and a large cup of black coffee energized him, allowing him to get pretty much on track. He recalled the previous day's efforts to get the 'soup kitchen' story together and how he, so far, failed to come up with anything new. Not a single neighbor knew anything new about the guy. They came into contact with him only on infrequent occasions when someone happened to pass him on the streets of the neighborhood or when he came outside in the spring or fall of the year to tend to yard work or make some minor repairs on the house. Most of them did know of his numerous civic activities from the newspapers. Other than that, they knew practically nothing.

The people the subject worked with offered but slightly more help. They liked him and respected his dedication to his work, but not a single person could comment on his private life. He never talked about anything at work, except work. No one socialized with him outside of work. Some told of hearing about his umpiring baseball games and hauling kids to little league games. On infrequent occasions, they too met him out shopping or at the supermarket. He never told any of them about his private life, and he never talked about his past or the future. For all people knew, he went home and sat in a corner until time to come back to work the next day, and the next day was everyday. He never took a day off, and as far as anyone could remember, Joseph Right never took a vacation in all the years he worked at the shelter.

Rumors told of him using his own funds to subsidize numerous civic and youth activities and of him hauling kids around to science fairs, debating contests, and swim meets in his own van. Not a single person ever recalled a time when he didn't pull out his wallet when asked to donate money to a worthy cause. By all reports, he was a very decent person, a quiet person, and most of all, a private person.

_So why does this bother me?_ Terrance pondered. _Am I actually that cynical at the age of twenty-four? Why am I so surprised to learn of the existence of a good and decent human being in the community? Upon what basis have I created this unflattering opinion of humanity so early in life?_

Terrance decided to quicken his pace. The landlady, the single person he wanted to talk to most last night, told him to go away when he knocked on her door at 7:30 p.m. He explained the purpose of his mission to her, but she still wouldn't allow him into her house at such, according to her, an inappropriate time of the day. He persisted and at least got her permission to come back this morning. She likely represented his last hope for information on the local scene. With this in mind, he headed out the door to his car.

Terrance went over some of the fundamentals employed by reporters during interviews as he traveled the short distance to her house: Get to know more about the subject. Listen, because a good reporter is a good listener. Don't BS them. Explain to them what you are doing. Be sympathetic. Don't chit—chat. Let the facts speak for themselves. Don't judge. Thank them when you're finished.

He barely finished reciting the last reporting guide line as he arrived back at Joseph Right's former address. This sunny Saturday morning brought quite a few people who lived in the neighborhood out and about. Some worked in their yards while others headed off with their children to soccer games. "Crazy!" Terrance exclaimed. "They all could be asleep in their comfortable beds if they wanted. They don't have some silly filler piece to get ready for some insignificant small town newspaper."

The landlady, one Mrs. Judith Bidwell, stood on the front porch looking towards his vehicle as he pulled to a stop in front of her home. Her gaze never wavered as he shut off the motor, retrieved his pack, exited the vehicle, and headed towards the front porch where she stood waiting. Terrance discerned a look of distress on her otherwise featureless face. Her sullen appearance gave him cause to expect a difficult interview.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bid—" began Terrance as he approached the porch steps.

"You're late. You said you would be back early," interrupted Mrs. Bidwell, reminding Terrance that elderly people have a different and often perverted concept of time as well as the terminology relevant to it.

"I'm sorry," responded Terrance, deciding not to waste time debating the subjective nature of the word _early_. "I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me this morning. I'll not detain you any longer than necessary. I'm hoping you will be able to provide me with information relating to Mr. Right's life and his activities in our community. So far, no one seems to know much about Mr. Right. As I told you last evening, we plan to run a lengthy piece on him in tomorrow's paper. Anything you could tell me about him would be very helpful, I'm sure."

The landlady said nothing. She stood in place and stared him up and down. All five foot, ninety pounds, of her in a flowered housedress, partially covered by the full white cotton apron tied around her waist, made him think of individuals he'd seen in photographs taken in the 1930s. The wire framed spectacles and the silver-white hair tied back in a bun legitimized the dust bowl image. He estimated she had to be at least eighty years old.

Terrance kept on standing in front of her on the big covered porch that wrapped around most of the front of the pre-1920s house. Her steady gaze didn't falter until she abruptly turned and walked though the open front door into her front parlor. "Come inside," she said over her shoulder. Her tone of voice left no doubt in Terrance's mind that this wasn't a request but an order.

Her curt demeanor caused him to hesitate for perhaps a second too long. "Well?" she said expressing her puzzlement towards his inactivity, "Are you coming inside or not? It's practically winter out there. You want me to freeze to death?"

Terrance regained his composure and hastened into the house closing the heavy wooden door behind him. "Of course, I'm sorry. I don't know what I must have been thinking." He noticed then, for the first time, her red and swollen eyes looking back at him from behind the thin wire spectacles. _Okay_ , thought Terrance, _this is sure enough an indication of a very personal loss. She must know something about the guy to be feeling the loss this deeply. It only stands to reason since the guy lived in the same house with her for the last twenty years_.

She directed Terrance to a seat on one of the straight-backed chairs sitting across from a beautiful antique sofa where she situated herself in preparation for the interview. He felt a tingle of anticipation as he prepared his material prior to getting started. _This lady has to know something about the guy_ , he assured himself.

"Mrs. Bidwell, could you tell—"

She cut him off. "What did you say your name is?"

"Uh...It's Terrance, Mrs. Bidwell, and I work for the local Gazette. I would appreciate you helping me to know more—"

Again, she cut him off. "What's your last name, and where you from?" she inquired curtly while at the same time dabbing her eyes with her dainty white handkerchief.

_Be patient_ , he told himself under his breath. _Old people do this kind of stuff_. "Uh, my last name is Butler, Mrs. Bidwell, and I'm from right here in Lawrence. Now could you please—"

"Butler? Butler?" interrupted Mrs. Bidwell yet again. "I don't expect I'm familiar with any Butlers from around here. I did know of some Butlers from over Atchison way some years ago. That any of your kin?"

Terrance didn't respond right away. He tried to think of some way to get control of the interview so he could finish and go back to the office to write this increasingly annoying article and get on with his life. He realized the need to convey a sense of urgency in some way that wouldn't offend her or cause her to keep quiet about what she knows about the guy. "Mrs. Bidwell," said Terrance softly as he leaned far forward on his seat to impress upon her the gravity of the situation, "I'm sure this is a very painful period for you, so I want to take as little of your time as possible. Could I please ask you a few questions about Mr. Right for the article I'm writing and then I'll leave you in—"

This time Terrance halted in reaction to Mrs. Bidwell's dramatic change of expression. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed, and she withdrew as far as possible in her seat from his advances. Then an even stranger thing happened. Mrs. Bidwell's countenance again changed—from one of sudden shock to one of recognition. Her actions dumbfounded him. _What did she see? Did I do something to cause these totally unexpected reactions from her?_

He waited for an explanation but none came. She actually compounded his confusion as she leaned as far forward as possible and looked into his eyes. The almost imperceptible smile upon her now serene face struck Terrance as odd. _What's going on here?_ he wondered.

"How old did you say you were?" asked Mrs. Bidwell as she slowly sat back on the sofa.

_How old am I? What difference does that make?_ "I'm twenty-four," said Terrance, resignation apparent in his tone of voice. He realized that she needed to satisfy herself with the minutiae of his life before they went any further.

"Um-hm, and you were born right here in Lawrence, you say?"

"Yes, I, well no, I was born in Texas. I was raised here in Lawrence," he answered politely.

"And that pretty blond hair you have—expect you got that from your mother. Am I right?" continued his interrogator.

Terrance chuckled at this question. "I don't know if I did or not—for you see, I'm adopted. I don't know anything about my birth parents."

Mrs. Bidwell thought hard about his answer. "But one would have to think, wouldn't they?"

Mrs. Bidwell then studied all of Terrance's physical features, beginning with his face. She quickly observed that the young man sitting across from her possessed strikingly attractive facial features. His flawless skin tone and natural dirty blond hair further enhanced his appearance. His wiry frame, all five feet ten inches of it, displayed the characteristics of an active person. After having satisfied her curiosity, she returned to the matter at hand.

"What is it you want to know about Joseph?"

Her sudden attention to the sole purpose of his visit surprised Terrance and forced him to reorient himself back to the original subject. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm hoping you can give me some additional information about Mr. Right. No one else around here knows much about the man. Did he have any outside interests other than the numerous civic activities he stayed involved in—any political preferences? Did he favor any of the local sports teams? Did he have a religion? Did he do anything other than work and volunteer with about every civic organization in the community?" Relieved to have been allowed to ask some pertinent questions, he now waited for her response.

Her response came quickly. "Sorry, I can't think of a thing."

Her negative response puzzled him. He'd counted on this lady being able to provide him with something. In desperation, he persisted. "Mrs. Bidwell, I mean anything. No matter how insignificant you might think it is." Again, he waited for a positive response from the old lady.

Mrs. Bidwell hesitated barely a moment before answering. "No, can't think of a thing. I'm quite positive that every single person you talked to so far told you that this was a fine and decent man who will be sorely missed by the entire community. Personally, my words cannot convey to you how deeply I feel this loss. I don't know what else you need or want to know about the man. Now, if you don't mind, I must prepare myself for today's funeral. I urge you to attend. You will see, first hand, how the people of this community feel about Mr. Joseph Right."

A few moments later, Terrance stood in the front door way displaying a look of obvious disappointment. He turned one final time to say goodbye to Mrs. Bidwell, but she cut him off again before he could get a word out.

"You know, it's inherited, don't you?" she commented.

"Wha-what?" he stuttered, his confusion complete.

"Heterochromia iridium. It's inherited."

Not waiting for his response, she closed the door as the confused young man walked towards his car talking to himself.

"What just happened here? She knows nothing? Heterochro—what?"

## CHAPTER SEVEN

The beauty of the early fall foliage failed to impress Howard as he drove along the winding back roads of southwest Missouri. His mind focused on but a single idea—finding another graveyard to add to the two dozen rural graveyards he'd already visited during the past week as he traveled southwesterly from his home in Harmony, Illinois. Howard made no time for idle thoughts now. Those times belonged to the past. His mission to exact retribution from the people he blamed for the destruction of his and Whitney's lives demanded his full attention. Seeking out and searching through each of these backwoods cemeteries played a central role in his ultimate success.

At the previous graveyards he visited, he found nothing close to a perfect fit. And that's what he needed—a perfect fit. His plan allowed no room for error. His entire scheme depended on this part of the plan being done right. If he failed, the authorities or the cartel survivors would ensure that he either went to prison or was murdered. Therefore, he must keep going until he found the perfect information.

In the distance at a bend in the road appeared a white wooden structure flanked by giant oak trees. Howard craned his neck attempting to spot a church steeple, but trees obstructed his view. Already late afternoon, he hoped to locate the cemetery that he drove these backwoods to find. Losing the sunlight meant coming all the way out here again tomorrow from Carthage, Missouri, some twenty miles away.

Another hundred yards revealed what he hoped to see, a gleaming white spire with a large gold cross on top. "Good," he said. That's as much as he could do. Nothing would ever be great again, at least not during this lifetime. All the greats in his life were now forever buried with Whitney fifteen miles outside his hometown in Illinois. He parked the car in the deserted gravel lot beside the church and walked to the nearby cemetery.

A quick estimate told him one hundred or more headstones awaited his quick inspection. It required only a second for Howard to scan the inscription on a headstone and move on to the next if the perfect fit didn't appear. Already deep into the cemetery interior, he wasted no time. At this pace, he expected to cover the entire site within minutes, and then get back in his car and go on to the next burial site on the list. Only another thirty yards of weatherworn, sadly forsaken markers awaited his examination before he arrived back at the entrance. _Looks like there's nothing here either_ , he observed with disappointment. Right as he finished his thought there appeared, sitting off to the side, a small, unadorned headstone sitting beside two larger markers. Howard stopped dead in his tracks. He read and then reread the inscription.

JOSEPH DAVID RIGHT—BORN APRIL 12, 1952—DIED OCTOBER 23, 1961. THE ONLY BELOVED CHILD OF JOHN RILEY RIGHT AND MOLLY MAY RIGHT.

The words written on the small marker mesmerized Howard. "This is it, a perfect fit," he exclaimed upon collecting his wits. Here before him lay a young boy who died before ever going out into the world and making a name for himself. He never held a job, never acquired a Social Security number, never attended high school, never dated or played sports. No one would remember this child but family, and there, right beside him, lay buried his mother and father. The marker read "Only Beloved Child," so there were no siblings to worry about. He looked around the plot searching for other Rights in the area, but he saw not a one. Then he noticed the plot hadn't been tended to for years—another indication of a lack of relatives close by. This was it. A perfect fit.

This discovery represented a solemn moment for Howard. To honor it, he sat on the cool grass beside the boy's grave and paid reverence to his short existence. If this young boy's spirit was close by, Howard wanted to assure it that he had no intentions of bringing disrespect to the name Joseph David Right. He would, henceforth, honor it through a lifetime of labor for the benefit of his fellow man. "Thank you," said Howard. "Joseph David Right will be a good man."

## CHAPTER EIGHT

"This is amazing," said Terrance aloud as he pulled into the Boys Club parking lot and failed to discover any available parking spaces. The large parking lot adjacent to the modern new facility—which Joseph Right was instrumental in the creation of—couldn't accommodate another car. Attendees parked on the residential streets as far as a block away. _Pretty good for a soup kitchen operator whom no one knows anything about_ , mused Terrance as he trudged the half block to get to the facility just as the service started.

Hurriedly finding a seat in the rear of the auditorium, Terrance commenced to make note of all persons of prominence in attendance. The Mayor and the entire city council were there, along with most of the prominent bankers and businessmen and women of the community. State and federal politicians were also well represented. A gaggle of aides accompanied the former Governor and the current Representative to Congress. Essentially, if you considered yourself a member of the Who's Who of this small area of the world or if you maintained aspirations of becoming an esteemed member of this group, you were in attendance. The scores of former street people disbursed throughout the building stood out from the finely attired upper crust of the community like tulips sticking up through a late spring snow. Amazingly, these dissimilar groups mingled with ease. None gave any hint that they felt out of place or noticed the great economic and social differences that existed between them outside of this building and this solemn occasion.

The opening speaker welcomed everyone and commenced the individual introductions from a lengthy list of speakers as Terrance scribbled notes. As the service proceeded, he couldn't truthfully say that anyone said anything to increase his knowledge base regarding the demised. Still, he sat quietly, listening attentively to each speaker who paraded to the podium while beginning to lose hope of hearing anyone inform him of anything new about Joseph Right.

_Do any of these people really care as the landlady claims, or are they here to be seen? When is someone going to tell me something about this man that hasn't been written in the papers already?_ The parade ultimately became tiresome. All the suits and ties essentially said the same things—a great guy, totally unselfish, always ready to help anyone, and who never thought of himself, only those he dedicated his life to helping.

Right about the time Terrance began to think that the parade of prominent personages must come to an end, his wish came true. One last speaker, notable at first only because of his dress, walked to the podium absent the fine raiment of his predecessors. His clothing was most likely purchased at a store that catered to the blue-collar working class. The worn, but clean, blue denim shirt, khaki pants, and heavy brown work shoes set him apart from the other speakers. A black man, he looked to be in his late thirties. Never to be mistaken for one of the civic notables in attendance, he exuded a calming confidence as he made his way up to the podium.

_All right!_ Terrance sensed a reason for optimism. _Finally, we'll have a first hand report. Surely this guy will know something about the man_. It occurred to Terrance that he most likely wasn't the only one there who wanted to hear something else about Joseph Right other than the great guy, wonderful civic leader stuff.

This speaker produced no cards or notes to assist him, nor did he exhibit a hurry to get started. He simply stood for a time looking out over the entire room and nodding his head as he recognized many of those present. His booming voice caught many by surprise. "My name is Isaac Diggs, and unlike the community leaders who spoke before me, you people don't know me. It's because of the efforts of one man that you don't. You see, I wasn't on the path to becoming a contributing member of this community. I was on the path that was, for sure, going to cause me to end up in prison for the remainder of my life."

"I was an angry young man and worse, I was a potentially violent young man. I had a huge chip on my shoulder towards society. I felt I was being treated as a second-class citizen by a society that didn't want me, so I bought a gun and decided I was going to do something about it. To this day I'm confident I would have except my first intended victim turned out to be a man unlike any man I have met before or since. I stuck that big ugly gun up to the side of his head that night in that dark parking lot down by the river where only the down and out and the drunkards go after dark, and I told him I was going to kill him. He said a very strange thing to me then. He said, 'Why would you do something like that to yourself?'"

The speaker paused for a moment. "There was no fear in his voice. He displayed no fear at all. I told him he had it all wrong, I was going to do something to him, not me. I heard him laugh then. He asked me again, 'Why would you do something like that to yourself? I'll simply be dead. I won't have any problems or feel anything, but you're going to have to live with this for the rest of your life. Because you thought so little of yourself, you got mad and decided to punish yourself forever. You're willing to do something so destructive that you can never take it back, ever. What a horrible thought to have to live with. Besides, if you do this, you'll be ignoring the reason that you and I are here together in the first place. Believe me, if we ignore the real purpose that gives our lives meaning, we'll never achieve anything close to happiness and peace of mind.'"

The speaker let these words soak in. "I was amazed at this man's calmness. I told him that this purpose thing he talked about was a bunch of bull. Nobody ever told me about a real purpose before. Then the guy smiled at me and said, 'Well, I guess that will be one of my jobs today, so let's get to it. First, give me that gun.' As he reached forward to take it from my hand, he said, 'You're never going to need this again.' Then the man calmly turned away and walked over to the riverbank and threw the gun as far out into the stream as he could. I remember being amazed at my lack of resistance. I just stood there. Something about this person's actions—his calmness, his sense of purpose completely disarmed me in every way. When he returned from the river bank and got into his beat up old van, he backed up to the spot where I stood, pushed open the passenger door, and told me to get in, and I did."

"I had no idea where we were going and when I finally asked him, he simply told me we were going to find my purpose. You know where we started that search? It was standing behind a soup kettle at the homeless shelter ladling soup to hungry and homeless people. Day after day, that was my only job. I asked him how long I had to do this because I hated seeing all those poor, hungry, pathetic people with that hopeless look standing in front of me. The guy would smile and tell me to be patient. It was coming. So I asked him what _it_ was. Again, he told me to keep working and be patient. So I did. I was desperate, and I knew I had nowhere else to go but back to that riverbank to try and find that gun. I stood there day after day for a month not saying a word to any of the hungry people who kept coming up to that soup bucket. That is until one day when this thin, ragged, red-eyed old man who came in for a meal several times a week stood before me with his tray—cold, weak, and half-starving. As I reached forward to ladle him some hot soup, the only food he would get that day, he said something that cut through me all the way to my hardened soul. He said, 'I don't know why I keep coming back here to bother you folks? I don't have anything or anybody to live for. Probably be best if I just froze to death out there under that old bridge.'"

The big man stood unmoving for the longest time. When he did start to speak again a distinct quiver in his voice could be heard. "I don't to this day recall thinking of the words that came out of my mouth for the first time as I stood there behind that big kettle nor did I make a conscious decision to say them, but they came out. I said, 'Hold on there, old-timer. Don't go giving up yet. We've all got some purpose for being here. You keep on coming back; you're always welcome here.' The force of those simple words coming from my mouth transformed me right then and there. I realized I wasn't alone. Instead, I was a member of the human race. Just like every person on this earth, I had a purpose for being here, and he was standing right in front of me—scared, lonely, sick, hungry, and in need of a good word from another human being. Right then, I became completely human for the first time in my life. That hungry old man helped save my life that night some eighteen years ago. Helped me to go on from there to dedicate my life to helping my fellowman—by serving soup, by searching under the bridge on cold nights to bring people inside where they could survive for one more day, and by going on to start several businesses that provide opportunities for people who need jobs."

Halting yet again, the speaker reached into his hip pocket for a handkerchief. Then without any hesitation, he wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose. After replacing the handkerchief, he continued, "I'll never forget that night or the look of relief on that old man's face as long as I live. Just as I will never forget the man who stood before me without fear that night long ago down by the river under the bridge, a good man who saw something other than a crazy person with a gun threatening to kill him. A decent man who knew exactly what he was doing when he put me behind that soup bucket and kept telling me to be patient and wait for the purpose I was looking for to be revealed. No, I will never forget that man, and I will certainly miss him. Miss him as I have never missed anyone else in my life. For that good, decent man was Joseph D. Right, and I will always cherish his memory, and for as long as I live, I will try to live up to the lofty standards of decent behavior he instilled in me and so many others. Thank you Joe, I miss you, my old friend."

Not a person moved. Terrance had his wish. Here was something new. "Well okay," said Terrance rather smugly. "This will help." Maybe he would be able to put something interesting together after all. Now he needed to get back to the office and check on the private investigator's information from Joplin.

## CHAPTER NINE

Terrance exited the building as soon as the service ended and ran for his vehicle. Flush with the added story information gained from the service, he now wanted to get back to the office and see if the private investigation agency produced any useful information. Surely something of interest happened to the guy back in Missouri prior to his coming to Kansas, twenty-odd years ago. Given his exemplary record, he must have gotten his start by doing something similar back in Missouri. This story, with a little luck, most likely necessitated but a few more hours of his time.

He looked behind him to judge the distance between him and the other attendees and experienced a sense of relief as he verified his substantial lead. Just ahead, his trusty Cherokee waited to take him back to the office. But a surprise awaited him as he approached his vehicle and found none other than Mrs. Bidwell, the landlady, standing by his car. His curiosity swept over him. _What had prompted this unexpected meeting?_ She spotted him at the same instant and locked her gaze upon his approach.

"Well, hello there, Mrs. Bidwell. Are you waiting to see me? How did you get out here so quickly? I thought I was the first one out of the building."

"I move a lot quicker than most people expect, I reckon," responded Mrs. Bidwell tersely. "Wanted to see what you thought of the service before you got away and started to write your story. So, what did you think?"

"Well," said Terrance still surprised at finding her waiting for him, "I thought it was a real nice service. You were right about how highly regarded he was in the community. Every individual of importance in the area made an appearance today—very impressive."

"Uh-huh," she responded nonchalantly. "Anything else impress you?"

"Well," he began again, "I was most impressed with the comments of the last speaker. In fact, that gentleman's story touched not only me, but I believe, everyone at the service. I intend to include much of it in my story."

"Good," said Mrs. Bidwell curtly, "but if I know anything about reporters, which I believe I should having been married to a newspaper man for forty years, I expect you're still looking high and low for more. All this good stuff you've heard here and everywhere else isn't going to be enough, is it?"

"As a matter-of-fact, I'm awaiting additional information from his place of—"

Without warning she cut him off. "You know, I remember what it was like to be young and suffering from the _full of's: full of_ energy, _full of_ questions, _full of_ self, _full of_ ambition, _full of_ book learning, _full of_ just about everything except one important thing. You know what that is? It's patience. One thing very few young people are ever _full of_ is patience. Just the slightest provocation and they're out the door going full speed to who knows what end and often with but the slightest hint of direction or purpose. Then, when they run into a wall or some dead end, they just turn right around and head back in another direction at an even faster pace, only to end up at another dead end. Young people absolutely amaze me. The sheer amount of energy they waste is staggering."

By this time Terrance looked befuddled. He didn't know what to think, so he simply stood and stared at his lecturer awaiting her next salvo of octogenarian erudition. Not seeing any sign that she intended to continue, he ventured a response. "What? Have I missed some-"

But again, she cut him off. "Possibly you remember what Cato the Elder said, 'Patience is the greatest of all virtues.'"

"And surely you've read Shakespeare and recall his lamenting, 'How poor are they who have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees.'"

"Please keep this in mind as you go forward with the story you're going to write about Joseph Right. I'm sure all this makes no sense to you at the moment, but in due course you very well may have a moment to pause as you're confronted with certain information. At that time it might serve you well to recall what I've just now told you. If you have any doubts about what you're proposing to do, don't hesitate to contact me."

Completely confused by now, he couldn't formulate a sensible response. So again, he stood and stared, much like a deer when surprised to find itself in the middle of the highway looking into the headlights of an oncoming automobile.

Mrs. Bidwell started to leave, but hesitated to complete one last task. "Oh, by the way, here is an old photo of Joseph when he was a young man. Sorry, I don't have a more recent one to give you, but you don't expect things like this to happen."

Then she turned and walked away leaving Terrance to collect his wits. Afraid she might return with another lecture, he hurriedly departed.

## CHAPTER TEN

"What was that all about?" groaned Terrance as he pulled the Cherokee back onto the street. "I'm supposed to be patient as I write a boring story about a guy who lived his pathetic life alone, except for the times when he fixed soup for losers who lived under bridges? I'm supposed to go back to her for more of her nonsensical prattle if I get confused when writing it? If I go back, it will be because I'm as nuts as she is!"

Not able to put the experience aside, Terrance ask himself, _Are all old people, in some way at least, a little eccentric? What about the professor? Wouldn't most people consider his recent interest in horse racing somewhat odd given his background?_ Terrance recalled other strange instances concerning old people's odd habits. Many of them said the same things over and over again, not remembering they already told you the same story earlier. Plus, they find humor in the corniest things. Get a bunch of them around a newspaper comic section and you might think you're at a laugh fest. The comics are designed for five year olds not eighty year olds, but they sit and giggle over some fictitious, lazy, and totally uncooperative fat cat's antics for hours.

"Another thing, what's the deal about the eyes that first night at her house? So my eyes are different colors, and she's one of maybe ten people in the world who know the correct medical terminology for the condition. What if it is an inherited trait? I'm adopted. I didn't even know my real parents. Finally, what has all this got to do with anything concerning Joseph D. Right?"

His mini-rant completed, Terrance returned to the important matter at hand—getting information together as soon as possible to enable him to finish this increasingly annoying story. "Now where am I? Right, I need to get back to the office and see if the information from southern Missouri arrived. With any help at all from that source, this story will be history. No one, except those people living under the bridges, will care in a week anyway. Life goes on. Someone else will have to make the soup now. Maybe that big guy who spoke last at the service will want to come in and take his place. He seemed to have gotten some good out of the experience some years back."

He pulled into the newspaper's employee parking lot and glanced at his watch. It was just after 1 p.m. After parking and exiting his vehicle, he retraced his steps of the previous day. He again wound his way past the rows of cubicles until arriving at his own six-foot by eight-foot operation center. Without hesitating, he sat down in front of his computer and pretended to get busy so as not to invite any of the staff or his supervisor to seek him out.

Ignoring company policy, he checked his personal calls and e-mails first. He drew a blank when checking his voice mail for personal messages—nothing but job related stuff there, and that could wait. Next, he went on line to check his e-mail and found more unimportant stuff. He saved the personal message from Jessica, or Jess, his steady girlfriend as well as a message from a female attorney friend who, of late, showed an unusual amount of interest in his life. He would have to read them and get back to them later, especially his girlfriend whom he hadn't talked to in three days. She most likely wanted to know why he hadn't contacted her lately.

Fortunately for him, she never interfered much with the other things he did with his life. She was the most laid back, least ambitious person he knew. Not saying she was dumb or lazy, but rather the opposite. She simply didn't get excited about most of the things other people did. She worked at the local animal shelter for very little money and loved her job. Smart, educated, and attractive, she could be successful in a corporation if she wanted, but chose otherwise. She liked helping animals and intended to purchase land someday to provide a home for all the forsaken dogs and cats she could rescue before an irresponsible society, that refused to take the responsibility of pet ownership serious, summarily destroyed them.

Terrance couldn't help but think how unlike each other they were. Time never moved fast enough for him. He was always on the alert for a quick way to get ahead. Wanting money, power, and position, he decided he needed to become an attorney. He reasoned that wealthy attorneys far outnumbered wealthy animal rights activists. Also, she called herself a Taoist, whatever that meant. All he knew was that she sat around doing a lot of meditating or Tai Chi exercises. But for some reason, he cared for her very much. Time would tell whether or not they managed to meld together their dissimilar attitudes towards life. Something or someone would have to give in first.

He entertained a final thought on the subject before putting an end to his speculation and getting busy doing the job they paid him to do in the first place. "How is it that this world, and my life, became so complicated? I'm only twenty-four. Is it going to be like this forever?"

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

A big brown envelope, absent a return address and directed to his attention, stuck out several inches from Terrance's personal mail slot. He extricated the envelope from the slot along with several letters, as well as the ubiquitous inter-office memos that rained down upon the unlucky few that weren't supervisors of something, and then practically skittered back to his cubicle. Once situated at his desk with the envelope before him, he paused for a moment, surprised at his excitement over discovering the response from the hired snoops in his box.

_Well, what are you waiting for? There's nothing in there that's going to bite you. Open it_. With all the anticipation of a child ripping open presents under a Christmas tree, Terrance began to investigate the contents of the envelope. In no time, a several pages thick, stack of letter-sized typed pieces of paper lay before him surrounded by pieces of the destroyed envelope. The first page said nothing but thanks for the work while the following pages contained the results of the investigation. He tossed the first page aside as he started to read.

"Joseph David Right, Born 4/12/52, Joplin, Mo., Died 10/23/61, Carthage, Mo., Cause of death, Pneumonia, Buried, Hanging Rock Cemetery, Alba, Mo., Mother and father, Molly May Right and John Riley Right, also deceased. No siblings. A single living relative by name of Charles Warton Right, uncle, age 87, confirmed death of child in 1961. No record exists of any other individuals with this name having resided in this area during this period." That was it. He examined the copies of the death certificates of the deceased boy and his parents on the remaining pages.

Terrance stared at the pile of documents. "What's going on here? What does this mean?" he asked. "Nothing makes sense. There must be some mix up or a mistake of some sort." Mr. Joseph D. Right, born of the same date and of the same parents as referenced on the piece of paper he held in his hand, didn't die as a nine year old in 1961, he died three days ago in Lawrence, Kansas, at the age of fifty-one. "Are these private investigators nuts along with all the old people? Is something going around? Won't somebody I'm trying to work with start making some sense?"

An idea flashed across his mind. _Call Missouri and ask those 'so-called' investigators what's going on? Have them explain how they managed to come to such an obviously incorrect conclusion in this matter. That's what I'll do; I'll call them right now_.

The results of the call left him more befuddled than before. He'd gotten right through and after the investigator listened politely to his ranting reaffirmed the original findings. Joseph D. Right died at the age of nine in 1961. He was positive of the information. When asked to explain the existence of a fifty-one-year-old corpse with the name of Joseph D. Right cremated only this morning in Lawrence, Kansas, he suggested Terrance consider investigating the possibility of this being a case of stolen identity. The person cremated this morning couldn't have been Joseph D. Right.

Utter confusion reigned. "What should I do now? Go to my boss and explain the entire crazy affair to him? What if I'm wrong? I will surely lose all credibility. He will assign me to do stories on street closings and shopping center openings, forever."

"But, what if I'm not wrong? They will probably take the story away from me if this is all I have. One of the graybeards would get this baby, for sure. I will still end up writing about street closings and store openings, anyway. Either way I go, I lose. I need some time to figure out what to do."

Terrance thought hard as an idea began to form. An idea precipitated by Mrs. Bidwell's telling him to come back if he ever got to a point where things didn't make sense—like right now. She must have known he would find out about the stolen identity. She offered to help if he needed it. Right now no one else knew about this or the private investigator's report but him. To give himself some time, he could write the piece as if the private investigator report never existed. He could tell his boss he hadn't found out anything from that end as of yet. His boss might scream some, but other, more urgent, matters would keep him too busy to dwell on it for long. He could then take his time and uncover the entire story. This might be his long-awaited big break.

The more Terrance thought about it, the more sense it made. He could pull this off. However, he needed to get back to the crazy old lady before making a final decision. He needed her assurance that she would cooperate with him.

Within minutes, Terrance's trusty Cherokee slid to a stop in front of Mrs. Bidwell's house. He jumped from the vehicle and started running towards her house before forcing himself to slow down so as not to appear excited. As his feet touched the wooden boards of the front porch, the front door opened to reveal Mrs. Bidwell standing there staring at him as if she expected to see him.

"What took you so long?" she said from behind a cold stare.

Bypassing the customary pleasantries, Terrance jerked the screen door open and entered into the foyer. "Mrs. Bidwell, what's going on here? Who was that man cremated this morning? I have a suspicion you know something about this."

"Could I offer you some refreshment?" countered Mrs. Bidwell, not to be put off by this young man's rashness.

_Not this time_ , he thought. "Mrs. Bidwell, I'm really on the spot here. I don't know what I should do. Should I go ahead and report what little I know? Like the fact that, the person cremated this morning wasn't the real Joseph D. Right or possibly try to delay the story until I can get all the facts and tell the whole story. What I need to know from you, Mrs. Bidwell, is will you help me to find out the whole story?"

Mrs. Bidwell turned and walked into the sitting room and sat down on the antique couch. Without commenting, Terrance followed behind awaiting her response.

"Mr. Butler," she said with all the formality one could evince through a tone of voice, "you are, as I am sure you're aware by now, at a point where should you choose to proceed pell-mell with the creation and publishing of this particular story, you run the certain risk of undermining a lifetime of good work by a very fine human being. I'm hoping you'll choose not to do that."

"I'll admit to you there is an interesting story here, but it involves the lives of many people who stand to be greatly affected by whatever is eventually reported, it must be brought forth in a timely and accurate manner. I want to emphasize again my caveat regarding the number of individuals this has the potential to effect. These effects may be far reaching. You personally may live to regret going forward with your plan to publish what you learned about Joseph Right for the benefit of the insatiable curiosity of your readership."

"Keeping that in mind, should you choose to continue with this joint venture of sorts, here is what you may expect from me: I will not sit here and feed you my version of this story so that you can simply run back to your paper and print it and be done with it. You must expect to invest yourself personally into discovering what happened here to cause things to turn out the way they have. I will provide you with information, any facts that I am aware of—and other clues along the way, so that you may discover the true story for yourself."

Mrs. Bidwell halted for a moment as Terrance allowed the force of her comments to sink in.

"I now suggest that you take time to consider what I have proposed to you. It's a very serious undertaking. Its ramifications go far beyond the mere inconvenience of your losing a job that I imagine you care little for anyway. Think about it tonight. I'll know your answer when I read the paper in the morning. Have a nice evening."

## CHAPTER TWELVE

The two weeks since Howard returned from his earlier trip to Missouri seemed but a painful blur. Nothing had changed since Whitney's funeral regarding the deep sense of personal loss he felt. At times, he imagined not being able to go on another hour—not another half hour—not another minute. The pain tore at his heart. Yet, each time he came close to giving up, he recalled Richard's treachery. When that happened, he experienced the single emotion that came closest to duplicating the intensity of pure unconditional love—hate. Not the everyday kind of hate, but the kind of hate that sucks the breath from your chest and refuses to be forgotten until avenged.

Now two weeks later, in his car heading back to southern Missouri under the guise of needing to check on a potential real estate investment in northeast Oklahoma, he reviewed in his mind the next steps in his plan to inflict nothing less than total annihilation upon his boss, Richard Whiting. These final conclusive steps would not be put into motion until Howard learned the exact whereabouts of his son. For that reason alone, Richard remained alive today. "But not for long," whispered Howard to the surrounding emptiness. "Not for long."

Far off in the distance, the muted red glare of the setting sun hovered right above the seemingly interminable miles of interstate stretching out before him. Another six hours of driving remained before he reached his destination, the city of Springfield, Missouri. Once there, he would embark upon the next stage of his hurriedly organized, but never-the-less, completely plausible plan to exact personal justice. He completed the first stage during the earlier trip when he discovered the burial site of young Joseph David Right. From there, he went to Springfield, the largest city in the area, where he rented a small trailer house on the outskirts of town for six months—cash paid up front. The new name on the mailbox slot installed by him the following day read, Joseph D. Right. Now on his second trip, he hoped to finalize the process of establishing a new identity.

Howard innocently learned about the process of stealing the identification of a dead child sometime before and thought at the time it seemed a simple procedure to accomplish. He never imagined the need to do the same thing someday. If successful, and he would know that as soon as he opened the mailbox upon arriving in Springfield, the next step required him to proceed with establishing the background of his new alias. Everything began with finding the right deceased child's grave. The child needed to have been born around the same time as the person doing the stealing. Plus, this child's death needed to have occurred before he ever got a driver's license, a Social Security number, a job or went to high school, played sports or got his name in the paper. Essentially, before the child had an opportunity to do anything he might be remembered for later. The fact that the parents were deceased and buried in a cemetery out in the country with their gravesites showing no indication of having been visited recently helped also.

The information on the headstone provided everything required for creating an entirely new identification. You have the name, date of birth, and most importantly, the mother's maiden name—all on the tombstone. This information can be used to request a copy of the deceased child's birth certificate. With the birth certificate, a driver's license, Social Security number, passport, library card, and bank account can be obtained. All the essential forms of identification associated with a living person can be acquired this way. If his scheme went as planned, the resurrected Joseph D. Right would have all of these, and more.

The anticipation of looking inside the mailbox and finding a certified copy of the young boy's birth certificate caused Howard to keep his foot firmly on the gas pedal. Another two hundred fifty miles and he would know. Until then, he was alone with his thoughts that vacillated from hatred to sorrow. When not thinking about the many details of his unfolding plan, he thought only of his love for and his loss of Whitney, finding his son, and killing Richard—nothing else, because nothing else mattered.

With a feeling of relief, Howard pulled his car into the small trailer park outside of Springfield, Missouri, several hours later and came to a stop along side the small trailer. He rented the trailer for the sole purpose of having a street address where all of the documents he proposed to secure for the new Joseph D. Right could be delivered. Quietly, he exited his vehicle and approached the door to the trailer. Right in front of him at eye level, he caught sight of the all important mail slot through which the postman hopefully deposited his, or more correctly, Joseph Right's mail. He unlocked the trailer door allowing it to swing outward towards him. Without ascending the steps to gain entrance into the trailer, Howard leaned forward from the waist to get a better look at the carpeted floor inside the door. Did the essential document necessary for him to complete his plan arrive? Only the dim glare of a streetlight half a block away attempted to provide him with any assistance. He leaned farther into the doorway searching. A large envelope lay on the floor. Did it come from the State of Missouri Vital Records? Emboldened, Howard reached forward, grabbed the large envelope, tore off the flap, and retrieved the single document inside—a certified copy of Joseph David Right's original birth certificate.

He stared at the document as if he doubted its existence. Right then, his resolve to complete his mission became even stronger. "Okay Richard," he whispered, "now I'm coming after you."

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"What am I going to do? I need to make a decision right now," said Terrance as he traveled the route from Mrs. Bidwell's house back to the pressroom. Only this time, every single nerve in his body felt completely frazzled. Nervously, he glanced at his wristwatch; it showed 2:53 p.m. If he decided to go ahead and write the article in order to meet the deadline—the safe thing to do—he needed to get started now. Writing the article and telling what he knew to this point, including the discovery that the person known as Joseph D. Right for the last twenty-plus years was, in fact, a fraud made the most sense. However, a voice from somewhere inside whispered, "Don't do it. This might be your big break. Besides, if they print the article they'll still assign the follow up story to one of the veterans. You'll still be left out of the investigative reporting."

Terrance couldn't make up his mind in the Cherokee; he wanted to go to a quiet place and think without being interrupted. Where could he go? It came to him in a flash, the river levy. The road on top of the levy ran for miles down the north side of the river, devoid of any human presence except for the occasional jogger. He wheeled around and headed straight for the downtown bridge. Light traffic this Saturday afternoon informed him the local university football team must be playing out of town.

Once parked, out of the car, and onto the wide path running the length of the levy, one thing became instantly clear to Terrance—he hated the thought of turning this story over to someone else. It might be his big break. However, if he decided to develop the story himself, he couldn't mention anything about his discovery of Joseph Right's identity fraud. If he did, he would lose the story and his chance to land the big one.

There was another important thing to consider. If he went through with this crazy plan, did he really have the guts to finish it? If he got scared and blew the whole scheme, he could foresee getting into a lot of trouble. Certainly, he would be fired and end up with a blemish on his employment record. Something like that could prevent him from attending law school, as they required valid character references. If his current employer refused to vouch for him, his application to law school would most likely be denied. A botched scheme could have far-reaching consequences. This required an honest gut check here. Did he have the nerve to do this?

It occurred to Terrance then, as never before—that wanting something was one thing, but possessing the ambition to go after what you want is something entirely different. He'd heard it said often in his young life, "If it was easy, everybody would be doing it or would have it." They don't, not by a long shot. He saw more clearly now that true ambition amounted to more than wanting something; it meant being willing to risk what you have, to get that which you desired. People didn't do what he contemplated doing because they simply wanted something. They did things like this because they craved the rewards to be gained more than those things they now possessed. They had to do it. Did he?

This may very well be a pivotal point in his life if he decided to take advantage of this opportunity. Could he rely on the old lady, Mrs. Bidwell? Was she for real? Did she know something more as she suggested she might? Could he trust her to help him? If she ended up knowing nothing and merely played the part of a meddler, he could be in big trouble. She possessed the ability to blow this whole thing wide open if she wanted.

A chill ran down his spine. Her remark, "This will have far reaching and serious ramifications—many people will be affected by what is found out and reported here," unnerved him. What did she mean by "serious ramifications?" Was she referring to him being sued, ending up in trouble with the authorities and going to jail, or getting physically hurt? Was he up to such a task? Was he that ambitious?

Terrance stopped for a moment and scanned the scenic river vista before him. Everything looked so serene. _Humans are certainly strange creatures_ , he determined as he allowed his mind to wander away from the weighty matters before him. _We humans sure have a talent for complicating things. Wonder why we can't all simply sit down and leave well enough alone?_

"Enough of that," he scolded himself. "Figure out what you're going to do." As he admonished himself, he remembered to check the time, almost 4 p.m. He turned back towards the bridge; a decision had to be made. He gave himself until he got back to the car. He had no more time. By the time he got back to the car, Terrance arrived at something at least resembling a decision. He convinced himself to delay a couple of days to try to get a better read on this thing. He planned to stall his editor by telling him the story required more time to verify certain information. He would not let him know about the stolen identity report just yet. He knew a butt chewing awaited him for not getting the story together by tonight, but it would be worth the trouble if it played out like he hoped. Starting Monday, he would thoroughly grill the landlady. He would find out if she knew anything more and what she meant by "serious ramifications."

Terrance experienced a slight sense of euphoria from the decision he'd made. Maybe he hadn't committed completely, but he hadn't rolled over either. That kept him in the game and gave him a chance to become a player after all. Then another idea hit him. After he broke the bad news to his editor, and assuming he still had a job, he'd call Jess and make plans to see her that evening. Being with her always took the stress away. She knew how to get him to lighten up. That sounded like an excellent plan. Already, he felt his confidence building.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_That wasn't so bad_ , thought Terrance as he drove south out of town towards the estate where Jess lived as the caretaker. His boss did scream, and he did threaten to fire him if he ever failed again to produce a story in the allotted time. Terrance, to his amazement, stayed calm all during his boss's histrionics. At this point, the only thing his boss could do was fire him. Although unemployment would not help matters at the moment, leaving this loser job was a foregone conclusion as soon as he found something better. If he came up with the funds to go to law school next year, fulltime work here would not be possible anyway. He simply could not afford to get caught lying.

Terrance decided to put the matter out of his mind for the evening. Having made the decision, it served no purpose to keep going over it. Monday would be soon enough to meet again with Mrs. Bidwell—the X-factor in the deal. "Now don't start on that either," he reminded himself. "Tonight it's only going to be me and Jess."

Terrance put the matter to rest for the moment as he caught sight of the driveway leading to the estate. His girlfriend worked for a very nice couple. _As wealthy as they are, they could afford to be nice_ , he reasoned. But regardless, they treated Jess like their own daughter. She lived in the caretaker house, which, in most respects, was a sight better than the houses most people lived in. Since the owners traveled extensively, Jess had the whole place to herself most of the time, that is, except for the horses, dogs, cats, pigeons, geese, and a single billy goat.

Jess loved it out here. The natural setting and the open spaces fit her personality. Terrance suggested she might want to come into town and live with him in his garage apartment, but she refused the offer for a couple of reasons. First, she liked being close to the animals, and secondly, she didn't like the idea of playing house without any indications of a more permanent commitment from Terrance.

He grimaced at the sudden realization that he held the future of their relationship at length because of his unwillingness to make a commitment. He typically didn't feel comfortable around people who couldn't make up their mind. To admit to being one of those persons unsettled him at times. _I've got to get something going here as soon as possible_ , he decided. _I'm almost twenty-five years old. I need to begin to take some chances if I ever expect to get anything big going_.

Arriving at the driveway entrance as he finished the thought, he slowed the Cherokee down to navigate the sharp turn into the drive. He passed over the open livestock barrier and headed up towards the house sitting atop the tree-lined ridge an eighth of a mile away. The scenic setting could easily have been taken from the pages of any travel magazine. Terrance always stared so long he usually missed the turn leading west from the main house to the caretaker home.

_This will be good for me_ , he assured himself as Jess's house came into view. He really should devote more time to this relationship. Jess embodied everything a guy could want in a woman: head-turning attractive with long black hair, a very well-proportioned, yet athletic body, great disposition, funny, intelligent, rigorously honest about everything, especially, his lack of emotional maturity, and apparently, inordinately fond of him. He reaffirmed his earlier comment regarding the need to pay more attention to this relationship, but just then recalled the unfinished business with his lady attorney friend and possible admirer. He cautioned himself, "Better not jump too fast here. It's always best to check out all opportunities first."

That could all be dealt with at another time. Right now, he wanted to see Jess. He saw no one in sight as he brought the Cherokee to a stop in the middle of the large open area between the barn and the house. He exited the car and began to walk towards the back of the house some fifty yards away.

"Where could she be?" he asked, still not seeing anyone. "Hey Jess, where are you?" he yelled as he turned a complete 360 degrees hoping to catch sight of her. He knew not to expect her to be inside if daylight lingered and any animals needed tending. "Well, where—" He stopped dead in his tracks with his words caught in his throat as he heard a sound that sent shivers through him.

_Baaaaaaaa-woooooooooo!_ In a flash it came to him. He knew he'd made a horrible mistake. _Baaaaaaaa-woooooooooo!_ Terrance looked back to the car. He'd parked too far away; he could never make it. He had left himself totally exposed—no need to try to run. "How could I have done such a stupid thing?" He scolded himself as he recalled his earlier conversation with Jess during which she reminded him not to arrive until after 7:30 p.m. He hurriedly looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes early, damn!"

_Baaaaaaaa-wooooooooo!_ The frightful noise sounded much closer now. Fear clouded Terrance's thinking. His mind raced attempting to recall some emergency procedure that might afford him a small measure of defense against the onrushing beast. Suddenly, it came to him—stop, drop, and roll. That's it. That's what he would do. It made no difference that this particular defensive procedure applied to individuals who found themselves in the inconvenient position of being on fire. It sounded official, and besides, he couldn't come up with anything else in a pinch. So he did it.

Actually, this move probably prevented some serious injury to his person. Just as he fell to the dirt and rolled onto his stomach while covering his face with both hands, a one hundred seventy-pound-beast leapt over his now prone body. Terrance exhaled a palpable sigh of relief as he realized he'd averted an injury, at least, for the moment. However, in but an instant, his attacker returned—nudging, pawing, pushing, licking, and slobbering him, all in an attempt to get him face up on the ground. Already, layers of slobber matted the back of his neck and head. His new knit polo shirt doomed to be collarless if the beast had his way. Surely Jess or even someone back on the highway, an eighth of a mile away, heard his primal screams by now.

"Harvey, you big dope, get off me. Now quit it. Do you hear me? I said quit it!" Harvey, Jess's monster St. Bernard, didn't respond; he loved to play around with Terrance on the ground. He didn't realize he weighed one hundred forty pounds more than when Terrance first taught him how to play this little game. To make things worse, Harvey, by now, had succeeded in getting his big nose under Terrance's torso, attempting to turn his favorite playmate over onto his back so he could slobber on the front side of his head. Though the front of his torso was now exposed, Terrance felt that the worst must be over. Harvey would tire in a minute, surely.

Terrance, in all the excitement, forgot about Fifi, Jess's equally bad mannered French Poodle. She followed Harvey everywhere and got into, at least, a part of every fight once Harvey had gotten the best of whatever was being attacked. She locked her teeth onto to the cuffs of Terrance's new Chinos. It didn't help that both dogs were sopping wet from the baths Jess had been giving them when he arrived early.

In Terrance's mind, at least, this assault went on for a bit longer than necessary, considering that Jess must have become aware of his presence at the same time these ill-mannered creatures did. She didn't arrive at the scene of the assault running. Quite the contrary, she sauntered up as if out for a Sunday stroll.

"What time is it?" asked Jess casually as she knelt down by Terrance's side.

"What do you mean what time is it? Get these beasts off of me."

"Not until you tell me what time it is," responded Jess defiantly.

"Okay. Okay. I know I'm early. I admit it's my fault. Now please, get them off me."

"That's right. You never listen to me. I told you I'd be bathing them outside and to not come until after I had finished. So just remember, you caused this." As she said this, she took both dogs by their collars and pulled them away as best she could. Not an easy task when considering she only weighed about one hundred fifteen pounds. Also, the task became even more difficult when she started to laugh. Lightly at first, but as more of Terrance's disheveled person became exposed she saw how messed up his clothes were, and the laugh turned into a cackle.

His humiliation complete, Terrance sat up revealing a dirt covered face framed within globs of matted blond hair. His new knit shirt's collar hung dangling from one side with the original cream color but a memory. Dirty beige described the color now. If clothing were mission essential, they wouldn't venture out this evening, for sure.

Terrance assessed the damage to his person and then turned to face his attackers and their still unsympathetic handler. "Aren't you even going to offer to help me up?" whined Terrance. "Can't you see I'm in pain here?"

"I suppose I could," responded Jess as she restrained her laughter, "but that would mean I'll have to let go of Harvey. You sure that's what you want me to do?"

"No. No, don't do that. I can get up. In fact, you just stand there and hold him until I get to the porch, okay? Now don't you let him go, you promise?"

He pushed himself off the ground while never once taking his eyes off the grip Jess had on Harvey's collar. He could see how much fun this little incident provided her and did not put it past her to allow the beast a second shot at him.

"Now don't you get any cute ideas! I'm watching you."

Terrance backed away, and not until he got to within ten yards of the porch, did he spin and sprint for safety. Ecstatic at his successful escape, he lapsed into a rendition of an end zone touchdown dance until he recalled forgetting to bring the pizza with him from the Cherokee. No way would he be going back out into the middle of that combat zone. "Hey Jess," he yelled, blatant sarcasm apparent, "you want to grab the pizza out of the Cherokee on your way in?" A deep sense of foreboding at the prospect of running the same gauntlet appeared on Jess's face. "I'll just grab a quick shower while you figure out a way to do that, okay?" His laughter pierced the cool early evening air as he turned for the door.

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"What in the world is wrong with that animal?" asked Terrance, exasperation apparent in his voice. "He keeps on staring at me and moaning. I'm the one who got mugged."

They were all situated in the comfortable living room. Terrance looked no worse for his experience. A long hot shower and one of Jess's terry cloth robes had assuaged his earlier sense of personal injustice. Add several slices of the deluxe pizza he'd picked up on the way out, and he felt to be in fine fettle.

"It's because you're ignoring him," answered Jess. "You know how much he enjoys your company—he lives for it. And look at you—there you sit eating all the pizza without offering him a bite. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Saying that, Jess promptly arose from the sofa and took one of the remaining slices of pizza over to where Harvey lay grieving. She bent down and laid the slice on a piece of newspaper in front of the huge sad-eyed dog. Still, Harvey made not even the slightest move towards the offering.

"See, now unless you're a heartless creep, you better get up and come over here and pay some attention to him." Leaving the piece of pizza on the floor, she returned to the sofa where Fifi eagerly awaited her.

"You know you're really a weird and goofy dog, don't you?" said Terrance taking Jess's cue. Harvey's head rose off the floor at the sound of Terrance's voice coming in his direction. "Now if I get up and come over there and rub that big head of yours, you're not going to attack me again, are you?" Harvey hadn't a clue as to what Terrance said, but he understood the tone of voice. With brown eyes shining, tongue hanging deceptively still out the side of his mouth, he sat up, anticipating something good happening.

Terrance didn't disappoint him. Coming over and sitting beside him on the carpet, he rubbed Harvey's big head and hand fed him the slice of pizza. Harvey acted as if he resided in doggie heaven as he finished the hand fed meal and laid his big face across Terrance's terry cloth covered knee. Then as he always did, Terrance massaged the top of Harvey's head as the easily pacified critter partook of an after dinner snooze.

_This is it_ , thought Terrance as he took inventory of his surroundings. _This is what I always hoped for_. He often envisioned this scene of Jess sitting in a comfortable room located in a quiet out of the way place absent the city noise. Across the room a beautiful young woman smiled at him. The dim light provided by the candles placed on the mantel above the fireplace didn't allow him a clear view of her near perfect facial features, but as they were etched into his memory, the dim light proved sufficient. She completed the perfect picture.

After soaking up the experience, Terrance made his move. Ever so gently lifting Harvey's big head from his thigh, he laid it on the carpet. Then slowly, so as not to awaken his devoted friend, he moved towards the sofa. Jess's eyes displayed equal anticipation as she observed Terrance's attempt to make his escape.

Sometime later, after the passions of youth were sated for, at least the time being, the realities of life again took up residence in the forefront of Terrance's consciousness. He hadn't intended to return his thinking back to his real life predicament but as he made his way from the bedroom into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, he glimpsed one of the many sayings from the "Tao Te Ching" that Jess posted throughout the house. He frowned as it reminded him again of the great differences in their basic outlooks on life. The saying before him contained in a frame and sitting on top of the fridge, typified their divergent beliefs.

"Deal with the difficult while it is easy;

Deal with the great while it is yet small;

The difficult develops naturally from

the easy, and the great from the small."

"What is that that supposed to mean?" he asked as he stood before the open fridge. "It doesn't make any sense. That's what this whole country is all about—wanting and getting things. People didn't cram onto small boats hundreds of years ago and leave their homes in Europe and Asia to come all the way over here to a new and often hostile country to just sit on their behinds and get nothing. They had a whole lot of that where they were." He'd tried a number of times to talk some sense into her, but she wouldn't understand.

He finished pouring a glass of cold milk, closed the refrigerator door, and turned around to sit down at the kitchen table to enjoy his drink. As he did this, he noticed, sitting in the middle of the table, another framed saying from the same book.

"Nature does not possess desire;

Without desire, the heart becomes quiet

In this manner the whole world is made tranquil."

"I'm going to get a headache," Terrance moaned as he laid his head forward into his hands. "Why is she doing this to me?"

"Doing what?" asked Jess from behind him.

"Oh nothing," replied Terrance, surprised at Jess's sudden appearance. "I was merely mumbling to myself again. You know how I do that from time to time. How come you're up?"

"How come you're up?" came back the quick response.

Terrance had to think for a moment. Why was he up? "I suppose I wanted a glass of milk to settle my stomach. And of course, I always enjoy attempting to decipher these ever so clever bits of wisdom you've strategically stashed around the house. Do you actually believe what this stuff is saying?"

"With all my heart," said Jess in a tone of voice that indicated no offense taken.

"I believe you actually do," said Terrance in return, likewise indicating his acceptance, for the present, of her different way of thinking.

"How are things going at work?" asked Jess directly, as if she wanted to get straight to the point. "Are things going okay?"

Terrance was surprised at the suddenness and the tone of her inquiries. He sat looking at his glass of milk sitting before him on the table before responding. The first thought that came to his mind cautioned him not to waste time trying to lie to her.

"How do you do that?" he asked, surprise apparent in his voice. "How do you know every time something a little different is going on in my life?"

Jess pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. Terrance knew by her actions, she really didn't want to divulge any of her feminine secrets. "You always get this peculiar look when something is going on in your life that has the potential to cause stress." Pausing for a moment, she continued on, "Well, actually, it's more of a dumb look than a peculiar look. Never-the-less, it's different," she concluded, apparently deciding it would be okay to divulge this one secret. "See there! You just did it again. Why don't you just fess up and tell me what's going on? I'll find out sooner or later anyway. Maybe I can be of help before anything gets out of control, if you know what I mean." This last statement sounded like a reminder.

Terrance squinted at the veiled hint relating to one of his recent miscues. "Oh, now don't worry; it's nothing like that. I'm not about to go and get myself mixed up with another get rich quick scheme, especially one that involves trying to 'sell short' on the stock market. I've learned my lesson there, believe me."

"Well, what is it then?"

Terrance hesitated, "Give me a few more days on this and I'll be able to give you a better idea of what I'm hoping to get going. Right now, it's all up in the air. I don't completely know who or what all is going to be involved. I've given myself the next few days to try and determine if there's anything to the idea or not. Just give me these few days, and I'll tell you everything, okay?"

"As long as it doesn't have anything to do with that professor's gambling scheme. That thing scares me. Does it?"

"No, believe me when I tell you, it doesn't. And I promise to tell you everything soon."

"I believe you. I always believe you. Even when I know you're not telling me the whole truth, I believe in you." Jess smiled, "Someday soon I hope you will, too."

Terrance smiled back knowingly. "Enough of this, let's hit the sack. I'll need my rest if I expect to wrestle with Harvey all morning long."

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The drive back into town the next afternoon didn't produce the same pleasant reveries as the drive out. Terrance always experienced a sense of loss whenever he and Jess parted. Did he love this sweet beautiful woman who provided the only calming influence in his life? When they were together he found his thoughts less chaotic. Things in general were less confusing. _Would they ultimately be able to work out their different points of view towards life? Was there room for compromise?_ he wondered. This, too, for now must remain an unanswered question.

This last thought caused Terrance to recall the small, decorated gift bag Jess had handed him through the car window as he took his leave. She always gave him little presents. Reaching over to the passenger seat, he put his hand into the small paper bag and extracted the single item it contained—another framed saying from the "Tao Te Ching," her favorite book. Raising the small, tastefully mounted frame up to where he could see it, he read the adage's first stanza.

"If you are without, there is room to receive.

If you possess much, fear of loss will

confound you."

_What am I to do?_ Terrance pondered as he drove along. He planned to be successful, to be somebody, and to acquire wealth and property. He didn't intend to go to law school, and then turn around and become a drop out and go out to live in the woods with a bunch of fellow dropouts. For his entire life, he'd maintained this same dream. This promised not to be an easy decision. Maybe this is where the lady attorney who kept calling him came into the picture. She had certainly displayed an interest in him, and based on the nature of their conversations, he suspected it involved more than their mutual interest in the law. She could be of great help, but how far did he want to take it? He shook his head then looked back at the inscription again, "What did it say about becoming confused?"

Minutes later, the Cherokee rolled through the side streets taking him to the entrance to the alley running behind the professor's home. This brought another matter to mind—the deal where he went back and forth to the track for the professor. This, also, gave Jess some cause for concern, no matter that he only invested his time. The professor provided all the money and did all the brain work. A sweet deal as far as Terrance was concerned; the easiest money he'd ever made. May all his future endeavors be as simple and as profitable as this one. If Jess had a problem with this—what other problems loomed on the horizon?

Catching sight of his lair in the distance, Terrance felt a sense of relief. Putting all this aside and getting back to the other, more urgent matter at hand—Mr. Joseph D. Right, appealed to him at the moment. Terrance had to be ready to hit the streets running tomorrow morning. All his plans must be in order to keep from wasting time. Within two days he had to determine if this story rated a go or a no go decision. He allowed no time for confusion now.

As Terrance came up to the corner of the garage and prepared to pull into his assigned parking spot next to the building, he noticed the professor sitting outside behind the house. He appeared to be reading the newspaper. _Or, better yet_ , Terrance thought, _he might be preparing for the next Pick Six trip_. That would be fine with him. The _big one_ could be out there waiting for them. No matter what, he intended to find the time to perform his part of the deal. With the professor's luck, he might pull off the _big one_ someday soon, and Terrance didn't plan to be left out.

Terrance got out of the Cherokee and walked over to the rear patio to say hello to the professor. The best he could tell, the professor hadn't noticed his arrival. As he neared, the reason became clear. Daily racing form in hand, along with pages of notes scribbled on a large legal tablet, the professor went about his business of planning his next assault on the track. "Well okay, let's go for it," mumbled Terrance under his breath as he came closer.

"Afternoon professor, I see you're hard at it again. Just yell when you're ready; I'm set to go whenever you need me," said Terrance as the startled handicapper became aware of him, "and as you always like to say, 'we're due.'"

"Well, hello there Terrance. I didn't hear you come up. Guess I'm simply too engrossed in this next effort of ours. You're exactly right my son, we most certainly are due. Remember to keep that positive attitude, and we're sure to prevail; I'm quite sure of it. I'm on a mission you know. Sit down for a minute and tell me how things are going. I'm forever interested in people who are still involved in the everyday affairs of the real world. Contrary to what most young folks think, we older citizens aren't only interested in sitting around in rocking chairs and talking about the grandkids. Do sit down."

Terrance laughed as he took a seat in one of the white whicker chairs close to the professor. "What's this retired stuff? You do more now to help people in this community than any five hundred people I know. If only five percent of the current work force would retire and keep as busy as you do in community affairs, most of the social ills confronting this country would disappear overnight."

"You give me way too much credit," responded the professor, "but I do want to be of service to my country and to my fellow man. So, I do what I can. Say, have I shown you my plans for the family shelter I'm planning to build as soon as we hit the _big one?_ I've already picked out the land north of town. Figure we're going to need at least a quarter section, what with all the horses and cows we will be taking care of. Kids need to be closer to nature and animals, I believe. Too many of them simply don't know what to do with themselves in these cities. That's why I'm out here doing this today; I need to hit the _big one_ so we can get going on it. Way too many kids are getting lost or left behind in these cities where life is moving faster and faster each day. Here, take a look."

Terrance politely declined the offer as he'd seen these same plans a dozen times before. All the drawings and schematics, along with cost projections down to the last nickel, made this a first class plan. The whole thing might work if the professor got the start up money—and who knew, maybe he would someday. "No thanks, professor. I've seen them before. And I hope you're right. I won't keep you from your work, I only wanted to say hello. I've got to get inside and get busy myself on a project that has come up. I suppose that right at this time we are both men who are on missions." Terrance rose from his chair. "But as I said earlier, I stand ready to make the Kansas City run whenever you need me to. So, just let me know."

The professor sat for some time staring after Terrance as the young man took his leave. He was very fond of this affable youngster, especially since they had one big thing in common—both were dreamers. Not daydreamers entertaining flights of fancy but likeminded souls who maintained a vision of another way of living, a different way of thinking about life. But, as a more mature person who had witnessed seventy-plus years of the vicissitudes of life first hand, the professor also knew that to live constantly in dreams of tomorrow, one risked missing out on the only true thing that exists—and that is today. He intended to keep a watchful eye on his impetuous young friend.

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_No. That's it. No more coffee. I'm already feeling the caffeine. I won't stand a chance of getting any good information about Joseph Right if I show up as flaky as the old lady_ , reasoned Terrance while sitting alone in a fast-food, drive-through restaurant the next morning preparing for his anticipated confrontation with the landlady. During the previous, mostly sleepless night, he made the decision to either get valid information from the old lady this morning or else divulge everything he knew to his boss. No more fooling around with all of those unrelated questions about his hair, his eyes, his name, his birthplace, or anything else. If she didn't come clean with some credible information telling him how to find out the true story behind this guy's phony life, his scheme ended now.

He looked at his watch again for the tenth time in the last two hours. It read 8:41 a.m. or four minutes later than the last time he checked.

"That's it; I'm going over there right now. I can't just sit here any longer not knowing what's going to happen. We're either going to do this, or we're not." In an instant, Terrance got up and headed for the door, weaving his way through a group of retired patrons as they milled around the condiment counter before settling down at nearby booths for their daily chat sessions. All of a sudden, it seemed as if all the elderly people in the world intended to do their best to get in his way. _Where did they all come from so suddenly?_ he asked himself while politely pushing his way through the chattering group of elders.

Within minutes of having gotten his car out of the parking lot, he pulled up in front of the house wherein lay his fate. She had to have received the paper by this time and seen for herself that he hadn't gone ahead with any part of the story about Joseph Right. Seeing how far out on a limb his skinny butt was she surely must have expected him. His instincts told him right, as there she sat in the wooden swing on the large front porch. He leaped out of the car as soon as it came to a stop and bounded across the yard not bothering to go the few extra steps to find the sidewalk.

He dispensed with all formality, and put the deal before her. "Mrs. Bidwell, I'm sure you've seen the paper by now, so you know I've committed myself to this story. In fact, my rear end is only a few inches away from a buzz saw. So I need to know right here and now if you have any information for me that will cause me not to turn right around and go back to the office and print this story, revealing everything I know to this point?"

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Butler?" inquired Mrs. Bidwell in her usual socially accommodating tone of voice.

Terrance expected this diversion maneuver and deflected her attempt to put him off again. "No. No, I wouldn't, Mrs. Bidwell. I will once more attempt to convey to you how close I am to going forward with the scant, yet sensational, information that I have. Now do you have anything new for me? I need to know right now."

For the first time the old woman's expression conveyed something other than cordiality. Her eyes grew cold and her glare left no doubt as to her changed attitude. The tone in her voice matched the coldness of her stare. "Mr. Butler, you've no idea of the seriousness of the affair you're so intent upon getting yourself involved in. And I also know you're bluffing. You want this story badly, and you will do almost anything to get it. Let me tell you right now, walking away is the best idea you've had, but you won't do that because you're an ambitious young man. You want it all. You believe this may be that big break you've been looking for. You will pay no heed to Shakespeare's wise admonishment to, 'Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts.' Am I right?"

You could almost hear the hiss as the air went out of Terrance's big plans. She'd nailed him straight on. He reacted the same way anyone else would when they have been laid so wide open. He sat there quietly as the truths revealed to him only moments before sank in. _She's right_ , he admitted silently. He needed this story, and he was prepared to risk almost anything to get it, especially a job at some small town newspaper. Having admitted this to himself, he decided to admit the same truth to his suddenly not so bucolic conspirator.

"Okay, you win. What you said is true. I do want this story badly, and I _will_ do almost anything to get it. But, one thing you might want to keep in mind is if it's not me who gets the story, whomever they replace me with will not, most likely, have any interest in holding off until they know Mr. Right's side of the story. They will put it out as quickly and dramatically as they can and not worry about why something happened in the past. They are in the business of selling papers, and this will help them do just that."

They sat looking at one another for sometime as they both reoriented themselves to their new relationship as co-conspirators. Terrance knew instinctively that the next move belonged to Mrs. Bidwell. For the first time, he realized, she also needed him. This story held importance for both of them, if for vastly different reasons.

Suddenly, as if someone hit a switch, the old lady's expression changed back to that of the congenial hostess. "Mr. Butler," she said softly, "I believe we understand one another completely, and I believe we are in positions to help one another. Let me warn you one more time, though, this is a very serious affair. If you or anyone else goes blithely snooping around into the past events of Joseph Right's life, they may be surprised with the response they get. There are certain people and organizations still interested in many of the events that surrounded Joseph's early life. As I understand it, they are ruthless, potentially violent people who will not hesitate to fall upon anyone who might be able to shed some light on certain historical events. If you choose to go forward with this story, your personal safety may be in danger. You will have to be discrete throughout or you will be found out. I can and will provide you with certain facts as I know them and other bits of information, but you will have to investigate and determine their true validity. Are we still in agreement?"

A wry smile crossed Terrance's face for the first time. "Yes ma'am, we're in total agreement. So where do I start searching?"

Again, Mrs. Bidwell took her time before responding. "I would encourage you to begin your investigation in Harmony, Illinois. The individual you will want to find out about is Howard Lansing Douglas, born March 14, 1951 in Holden, Illinois."

"Was Joseph Right formerly Howard Douglas?" asked Terrance hurriedly.

"That's what you're going to find out for us by either going back there and checking things out first hand or possibly by employing those amazing Internet services I've heard of. That will be your decision, but again I warn you, there more than likely are people in various locations still very much interested in the whereabouts of Howard Douglas. I expect they will have any number of informers positioned at all the obvious agencies around the community. So, I'll say it one more time—be discrete. Don't let anyone know your real name or where you're from. Never mention the name of Joseph Right to anyone in relation to Howard Douglas. Don't expect me to confirm our relationship, for I will disavow any knowledge of what you're doing. Don't call me on the phone, as I will not talk to you except in person. Agreed?"

"Yes, I agree to do exactly as you say," responded Terrance.

Mrs. Bidwell seemed pleased with Terrance's answer. "Wonderful. I'm sure we'll get along well on our little adventure. So, stand up and take off your shirt so I can see if you're wired. Go on! Take it off! And I'd advise you to consider this as your first lesson in maintaining tight security. I'm waiting."

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_Four months? It's been four months since Whitney's funeral_. Howard shook his head in disbelief as he sat alone on his patio with his personal grief tearing at his insides. Numerous times daily since the horrible event, he resolved that life wasn't worth living any longer. Yet his determination to exact retribution from those he held responsible for Whitney's death banished such thoughts from his consciousness.

"Not until all of them have paid for what they did," Howard said to himself.

The cool evening air made scant impression on Howard as he recalled the events following the funeral. After meeting with the stranger, Howard had traveled to the Ozarks in search of a new identity and to establish a base of operations from where he would execute his plan of retribution. Having completed those parts of his scheme, he then devoted the last three months to secretly implementing the multitude of details involved. While doing this, he gave every impression to Richard he had gotten past the tragedy and was continuing on with his life.

At no time did he let on that he knew anything about Richard's involvement. This surprised him more than anything else—being in the same room with the man, hate boiling within him, and not letting on that he intended to kill him in the most violent way imaginable. But before he experienced the satisfaction of seeing the expression on Richard's face as he fired all the bullets his handgun would hold into his sick brain, additional tasks awaited completion.

Reminded of his mission, Howard rose from his chair and went through the patio doors heading for his private office. He could still work on a number of things tonight. For certain, none of them involved his job with the company that fronted for the Mexican cartel. As far as that job, he only went through the motions. Other employees observed a man going full speed ahead, keeping his many and varied tasks in good order. But they were wrong, and if his plan of revenge couldn't be fulfilled in the near future, his almost complete inattention to his normal duties would soon be discovered. Though by then, it would be too late for anyone to save this doomed ship from Hades.

Sitting down at his desk, Howard took out a small key from his pocket and unlocked a heavily reinforced desk drawer. Opening it, he retrieved a leather bound portfolio containing an outline of his complete plan of attack. Howard reviewed the lengthy list, gratified to see most of the major items were completed. He had established a phony construction company with Richard listed unknowingly as the owner of record. This new company regularly submitted phony invoices for work and materials furnished on all the projects under way that Howard oversaw. Revenue coming into this sham company, ultimately, made its way into several off shore bank accounts owned by shell corporations also set up by Howard. Once deposited there, these funds escaped the oversight of practically everyone in the world.

Sizable amounts of cash generated from Howard's skimming from the numerous businesses used for laundering cash from the cartel's other illegal operations also accumulated in these off shore banks. Add to that the sizable amounts of dollars Howard stole through the use of bogus land option payments, the grand total residing in the off shore banks located in the southern hemisphere amounted to well over a million dollars.

Satisfied with the progress of his scheme, Howard reviewed his overall plan. When would he be able to pull the plug? When would every item on the list be completed and ready? Looking at his calendar, he chose September 30, 1981. "Two more weeks," he decided. "Everything can be finished by the end of September." Taking a red magic marker, he circled a day. October 1, 1981. Sitting back, he allowed the date to settle into his mind. Henceforth, this would be a special date for him. This would be the date that Howard Douglas ceased to exist. But more importantly, it would be the date that Richard Whiting would die a violent death.

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

Terrance steered the Cherokee onto the interstate heading east towards Kansas City while simultaneously becoming aware of the excessive amount of time spent lately in his vehicle. This trip, extending over the next several days, would only serve to reinforce this observation. By his best estimation, the trip to Harmony, Illinois, required, at least, sixteen hours of driving to get there and back.

Terrance had hoped that most, if not all, of his planned foray into real investigative journalism could be handled via the Internet—but no dice. The online archives went back no more than seven or eight years in most instances. Heeding Mrs. Bidwell's warnings to not let on to anyone his interest in anything regarding Howard Douglas left him only one alternative, to get in his trusty Cherokee and head out. He realized that with each additional step this whole thing became more perilous, especially in relation to his future as an employable human being. But he wasn't about to stop, this story had potential, and he knew it.

After he left Mrs. Bidwell's, he'd devoted most of his time getting approval for, or informing people of, his investigative trip to Missouri. Or at least, that's where he told everyone he intended to go. Maintaining his pact with Mrs. Bidwell, he couldn't tell them the truth about going to Harmony, Illinois, to check out a Mr. Howard Douglas. After he visited with his still irritated boss to convince him of the necessity for him to personally go down to southern Missouri and root out the truth about Joseph Right, he checked with the professor to find out when he needed to be available to carry the bet to Kansas City. The professor planned on making a run at this coming Friday's Pick Six, so he had to be back by no later than mid-day Friday to handle that little chore. The professor even went so far as to make Terrance promise to be available. He had "a real good feeling about this one," he said. That left but one person to inform of his false agenda, Jess. Terrance considered telling her the whole truth, but chose not to at this time, deciding to be consistent with his intrigue for the moment. Besides, she'd worry if she knew the whole truth. _So really, I am lying for her benefit_ , he rationalized. Still it worried him—they ought to try to straighten things out between them before too much longer. Terrance made a mental note to do that as soon as he finished with this assignment.

With hundreds of miles still ahead of him, Terrance allowed his mind to wander among the many areas that might be of the least bit of interest to him. He reflected on his job, of course, and how he mostly hated it. This weird story with all its potential for disaster appeared as a life raft to him at the moment. He'd been adrift upon the vast sea of a meaningless existence for what seemed forever. He needed this.

In no particular order, thoughts about Jess, thoughts about law school, and thoughts about the professor's big plans and dreams occupied most of his thinking. He even thought about his being adopted and speculated on whom his real parents might be. Were they still alive? Did they know his whereabouts? Had they ever taken the time to find out what he looked like? Would they ever try to make contact with him? Would he? Finally having allowed his brain free reign for several hours, his thoughts settled into thinking about what he planned to do once he reached Harmony. Or maybe more importantly, what could he accomplish without announcing his presence and intentions? This required some forethought.

Terrance waited until the St. Louis metro area reflected in his rear-view mirror before he set about constructing a plan of action. He had to gain access to old newspapers right off, but he realized going to the local newspaper office only increased the likelihood of tipping someone off. The public library provided the solution to this problem, for they had every copy on file for the last hundred years, most likely. Going back to 1981 and 1982 should be a snap. He also planned to go by the local high school and check the yearbooks for the late '60s and early '70s to see what information might be available there. Realizing all this could take a lot of time, he decided to direct his efforts to the time periods most likely to provide the information he sought. That should get him started and once he got going, surely, other ideas would surface.

Terrance's earlier high level of excitement began to wane as he drove on through the late afternoon. He looked forward to finding some shelter for the coming night as the late fall sun ended its long day's journey by descending lower on the fading horizon appearing in his rear-view mirror. Suddenly, he thought about Jess. Right now, he missed her—her calmness, her sense of equilibrium. An obvious thought occurred to him, _What are you doing away from home on this crazy adventure? Why aren't you home with Jess? Why aren't you satisfied with what you have?_ Then, just as quickly, the thoughts vanished. Terrance's ambitions wouldn't allow such idle notions to remain for long. Jess had told him before, "One day your limitless ambition might very well be your undoing."

"But," he said aloud as the Cherokee journeyed into the heart of the state of Illinois, "Somebody will know I've been here. They will, at least, know that I gave it my all. Very possibly, I'll fail in my quest to be a success, but I'll have tried."

A road sigh appeared—HARMONY 67 MILES. No more time for second guessing now; another hour and he would be in the game. Searching the center console, he retrieved a fake driver's license that he remembered to bring from home. He purchased it from the friend of a friend of a friend over a year ago for what reason he couldn't remember, but it looked legitimate, and as far as the people he came into contact with in Harmony, his name would be James A. Walker of Topeka, Kansas.

## CHAPTER TWENTY

Terrance experienced no difficulty securing sleeping accommodations at a small motel close to the interstate, right inside the Harmony city limits. As he sat, blurry eyed, on the side of the bed the next morning, he fervently wished he'd been more discerning when choosing a place to rest for the evening. There must have been a parade lasting most of the night outside his door. Loud people, coming and going, and even louder vehicles, driving in and out aimlessly, sabotaged his efforts to get much needed rest. Based on the way he felt this morning, he estimated he slept no more than a couple of hours the entire night. He felt exhausted and his mind labored as if it crawled through mud. He checked the time; the clock read 8:45 a.m. He somehow had to pull himself together if he expected to be downtown when the library opened at 10 a.m. He reluctantly pushed away from the side of the bed towards the shower. A hot shower and several cups of truck stop coffee offered his only hope.

After securing a community map from a rack at the truck stop and purchasing the largest, hottest, blackest cup of coffee he ever hoped to find, he drove towards the center of the city. Cautiously, he sipped the steaming hot liquid. "Next time get a lid, you idiot," he said aloud between sips. "If a semi broadsided this car right now, I guarantee this scalding hot coffee will do more harm than the truck." Still, he sipped the liquid as quickly as possible, trying not to burn his tongue. He needed the caffeine to stimulate his brain by the time he reached the library.

Fortunately for him, traffic consisted of only a few cars heading into the center of town, one of the numerous benefits accruing to the residents of communities of this size. The community had almost everything here that could be found in one of the huge metropolises but without the hassles of never-ending traffic jams. Momentarily, his thoughts returned to Lawrence, a city of similar size, and to Jess and how much he missed both of them right now. But just as quickly, he forced his mind to return to the immediate matters at hand.

Arriving at the library, Terrance parked close to the entrance in the adjacent parking lot and prepared to head inside. Glancing at his watch, he read 10:11 a.m. He recalled Mrs. Bidwell's admonition to be discrete as he exited the auto and headed for the door with his backpack containing all the supplies necessary to accomplish his mission. From all appearances, he fit the description of any of a million graduate students wandering the hallowed halls of learning institutions all over the country.

Once inside and after a brief conversation with a volunteer guide located in the foyer who gave him directions to the newspaper archive section, he made straight for that area of the building. He felt excited again. The coffee had worked. "Okay, Mr. Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right, here I come."

Moments later, he entered the spacious, well-lit room where they allowed access to archival information. A solitary, matronly librarian sat behind a counter, oblivious to the world's activities, gazing out a large window at the nearby schoolyard filled with noisy children enjoying their recess. Terrance's sudden appearance caught her off guard.

"Oh, good morning; may I help you?" Her pleasant tone of voice helped to put him at ease.

"Well maybe," responded Terrance, attempting not to seem too eager in his quest for information. "I'm conducting some personal research, and I wonder if I could look at some local newspapers from your archives?"

"Certainly," said the librarian. "What issues are you interested in seeing?"

"Well, let's see. I hope I can find what I'm looking for somewhere in the September, October, November period of 1981," said Terrance, again making sure he didn't sound too eager.

Hearing Terrance's request, the librarian's eyebrows arched. "Oh, are you another of those researchers doing work on the Whiting case? If you are, we can save you a lot of time. We have a complete file of all the stories that the local paper has published since the very first day. That will save you the time of having to look through all those papers for the individual articles."

Terrance's eyebrows arched revealing his surprise at her offer. "I've never heard of the Whiting Case, but apparently, it must be a big deal around here if you have a special file on it. However, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to go ahead and look through the individual copies for the information I hope to find."

Likewise surprised by his negative response, the librarian set out to retrieve copies of the newspapers available for the dates requested. As Terrance stood waiting, checking out the entire room, the librarian returned pushing a metal cart carrying three large bound folders containing the newspapers for the three months Terrance requested. She parked the cart beside him and returned to her position behind the counter.

"I'll need your driver's license. I'll return it to you when you're finished. You may use any of the tables in this room to view the information you've requested." Having said this, she waited while Terrance retrieved his fake identification card and handed it to her. "Thank you, Mr. Walker. Please let me know if you need any additional information."

After thanking her in return, Terrance turned to walk away but instead stopped and turned back to the counter. "By the way, what was so important about the Whiting case?" he asked, surprising himself that he made the inquiry.

The librarian looked up at him from a document that lay before her. "Mr. Richard Whiting was a prominent local businessman until they found him brutally murdered in his home on October 2, 1981. To this day, the case has never been solved." Receiving no additional inquiries, she returned to her business.

A slight chill ran down Terrance's spine as he considered the potential ramifications of this unexpected information. As the librarian went on with her duties, he stood in place thinking to himself. Regaining his composure, he started pushing the cart loaded with the bound newspapers over to the table farthest away from the counter. All during the time it took him to reach the far corner of the room, he whispered to himself, "Ho-ly crap! Ho-ly crap!" All of a sudden, he had a really sick feeling in his stomach. "Ho-ly crap!"

He deposited his backpack in a chair and reached for one of the huge folders, the October edition. Turning to the first page of the first paper in the folder, he began to scan each and every page in succession. Within a few minutes, he finished the October 1, 1981, edition. He found nothing of interest in it, likewise the next day's edition. But, as he prepared to turn the last page of the copy for the second day of the month, his heartbeat quickened. He knew that if they discovered the Whiting guy on the second day, the story had to come out on the third. This next page is where it all started. What shocking information waited for him on the succeeding pages? Did his guy have any part in this? But then, he remembered what the librarian said, "To this day, the case has never been solved." _So they don't even know who did it_. Becoming irritated, Terrance admonished himself to settle down, read the papers, and let the information speak for itself.

Turning the page, his eyes opened wide at the amount of space devoted to the Whiting story, the entire page. PROMINENT BUSINESS LEADER MURDERED. Information pertaining to about every part of the murdered man's life followed. The story began with the grizzly details to the extent known. The maid found Whiting the morning of October 2, 1981, flat on his back in a pool of blood in the basement of his palatial home located on his fifty-acre estate north of town. Someone shot him in the head so many times that even the police officers who knew him found it hard to identify the body. Living alone without any nearby neighbors, no one heard or saw anything. The case mystified the police. Why did this happen? Whiting's reputation described him as a fine, upstanding citizen and community leader who attended church regularly. Not one time during the entire forty-two years he lived in the community had he ever been part of any trouble.

The entire community saw this as a great tragedy. Subsequent articles recounted his numerous civic activities over many years as well as his numerous business activities. He owned much of the land in the county. He also maintained extensive commercial property investments, which included shopping centers, office buildings, warehouses as well as several large apartment complexes. Most of his business activities operated through his corporation, RTW Holdings, Inc., a local company.

The requisite comments from other civic leaders gushed forth. "It's a tragedy," "A great loss," "A great friend of the community," "An irreplaceable leader," "Who could possibly do such a horrible thing?" "No effort or expense will be spared in bringing the murderer or murderers to justice."

Taking a break for a moment, Terrance pondered the situation. _Should I be taking notes on this guy? Was Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right somehow mixed up in this?_ A decision must be made before he went further. He didn't want to have to retrace his steps later if it turned out that a relationship existed. Nor did he want to be seen lugging these big books up to the copy machine or going back and telling the librarian that, in fact, the Whiting case did interest him and could he look at the file after all. He went with his hunch; he began taking copious notes.

Every day for the next week produced a recapitulation of the first day's information. The authorities added nothing new to the case. By the time he reached the middle of the second week's editions, he conceded this had nothing to do with his case. Without knowing exactly why, this came as a relief to him.

He finished scanning the local newspaper for October 12, 1982, and made another decision. _One more day. I'll keep making notes on Whiting for one more day, and if nothing conclusive comes up to connect my guy, I'll forget about it_.

As he expected, the next day's paper gave him nothing new, so he ceased taking notes. He had to get moving. Pushing his pens and notepads aside, he quickened his pace to make up for the time wasted to this point.

_Okay then, let's look at day number thirteen_. Terrance flipped over to the next day's front page. The headline confronting him had a difficult time penetrating into his consciousness. RTW VP MISSING—WANTED FOR QUESTIONING. His thoughts began to race. _Richard Whiting owned that company. A vice president is missing? Who is this vice president? They're only now finding out this person's missing? What's going on here?_ Hurriedly shifting his eyes to the article located below the headline, he scanned the sentences without taking time to try to comprehend their meaning. He only cared about one thing right now—the name of the vice president. When he caught sight of the name, he, at first, didn't trust his eyes. He looked away from the paper before turning back. "HOWARD L. DOUGLAS, VICE PRESIDENT, RTW HOLDINGS, INC. is wanted for questioning in relation to the Richard Whiting case. He has not been seen since leaving for vacation on October 1, 1981. Expected back from vacation this past Monday, to date he has not been seen. Anyone having any information pertaining to the location of Mr. Douglas is requested to contact the local police department."

Terrance's heart pounded so hard it almost beat a hole in his chest. _What do I do now?_ All of a sudden, his earlier plans didn't seem to make sense. He didn't know what he expected when he started this crazy trip, but in his wildest imagination, he never expected this. He was sure of that. He might very well know the answer to this twenty-year-old unsolved murder mystery. _Where's his picture? I need to see a picture of this guy_.

Terrance shifted his gaze to the lower part of the page. The vice president's black and white photograph left him with no doubt. The unmistakable face of a young Joseph Right stared back at him. "Ho-ly crap!"

He realized he needed to take a time out, to walk away for a few minutes to get his thoughts together. His head spun with so many thoughts circling furiously in his mind. Getting up from the table now covered with all his personal materials, he walked over to the counter and spoke to the librarian.

"Excuse me, ma'am, would it be all right for me to take a short break while leaving all my gear on the table? Would you keep an eye on my things for a few minutes?"

The librarian barely glanced up as she nodded her consent. Outside the main entrance he took a deep breath in appreciation of the cool fall air.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

After a minute or two during which his recently discovered inclination for harboring paranoid thoughts ran wild, Terrance started to regain his composure. "Okay, okay, I think the point has been made. Now what? Are there legal ramifications here? Should I go immediately to the police and tell them I know where they can find their long missing leading suspect? Maybe I should pack up now and get home as quickly as possible and file the story. Think now. What should I do?"

Terrance paced back and forth in front of the library entrance trying to figure out his next move. Several ideas crossed his mind as his thinking became less chaotic. First and foremost, he admitted he didn't know if his guy committed the murder. Secondly, there probably are additional facts concerning this case awaiting his perusal of future articles that will shed more light on this whole affair. Lastly, the most important thing for him to do now is to calm down, go back inside, and gather all the pertinent information that's available. Only then, could he make an intelligent decision as to what must be done.

A quick stop by the restroom followed by the hurried consumption of a can of cola out of a machine, and he headed back inside ready to get at it again. _The caffeine should help_ , he reasoned. He reentered the archive room to find everything exactly as he left it. The matronly librarian sat in the same place behind the counter and barely bothered to glance at him as he passed. Likewise, all the papers he left spread around on top of the large table appeared the same. Satisfied things were in order, he hurriedly sat down and started back to work.

Stories about Howard Douglas monopolized the papers for the next week. All the background information Terrance might ever want appeared before him: Howard Douglas's birthplace, his birth date, and information telling of his tragic boyhood including the deaths of his parents that forced him to go live with his relatives on a small farm a few miles outside of town. The stories told about a good, hardworking kid determined to get ahead, who worked multiple jobs all through high school and college while still managing to make the honor roll every year, and how he came to be so well liked by everyone who got to know him. This went on and on until Terrance tired of reading about it. At a point where he thought of skipping ahead to see if anything new developed, the story changed.

The local police admitted to withholding information that, now released, added about ten degrees of heat to this ever-expanding murder mystery. According to a police report mysteriously made public—Howard Douglas disappeared into thin air. Upon inspection of his condo, the police found everything Howard owned, except his car, still present and accounted for. His wallet, identification, credit cards, and cash were still there. His clothing, suitcases, jewelry, golf clubs, photography equipment, and even his house keys were there, also. Stranger yet, the lights and TV were on, and the condo sat unlocked with the patio door open. All his financial information, including safety deposit box keys, savings bonds, bearer bonds, and stock certificates lay untouched in file drawers. _If the guy intended to make a run for it, you'd expect him to remember to take some money_. But according to his bank, not a single large withdrawal occurred in the last year. Not the kind of evidence one expected to find in the house of a missing murder suspect.

Terrance sat back to consider this new information. _Whoa! Did this guy know how to disappear, or what? But why did he just walk away like that if he didn't kill Whiting? And why did he turn up in Lawrence, Kansas, as Joseph Right only a month later? He couldn't have gotten all that accomplished in one short month while on the run from the law and with no known means of support. He had to have planned this ahead of time. That's probably where southern Missouri comes in—he must have gone there well before to get established_.

Terrance continued on in an attempt to resolve this dilemma. _Okay, here's the way the story lays out based on the evidence available. Howard Douglas, a fine and upstanding young man in this community for his entire life, one day decides to brutally murder his friend and benefactor, Richard Whiting, for no apparent reason. In preparation for this act of insanity, he travels to a community several hundred miles away where he proceeds to steal the identification of a deceased nine-year-old boy, and subsequently, builds himself an elaborate new identification. After he completes this criminal act, he returns to Harmony, Illinois, where he proceeds to shoot his boss and friend, Richard Whiting, in the head so many times that it's next to impossible to identify him but for his fingerprints. Then to top off this wild scheme he travels, not back to southern Missouri, but all the way to Lawrence, Kansas, where he spends the latter years of his life making soup for homeless people_.

Terrance pondered this scenario for sometime and came to the conclusion that if his assessment came anywhere close to describing what actually happened, and why it happened, then Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right had to be one of the stupidest people to ever set foot upon this planet. That caused him a problem because based on all that he'd learned about Howard Douglas of Harmony, Illinois, and Joseph Right of Lawrence, Kansas, neither of them fit the description of a stupid person. There had to be something else. Terrance turned back to the newspapers again, looking for more.

This time it required him reading only a couple more copies of the October editions of the paper before he found his next nugget. According to an ambitious local reporter who more than likely wearied of writing about the same things over and over every day and had the gumption to find some new sources of information, Howard had experienced a personal tragedy months earlier. The story went that Howard's fiancée mysteriously left town for whereabouts unknown two and a half years earlier, and try as he might, he could never learn from anyone, including her family, where she went or why. Since they appeared inseparable, her unexpected leaving made no sense to anyone that knew them, and according to close friends, this devastated Howard. He never gave up hoping that one day she would return. As it turned out, she did return, in a casket. She committed suicide while living in Dallas, Texas. Reportedly, this almost destroyed Howard and still no one came forth with any answers as to why any of this happened.

_Now this might be something_ , thought Terrance. Now he had a case where two educated, intelligent young people, all of a sudden, did something completely out of character. "What was her name again?" he asked as he looked back through the article. _Whitney Ann McClain, age at time of death, twenty-six; time and place of death, May 11, 1981, Dallas, Texas; Birthplace, Harmony, Illinois, August 21, 1954_.

Terrance saw immediately they both had experienced hardships in Dallas. _Looks like she went there to die, and I was sent away from there because someone didn't want me. I want to see your official obituary. I want to know more about you. What did Howard see in you? And, I would especially like to know why you gave up on life. Something tells me the answer to that question might very well have a lot to do with this whole story. Am I right?_

This information and more appeared in the next several editions of the paper. Absent anything new, the local reporters rehashed all the information uncovered up to this point. Namely: A prominent businessman was brutally murdered. The vice president of the company owned by the murdered businessman had vanished without a trace. The estranged fiancée of this same vice president committed suicide only a few months before. While very possibly these events were completely separate and not related, they still made for strange coincidences.

The additional background information he learned about Whitney further piqued his curiosity. Like Howard, she attended the local high school and went on to college receiving her degree in sociology the year after she and Howard met. Following graduation, she began to work in the field of family counseling at a local office of a state agency. Along with this, she volunteered at the local animal shelter, the homeless shelter, and kept active in a number of inner city youth groups. She liked being physically active through running, biking, and swimming and competed in local triathlons. Unlike Howard, her parents were alive and resided near the community. Pretty much the résumé of the _All American Girl_ as far as Terrance could determine.

The photograph of Whitney printed in a subsequent edition along with Howard's, and Richard Whiting's, commanded Terrance's full attention. Even a black and white newspaper photograph couldn't conceal Whitney's attractive features. Peering at the photo displaying her straight long blond hair accentuating a thin face encompassing the classical features of beautiful women written about throughout the centuries, Terrance became mesmerized. A single feature dominated his attention—her eyes. They exuded a sense of warmth and self-confidence. Where had Terrance seen these eyes before? They seemed so familiar.

Terrance, after staring intently at her picture, scanned the text accompanying the photograph. Whitney lived in Dallas for the entire two and a half years after she left Harmony. One last piece of information accompanied Whitney's photograph. A correction relating to information reported about Whitney's participation in various civic organizations. Previous articles failed to acknowledge Whitney as one of the founding members of the Midwest Chapter of the Heterchromia Iridium Society.

Terrance stared at the paper as all manner of scatterbrained thoughts floated around in his brain. His subconscious mind, on the other hand, busily expanded its own list of odd coincidences. Whitney, too, had different colored eyes, and if she resided in Dallas for two and a half years, then she lived there at the same time he was born. Plus her straight blond hair and classically attractive facial features bore an uncanny resemblance to his.

"I need to take another walk," said Terrance as he headed outside for more fresh air.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Terrance's actions, once he arrived outside, resembled his earlier mini-freak out. He again questioned his presence in Harmony as he attempted to put aside those unsettling coincidences that continued to surface. Surely, he'd secured enough information by this time to allow him to go back home and produce a sensational story. Why should he hang around here if, as Mrs. Bidwell told him, there might be danger present?

Then a new thought came to mind. _If the danger is from Howard Douglas, still the only suspect, and Howard Douglas is, in fact, Joseph Right, and if Joseph Right is now deceased, who is there to be afraid of? The answer, obviously, is no one_.

Terrance glanced at his watch. Almost 6 p.m. He'd lost track of the time. "No," he said, "you're going to go back inside and finish this. Then you can return to the motel, sort things out, and make plans for tomorrow." He left out food intentionally as plenty of snacks were left over from his trip over from Kansas. Turning abruptly, he headed back through the heavy metal library doors. Upon reentering the archive room, he quickly took noticed of the presence of a new person sitting behind the counter. A much younger white male appeared to pay little attention to Terrance as he passed by.

"That's my stuff over there on the far table," said a conspicuous-feeling Terrance as he passed by the young man. The bespectacled, cold-eyed, new attendant said nothing as he watched him until he took his seat at the table. The seeds of rampant paranoia sewn earlier began to sprout in all directions around Terrance's receding zone of confidence. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He sensed the new attendant staring at him. Possibly, the previous attendant informed her replacement that he was researching the time period when the Whiting murder took place. _Maybe he's one of the informants the landlady talked about? Oh, just shut up and finish your work_.

Realizing there were but a couple more weeks in the November 1981, folder to review, his spirits lifted somewhat. He'd made a deal with himself on the way back in. If no additional revelations appeared in the remaining papers in the folder on the table, he was out of there. So with this in mind, he reopened the folder to the point where he previously stopped to take his most recent break. He turned to the last page reviewed before taking a deep breath in anticipation of viewing the next day's headlines. The sudden rush of air being expelled from his lungs may have caused an unknowing bystander to suspect a stomach punch precipitated it. The next day's headlines glared back at him. _WHITING COMPANY A FRONT? FBI ENTERS CASE. All RTW Holdings, Inc. Records Are Seized_.

Terrance fought to constrain himself from obeying his natural inclination to jump up and run outside to think about what he should do. "The FBI, the F-B-I?" he stammered. Now it involved the FBI. It's one thing to worry about withholding information from a small town police department, but the FBI? You don't mess around with the FBI. What had he gotten into here? _You don't have to go outside, he reminded himself. You can think it through right here_.

Before he did anything though, Terrance glanced back towards the new attendant who, in turn, stared directly back. Right then, Terrance decided to retrieve his backpack from the chair beside him, ever so slowly open it as if to be looking for something inside, and then grab all his notes, shove them into the bag, and run like crazy out the doors to his strategically located get-away car. And absent the sound of the new counter attendant's voice coming from a position of no more than three feet to his rear, he might well have made his move.

"Mr. Walker, may I remove these two folders piled here on the end of the table for you? That is, if you're finished with them," said the polite voice from behind him.

Terrance, upon hearing the unwelcomed sound, relaxed his grip on the backpack. Turning to face his imagined nemesis he forced a response. "Why, yes, thank you, that would be a great help."

He wasn't at all fooled by the obvious feigned cordiality exhibited by the attendant as he retrieved the folders and transported them to the storage room, so Terrance decided to wait for a better time to make his escape. This pallid creature, displaying an aversion to sunlight, had to be the mole Mrs. Bidwell alluded to earlier when she cautioned him to expect his inquiries to attract attention. Therefore, his research of the FBI investigation would continue as he waited for the right opportunity.

Terrance recalled reading any number of stories about other investigative reporters skulking around here and there ferreting out information. It all sounded so exciting from that vantage point. But now, as he sat in the trenches, it wasn't nearly as much fun as he thought it might be. Matter-of-fact, this may very well be the first and last time for him. But first, he had to finish the job and get out of there.

He forced himself to return to his work. Not at all an easy task, but ultimately, his commonsense prevailed. Soon entirely new words and phrases appeared before him. Such as: International Cartel, Money Laundering Scheme, Mexican Mafia, Off Shore Holding Companies, Gambling, Narcotics, Prostitution, VP Possible Victim of Foul Play, and Anonymous Sources. The story exploded right in front of his eyes. To Terrance's credit, the magnitude of this new information caused him to view everything from a more mature perspective. He now knew why Mrs. Bidwell said there might be danger. This could also explain at least part of the reason for Howard's abrupt departure, taking nothing with him as he walked out the door of his home, and never looked back. But it didn't answer the question as to whether or not he killed Richard Whiting. Possibly, he feared the cartel more than the police. To this very day as far as Terrance could determine, no one has ever accused Howard Douglas of the murder.

Terrance also realized that drawing more attention to himself would be the worse possible thing to do. He needed to be calm, finish his work, and get back to Kansas. One thing for sure, he wouldn't be making inquiries at the high school tomorrow. He had all the information he needed. However, he still wanted to take photographs of Howard's condo and the Whiting mansion, and lastly, to drive outside of town to a small graveyard to see Whitney McClain's grave. For some strange reason, he felt he must do this. _Not only is this whole thing starting to get dangerous_ , thought Terrance. _Now, it's starting to get surreal_.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Terrance's following morning wake up experience surpassed the previous day on the scale of early day miserable events. The way he felt, he hardly slept at all. This time neither human nor machine traffic outside his door caused the problem. Instead, his sleepless night resulted mostly from his resurgent paranoia run amok. Every time he heard the slightest noise, he expected it to be followed by shouts of Mexican banditos bursting through his motel room door demanding to know the hiding place of the gringo Douglas. His subsequent dreams during the short times when he slept, of being bound, gagged, and carted off via a cantankerous burro to a hideout in the high desert south of the Rio Grande for serious interrogation, helped matters even less. More and more, it became apparent that a job in the field of big time investigative journalism might not be the right career move for him in the near future.

It came close to striking the 8 a.m. hour before Terrance forced his body into the hot shower. Somewhat reinvigorated, he gathered his gear and headed for the checkout desk. A disconcerting thought occurred to him as he stood at the desk awaiting authorization for use of his credit card to pay for the room's use for two nights. He'd used a credit card with his real name and address as well as listing his real license plate number. So far, if he evaluated himself as an undercover operative, he received a failing grade. As far as he knew, the cartel owned this motel. The newspaper articles had mentioned they maintained ownership of hundreds of businesses and commercial properties in this country. _Great work moron, you may as well have come into town driving a parade float!_ This thought ran through Terrance's mind as he signed the credit card receipt while trying to pay particular attention to the motel manager's accent.

Terrance did do one thing right. He remembered to get a lid for the extra large cup of scalding hot black coffee when he again stopped at the nearby truck stop. With each sip of the hot liquid, his ability to think rationally improved. Before long, a whole host of thoughts vied for attention in his awakening brain. He gave first priority to that part of his consciousness demanding to know the cause for all the activity so early in the morning. He resolved the issue by recalling that, very possibly, any number of unsavory characters in and around this community still waited for some klutz like him to come stumbling back into the unfinished Whiting affair and provide them with the information that would allow them to close out certain accounts forever.

Having resigned himself to this most unpleasant possibility, Terrance determined his first destination would be Howard's old condo unit for a couple of photographs. From there, his route took him outside of town for a look at Whiting's former mansion. Then, barring any difficulties or last minute brainstorms, he intended to swing by the graveyard where Whitney was buried and spend a few moments there. Why this last item remained on his agenda, he still wasn't sure, but a little voice inside his brain kept telling him to do this. Right now, he only hoped he listened to a wiser voice than the one that urged him to jump up and run out of the library yesterday or the voice that told him to go ahead and use the credit card with his real name at the motel.

Confident as to his sense of direction by now, he allowed his mind to go back over the events of the previous day while he drove through town towards his first stop. Working backwards, he recalled that once he arrived back at the motel at about 8:30 p.m., his paranoia grew exponentially. Every noise coming through the motel room walls constituted a potential threat. It all started on the way back from the library to the motel.

On the lookout last evening for anything unusual, Terrance took notice of a vehicle that appeared to be making every turn he did. He purposely stayed on the major thoroughfares but after making a couple of turns, one particular vehicle stayed with him at a suspicious one-hundred-foot interval. Normal drivers never follow that far behind the car in front of them anymore. One, two, three, car lengths, at the most, are all one ever gave. Something odd was going on, and Terrance knew it. The last straw came when he sped up and turned into the motel parking lot and came to a sliding halt in front of his room. He turned off the headlights. As he expected, the suspicious vehicle behind him slowed down and, likewise, turned into the same motel parking lot.

Terrance's heart stood still for a long moment as he watched his fears materialize. He was right. They were on to him. It must have been the suspicious-looking desk attendant at the library. He had to be one of them. He probably figured it out after seeing what editions of the newspaper Terrance requested for his research. Or, it may have been the goof-up he made when he responded with, "Who?" when the attendant addressed him as Mr. Walker after Terrance returned the last folder to the main desk. No matter, they were on to him now, and he needed to come up with an escape plan. Considering all his options, he decided to fall back on his old favorite. He would wait until they approached his car and then jump out and run. It went without saying he had to devise another contingency plan. Common sense told him that jumping up and running might not be the most appropriate solution on every occasion.

With hand on the door handle, Terrance poised himself to make a break. The lights of the threatening vehicle came closer. Just as Terrance prepared to pull the lever, the vehicle passed on by heading in the direction of the motel bar, another twenty car links beyond where Terrance's Cherokee sat. He turned to watch the vehicle pass and noticed the sign on the side of the truck. BUFORD'S PEST CONTROL, _We Kill Bugs Real Good_.

He definitely needed to maintain better control of his initial impulses he reasoned as he thought back on the incident. _You don't know for sure that anyone knows you're here in relation to Howard Douglas's past. So, try to not act like such an idiot, okay?_

Up ahead, if he calculated correctly, would be the turn to Howard's old condo. He forgot about the previous day's events and reached for his camera. As he turned into the now twenty-plus-years old condo complex, Terrance started to look among the well-maintained units for Howard's old address. He stopped the Cherokee across the street from Howard's former unit where he would have a clear shot. Picking up the camera, he paused for a moment to consider how the life of the man formerly known as Howard Douglas changed since the night he left these premises so hastily over twenty years ago.

_I wonder if he ever imagined how different his life was going to turn out_. Terrance thought about this as he lifted the camera and snapped several pictures. Moments later he returned to the main thoroughfare and headed in the general direction of Richard Whiting's former estate located approximately five miles outside of town, if he estimated correctly. Again, not expecting to experience any difficulty finding his way to the next stop on his short list, he recommenced his mental wanderings. His first idea related to calling Mrs. Bidwell and telling her about the things he found out, but as soon as he recalled her telling him that under no conditions would she ever talk to him on the phone, he decided against it.

Next Terrance's thoughts drifted to Jess and his conflicted feelings regarding their relationship. What course of action made sense there? He certainly held strong feelings for her and even that monster dog. But, did he love her? Sometimes he felt that he did. He'd not been interested in any other women for sometime now, including the great-looking female attorney who seemed to be calling him a lot lately. She merely represented another option for him. More than one older woman had turned and looked in his direction from time to time. His good looks often attracted the attention of the opposite sex. This lady possibly represented a valuable connection for him one day as he went forward to secure a law degree. But, as far as being emotionally involved with a female—only Jess counted. _This is going to be a tough one_ , he admitted as the former Whiting estate came into view.

This had to be it. No other mansions appeared on the horizon for miles. It fit the description—a red brick structure with a now green copper mansard roof and miles of white wood fence. The main house sat about a quarter mile off the road on a small hill overlooking the countryside. He pulled to a stop across from the heavy closed metal gate that displayed the street number verifying the correct address. He hesitated before taking photographs. _What kind of fool were you to get involved with international criminals? What did you do to cause someone to want to murder you in such a violent way?_ Only the sound of another car passing by broke the silence. Adjusting the telephoto lens to bring the distant mansion's impressive features much closer, Terrance snapped the shutter repeatedly.

He then prepared himself for last stop on his list, the one that made the least sense of all, especially since it required him to travel twenty-five miles out of his way to get there and back. But, his inner voice insisted he make this stop, and hopefully, the reasons would become clear later on.

This time, the drive through the rolling hills of the countryside allowed him to relax completely. Still early fall, the many different varieties of trees displayed the early signs of seasonal changes. Soon, they would exhibit a veritable feast of vibrant colors most enjoyable to the eye of the fortunate beholder. Terrance pondered this and many other things as he drove along. He imagined a time when Howard and Whitney lived happily together in this place, before whatever went wrong interrupted their young lives. They must have driven these same back roads many times and saw exactly what he saw. Maybe they thought days like this would last forever?

The appearance of a church steeple in the distance interrupted Terrance's pleasant reveries. His sense of distance suggested to him that he might be arriving at his destination. He slowed down to pull into the gravel parking lot in front of the old white wood-sided church building and couldn't help but notice off in the distance a group of tall trees forming the backdrop for a white picket-fenced graveyard. The entire scene could easily have been taken from the pages of a _Currier and Ives_ collection; it appeared so serene.

With his vehicle safely parked in the empty lot, Terrance retrieved his camera and headed for the graveyard, some one hundred fifty yards away. A well-tended path from the parking lot led him in that direction. Along the way, wooden benches provided places for visitors to sit and meditate. As Terrance traversed the distance at a slow pace, he absorbed as much of the areas sounds, rhythms, and smells as possible. He wanted the experience to be completely sensory, to know the true essence of this unique location.

Terrance arrived at the entrance to the graveyard and stood for a moment, gazing upon the open eight-foot-tall double-wrought iron gates. Passing through the gates, he started walking towards the least populated area of the cemetery, a section located in the back corner closest to the biggest trees. As he neared the area, his attention focused upon a modest headstone carved out of gleaming white marble. He carefully navigated his way around to the front of the grave, as he eagerly sought out the inscription on the marker.

A shiver ran up his spine as he started to read:

"Here lies a child of God. Whitney Ann McClain. Born Aug. 21, 1954—Died May 11, 1981."

The only other inscription on the marker read:

"No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child." V. Hugo

Terrance slowly sat upon the grass; his gaze fixated upon the inscription.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

All those long anguished-filled months, Howard dreamed of seeing the sight before him. The lifeless corpse of Richard Whiting—the single person in the whole world he hated more than anyone else—lay there on the plush white carpet of the party room floor, located in the walkout basement of his mansion. He felt no pity for the almost unrecognizable pile of flesh that seemed to be floating in the pool of blood surrounding the body. The face no longer resembled anything human. Identification would have to depend upon fingerprints or possibly, the remnants of the few teeth remaining in the now protruding lower jaw. No matter who came into this room after Howard left, they faced a difficult task in trying to identify Richard Whiting.

He realized that he still held his gun tightly in his right hand. No longer needed, he placed it in the side pocket of his windbreaker and returned his gaze back to the lifeless body on the floor in front of him. The magnitude of the moment finally struck Howard. Only a short time before, Richard Whiting represented a force to be reckoned with in this community, in the lives of hundreds of employees, and in the dreams of all those ambitious people constantly seeking his attention. People envied him, admired him, resented him, feared him, and some hated him—at least one with a passion. Now, he represented nothing but another statistic in the form of a faceless, bloody pile of lifeless human flesh. And even that exceeded what Howard believed the man deserved.

A more relevant thought penetrated his consciousness. He needed to move quickly. He couldn't stand there relishing the sight before him forever. Many things needed to be done. People would be looking for him soon.

He turned and walked back towards the still open patio doors through which he entered only a short time before, exited the mansion, and disappeared into the darkness. His escape route took him towards the rear of the property, past the barns that were a full eighth mile from the main house, where he'd earlier parked his car. From there, a private farm road led from the barns to a locked gate exiting onto a secondary road running along the rear of the estate. Richard earlier gave him a key for reasons completely unrelated to what Howard had in mind when he came through it a short time ago.

As expected, Howard found no one else around. Richard tired of the livestock ownership part of being a country gentleman long ago. He didn't like animals, so he saw no reason to foot the cost of maintaining horses and their keepers on the estate. Howard always thought it something of a waste to let all this good land sit idle, producing nothing. He remembered the time when both he and Whitney dreamed of living in a place like this and having all kinds of animals around. But, like the lifeless corpse back there on the floor, that dream no longer mattered. It died long ago with Whitney.

Howard started his car and began to drive down the gravel road towards the back gate when something occurred to him. All the planning over the last months would now be put to the test. How well had he planned? Had he covered all the bases? He would find out soon enough. Stopping short of the locked gate, Howard exited the car, again unlocked the gate, opened it, returned to the car, drove the car through the gate, got back out and closed the gate without locking it, tossed the key into the bushes on the far side of the road, got back in the car, turned on the head lights, and drove away.

_Be patient now—don't hurry. Only one more stop to make and you'll be on your way_. Howard tried hard to restrain his fear of being discovered.

He looked down at the gaudy watch on his wrist and saw it was after 11 p.m. There existed little likelihood of meeting up with anyone on this road at this hour. He soon approached an old single-lane bridge spanning a wide deep creek that ran close to the outskirts of the community and brought the car to a halt in the middle of the bridge. He turned off the lights, got out of the car, and walked over to the rail, and without hesitation, took the gun out of his pocket and threw it far out and away from the bridge into the middle of the muddy stream. Then he took the trophy Rolex watch that Richard presented to him right after Howard finished graduate school and threw that into the river as well. As he got back into the car to continue his journey, he reminded himself that much more must to be jettisoned from his life before the evening ended.

Driving deeper into the countryside near the outskirts of the city, Howard approached a lonely intersection where the secondary highway crossed a gravel road. He turned onto the gravel road and proceeded another two miles before turning into a barely visible entrance way guarded by a metal gate. No other farm buildings or residences were within a mile of this place. That's why Howard leased the property—which included a large metal barn—right after he commenced his plan to kill Richard. He exited the car to unlock the gate. Then, he got back in the car and drove another two hundred yards up the rutted road to the metal building.

After he exited his car one more time to unlock the large metal door to allow him access to the barn, Howard pulled his car inside, alongside a 1979 Chevrolet sedan purchased six weeks earlier and stored here for this very occasion. With the engine turned off, he sat in the car thinking about his life in the community he now planned to leave forever. He thought about the wonderful days and nights he and Whitney shared before she went away and the horrible life he experienced there afterwards. From now on, he would only think of this town during the good times, when Whitney's presence made it a wonderful place to be.

"Best get started," he told himself as he opened the car door and exited the car leaving the keys in the ignition. He stood beside the car in the dark metal barn to say one last goodbye to the community and the life that at one time held so much promise of happiness for him and Whitney. Then, clutching only an old photo of them together, he got into the get-away car, drove out the big open door, down the road through the open gate, turned onto the gravel road, and drove away into the night, closing forever this painful chapter of his life.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Terrance couldn't believe how long he stayed at the graveyard. An invisible force seemed to hold him there. He couldn't recall what went through his mind at the time, only that a powerful sense of needing to be there held him in place. For the first time in his entire life, he felt he belonged, and that someone else knew how he felt and understood the loneliness of not knowing who you are or where you came from. A new feeling permeated his entire being, unlike anything he's ever experienced before.

After a while, the monotonous drone of the Cherokee's motor as he drove along the interstate towards Kansas brought him back to reality. _Enough of this craziness_ , he reasoned as he redirected his attention towards the serious matter regarding this ever-expanding investigation. Never in his life did he expect anything like this to unfold right before his eyes. This involved a lot more than he hoped for. It went far beyond the matter of someone stealing a person's name for the purpose of creating a new life. It included international criminals and an unsolved, twenty-plus-years old murder of a prominent businessman. He stood up to his ears in this story and started to consider if maybe he ought to try to get out of it, right now.

Did he, for sure, want to go ahead with it? What if he did write the story based on the evidence he possessed to this point? It would make headlines in Lawrence and Harmony and maybe, even get picked up nationally. But, is that what he wanted to do knowing that international criminals might be lurking in the background? Maybe there are worse things about this case he didn't know about. Maybe the cartel will try to find out if he knows more than he reports in the story. Probably, a veteran investigative reporter who lived for this kind of thing would get a buzz out of all this action—enjoy the notoriety, but not him. He didn't plan to do this job his entire life. He wanted to be a lawyer, not a once ambitious young reporter who will forever be on the run from the Mexican Mafia.

Although telling the story would undoubtedly add some much needed light to this long unresolved affair, it still didn't prove who killed Whiting. The police, if you attempted to decipher their reports in the paper, weren't necessarily trying to pin the murder on Howard Douglas. It seemed as if they suspected someone else murdered Whiting, and that most probably, they had gotten to Howard, also. And again, what reason did Howard have to kill Richard? They were friends. Whiting functioned as his benefactor and mentor.

_Or maybe not!_ thought Terrance as an entirely new line of thinking occurred to him. _Possibly Howard did not know up front when he took the job what kind of people he worked for? Commonsense said he didn't. What employer would go up to a recent graduate school graduate and ask him if he wanted to come to work for him and participate in a life of crime under the aegis of an international criminal organization? More than likely, he found out later. So why didn't he quit then? The answer to that question is the simplest of all—they wouldn't let him. Those people wouldn't wish you well and give you a good recommendation to your next employer. What Howard knew about them could have put them all in jail. He couldn't walk away. If he did, they would surely have killed him. He was in there to stay._

_Maybe Howard did have a reason to kill Whiting_ , concluded Terrance. _Possibly, he killed him for getting him involved in the whole dirty mess and for ruining his life and making it a complete fraud. Maybe that's why Whitney left him? And then, when they brought her home in a casket—what did he have to look forward to?_ For the first time it made sense. _Maybe Howard did blow the guy's face off and then run away to hide in a soup kitchen in Kansas via a quick stop in Missouri to pick up a new identity. He probably even suspected that sooner or later the authorities would find out about the cartel and blame it all on them. They would even go so far as to believe that the cartel most likely killed Howard Douglas as well. It's even possible Howard was the secret informant who led the authorities to investigate RTW Holdings, Inc. in the first place_.

"He probably did do it," said Terrance. "I would do it if the guy did that to me."

For the first time, Terrance thought about Joseph Right aka Howard Douglas in a different way. Earlier, without knowing anything about his past, Terrance had consistently thought about his subject as a good person with a mysterious past. But now, possibly, Joseph Right of Lawrence, Kansas, did commit murder during his earlier life as Howard Douglas. Terrance doubted that Mrs. Bidwell expected him to return with this kind of information. Maybe it would be best if he kept his suspicions to himself for the time being. Besides, he didn't know for sure. Maybe the cartel did do it. Maybe Howard expected something to happen and had taken the precautions of going to Missouri earlier to provide for such an occurrence. It was possible.

One final thought crossed Terrance's mind. _Regardless of what the police suspected, the cartel knew they hadn't done away with Howard Douglas. No matter who murdered Richard Whiting, they most certainly would relish the opportunity to do away with Howard or anyone else who might still be able to expose their operations—if they could but find them_.

This last sobering thought hung on as Terrance attempted to organize his timetable. He expected to arrive in Lawrence by late tonight, too late, to meet with Mrs. Bidwell. He also knew he didn't want to go home until he had a chance to reveal his findings to her and get her opinion on the whole affair. It might be better for him to stop short of town to find another cheap but well-lit motel, and then call her first thing tomorrow morning and make arrangements to meet with her. A lot of things needed to be decided upon before he let this sleeping monster out of the cage.

"Let's see, today is Wednesday. I'll meet with her Thursday morning as early as possible. That will give me tomorrow afternoon to write up the story if that's what we decide to do." The sound of the word _we_ caught Terrance's attention. Did he really intend to allow her in on the decision process? Remembering what she said to him about intending to deny any and all complicity in this matter if he tried to force the issue, he knew he didn't want to be hung out all alone with this story. From this point on, as far as he was concerned, they were partners. They either worked together, or they didn't work at all.

Terrance intended to live long and prosperously if he had anything to do with it, and he believed he still did. Getting whacked by the Mexican Mafia for his scant knowledge about a guy and a murder that happened over twenty years ago didn't enhance his cause. If he had to keep on looking for that big break he needed, then so be it.

Speaking of potential big breaks, Terrance recalled the professor making him promise to be available for Friday's run to Kansas City. That's the kind of big break that he preferred to be involved in, a simple one. Take the professor to the track and pick up the cash. But first, the professor needed to hit the _big one_ he always talked about. If he did, Terrance knew, for sure, all this cartel stuff became a historical footnote. "Come on professor," whispered Terrance.

Only one lingering thought prevented Terrance from hoping the whole Joseph Right affair fell by the wayside and that had to do with the strange feelings he'd experienced at Whitney's grave. Those feelings were unlike anything he ever felt before. Right at this moment, what they meant or what he should do about them was unknown to him. Is this something to bring up during his discussions with Mrs. Bidwell? Did she know more than she let on? Terrance remembered her surprised look that first day they met when she got a close look at his face. He cringed at the thought of his innermost feelings being exposed to more disappointment.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

_I don't think I can take too many more nights like these last couple_ , Terrance forewarned himself while peering through the motel room's curtains to see if anyone lurked outside waiting to grab him and drag him away to Mexico in the trunk of a cartel vehicle. This kind of stuff happened only to characters in books or bad movies. Not to him.

Nervously looking around the parking lot, he saw nothing unusual. If any of the scruffy looking vehicles parked out in the gravel lot of this low rent, roadside inn belonged to the cartel, they must be running on to hard times themselves.

Terrance went for it. With one swift move, he escaped through the motel room door with all his belongings, closing it quickly behind him. His key in hand, he hurriedly unlocked the Cherokee, got in, started the engine, and took off out of the lot. Back on the road, he headed towards the interstate with not a single vehicle appearing from the front or rear. He felt a sense of relief, maybe the only positive feeling he'd experienced since returning to the motel room from the nearby roadside diner last evening.

Terrance's paranoia had caught fire when a group of well-dressed Spanish speaking men came into the diner after he'd started on his blue plate special. They sat in a corner booth drinking coffee and talking softly. He suspected they'd tailed him from Illinois after receiving the description of his vehicle from the suspicious-looking motel clerk in Harmony. They probably knew all about him. He didn't have a single clue as to what to do about it except, of course, his usual first instinct where he jumped up and ran. _But run where? Outside into the dark? You know, I'm really going to have to be more pro-active about this alternate escape route idea_.

Forced into inactivity again due to the fact he didn't know what to do, Terrance picked at his food until the suspicious characters got up and left the diner. Terrance followed them to the door to see which way they went and what kind of vehicle they drove. Only after he watched their dark colored SUV head out of the diner parking lot away from the interstate, did he return to his seat. _Of course, they wouldn't want me to see them go back towards the interstate. They're probably trying to make me think I'm wrong about suspecting who they really are. Yeah right! I'll fall for that ruse for sure_.

Thirty-paranoia-filled minutes later, Terrance sat in his nearby ground floor motel room, door bolted. He'd placed every movable item in the room in front of the door to hinder the cartel thugs' efforts to burst in and abduct him if he accidentally nodded off. All night long he imagined the worst, fearing someone lurked right outside his door. By the time the sun came up, he felt more exhausted than when he first came into the room the night before.

The once confident, eager, soon to be a full-fledged member of the Society of Renown Investigative Reporters presently raced along the twenty last miles of highway separating him from the sole object of his attention: Mrs. Judith Bidwell. He didn't intend to go the most direct route, though. He wanted to do everything in his power to make sure no one followed him. The short twenty-mile trip by interstate turned out to be forty-five miles of farm roads and back streets before he arrived in front of Mrs. Bidwell's home at 7:35 a.m. Thursday morning. He hadn't bothered to call her, remembering her earlier admonishment regarding talking on the phone about this matter. Nevertheless, he felt confident about her being eager to see him upon his return.

Terrance parked his car in front of Mrs. Bidwell's house as usual, but instead of jumping out and heading towards the large front porch, he, instead, cased the entire neighborhood thoroughly. Satisfied no suspicious individuals lurked in the vicinity, he exited the vehicle and made for the shelter of the house.

Terrance expected nothing less than the wide awake, officiously polite, elderly woman who answered the door after he rang the old clanging door bell somewhat abusively. He didn't expect Mrs. Bidwell acting as if he were there to collect for the newspaper bill. He had hoped for a shared level of excitement or at least mild enthusiasm upon seeing him return safely from so arduous a quest. True to form, she stood there quietly as if she were awaiting his feeble attempt to sell her encyclopedias. _Wait till she's heard what I found out. Then she won't be such a stoic_.

"Well good morning, Mr. Butler. I'm somewhat surprised to see you so early in the day. Won't you come in?"

Terrance, still confused regarding her apparent lack of emotion, gave her a quick look expressing his consternation then bolted past her into the parlor. "You're not going to believe me when I tell you what I found out," he blurted out before his hostess had time to join him. "I mean, you're going to just shhh-er, just not believe it."

Mrs. Bidwell came into the room and sat down on one of the comfortable old chairs and bid him do likewise. Not until Terrance complied, did she speak again.

"Now, Mr. Butler, why don't you take a deep breath, calm down, and then tell me what you learned. Better yet, may I get you a cup of coffee? You look as if you've had very little sleep," she said, her voice revealing not a hint of excitement.

This time Terrance readily agreed to accept the steaming hot cup of freshly brewed liquid. He realized until Mrs. Bidwell became fully prepared it served no purpose to begin his story. So he made himself sit quietly while she completed this small chore.

Finally, with the coffee perked and poured, Mrs. Bidwell sat across from him. Terrance held a full cup of coffee and appeared slightly less rattled than when he arrived at the door. He began telling his story. Reining in his emotions, he left nothing out. He told her about going to the library and the troubling matter of the librarian knowing all about the subjects he went there to research. Then he told her about Richard Whiting, the prominent local businessman found brutally murdered at his palatial estate. Next came the part where he read about the missing vice president who turned out to be the Howard Douglas she instructed him to search for. This Howard Douglas turned out to be the Joseph Right in the photograph she had given him earlier. Following this, came the revelation from the FBI that the companies both Howard Douglas aka Joseph Right and Richard Whiting worked for operated as fronts for an international cartel. And one last thing—Howard Douglas had a fiancée by the name of Whitney McClain. She mysteriously left him a couple of years earlier and committed suicide in Dallas, Texas, only a few months before these other things occurred.

Terrance refrained from telling her about his eerie personal experience at Whitney's grave. He decided, on the spur of the moment, to wait on that. He needed more time to think about it. Likewise, he decided to hold up on exposing any suspicions regarding Howard Douglas being a killer. His newly acquired paranoia of being found out by the Mexican Mafia could also wait. He wanted her two cents worth first. What did she have to say about this unexpected turn of events? Surely, she couldn't just sit there like a stone as if nothing had changed. _Hell! International murderers might be right outside the front door at this very second. This was serious stuff_.

"So," said Terrance as he sat back in the comfortable old sofa, "what's your take on all this? As far as I'm concerned, we need—"

But she cut him off before he finished. "Mr. Butler, before we go any further with this extremely fascinating report, I want you to tell me whom you came into contact with while you were in Harmony. Don't leave out a thing. The very first thing we need to know, is did anyone know what you were doing or why you were there? Even more important, if they did—did they follow you home?"

This unexpected interruption caught Terrance by surprise. His paranoia, somewhat abated until now, kicked back into gear. She had thrown a lit match into a can of gas.

"Oh, god, I think I messed up big time," he confessed. "I tried to be nondescript, but I'm certain that the librarian was on to me. He just kept staring at me while I researched the archives. Everyone in town is familiar with this case. They know exactly what someone is looking for if they request to look at the old newspapers for that period in 1981. Plus, I really blew it at the motel when I checked in with my fake identity and checked out with my real credit card. If anyone, that's probably the guy who ratted me out. Then just last night, I figured it would be best for me not to go home, so instead, I stopped twenty miles east of here at a small motel and came straight here this morning. While having dinner last night, three professional-looking Spanish-speaking men came in and sat behind me drinking coffee. I still have a real weird feeling about those guys. Considering everything I've found out, I'm beginning to think maybe we're getting in over our heads here. I—"

"I was afraid this might happen," interjected Mrs. Bidwell. "Do you think anyone followed you here?" Her obvious change in temperament didn't go unnoticed by Terrance.

The decibel level of Terrance's voice betrayed his weak assurances. "No, no way. I'm certain of it. I drove only county back roads on my way here. No way did anyone follow me."

"You're sure?" asked a doubting Mrs. Bidwell.

"Y-yes, I'm sure," responded Terrance tentatively.

"But still," continued Mrs. Bidwell in the same cautious tone of voice, "if they know who you are, it's only a matter of time until they find out where you're from and where you live. Correct?"

"Damn! You're right," admitted Terrance, outwardly irritated at his ineptness.

"Then what do you think we should do under the circumstances?" asked Mrs. Bidwell.

Terrance had hoped to hear those words. No longer so eager to solve this mystery for the certain boost it might provide to his floundering plans of becoming rich and famous, he needed to look for some other way to get that boost. This plan created too much risk. As for the matter involving the eerie coincidences connecting he and Whitney—that too could wait until later. He now had a new plan to get them out of this mess while yet salvaging some of the story. Now, as he sat across from the landlady who voiced the same degree of concern, he intended to tell her about his idea.

"Mrs. Bidwell," he began, "as I was about to suggest to you earlier, I'm not so sure we should continue with this investigation. This whole thing is getting way over our heads. I propose we pull back and go forward with the story only to the extent that we know Joseph Right wasn't who he said he was. We put forth the evidence we have to that point. Namely, the private investigator's report from Missouri and forget about all this other crazy stuff I found out about in Harmony. I'll leave your name out of it, ensuring no one will ever know the connection between us, in case anything ever comes up. If we don't write about the Harmony stuff how would anyone know, other than us, that Joseph Right was Howard Douglas, a suspect in a murder case in Illinois?"

They both sat quietly for a time as Mrs. Bidwell considered his idea. Her expression never changed as she quietly sat sipping her coffee. Terrance, conversely, fidgeted the entire time.

"A very interesting plan, Mr. Butler, I can see that you've thought a lot about this. However, may I ask you some questions before we make our decision?" Not waiting for a reply, she continued, "For instance, if you are correct in your assertions that you were more than likely found out in Harmony and they know who you are, then even if they didn't follow you back here, as you suspect they did, it will not take them long to pick up your trail again and find out where you live, where you work, etc. Am I right?"

"Uh, yes, but—"

Again she cut him off. "If they know all that, and they see that you've written an article about a man who lived in this community for over twenty years under an assumed identity, might they not become the least bit suspicious? Even if the story is intended for local readers, who knows when something like this could be picked up nationally? Who knows who will read about this and begin to wonder if there could be any connection to the twenty-year-old Illinois murder? Who knows who will see a picture of the imposter Joseph Right—possibly those same people in Harmony who found out your true name and address? I'm sorry Mr. Butler, but I don't see how your plan will not ultimately expose us to the same level of danger. Seems to me we become sitting ducks either way, would you not agree, and if they get to you, they will eventually get to me. From what I know about these individuals, that's a risk I don't want to take. I've been told these cartel members are ruthlessly violent people."

Mrs. Bidwell stood up. "Let's get you some fresh coffee," she said while taking the cup from his hand. "While I'm doing this you can think about the potential ramifications of your pending decision. I am well aware of your reluctance to walk away from this without getting something in return for your effort."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Terrance sat quietly as Mrs. Bidwell took the cups and saucers and went into the adjacent kitchen. He heard her deposit the dishes on the counter when the phone rang. The sound of her footsteps conveyed her intentions as Mrs. Bidwell walked over to pick up the phone.

She answered the phone, not bothering to address the caller by name. "Hello...Yes, thanks for calling me back so soon." Her words became more difficult to hear. "I can't take any chances. I'll need to find out for sure." Terrance then overheard her say to the caller. "So, I am going to need some help...Now, if you can...Very good, thanks."

Terrance listened as she hung up the phone and returned to the counter where he again heard the sound of cups and saucers being placed on a tray. A minute later, Mrs. Bidwell returned to the parlor.

She placed the steaming hot cups of coffee on the table before she spoke. Her tone of voice indicated a degree of concern. "Mr. Butler, some additional thoughts occurred to me while I was getting the coffee. I'm being selfish regarding this very important matter—thinking only of myself—now I see this is not right. So please, excuse the whining of an old lady—do whatever is best for you. Why should I be afraid of that bunch of horrible people? I've already lived my life. I have very little, if anything at all, to lose. I'm sure you're right in thinking that a story of this magnitude, no matter how abbreviated it might turn out, is still going to get people's interest and become a feather in your young cap. If the cartel does come here, I'm sure the local authorities will protect us. So you go right ahead and do whatever you think is best. Whatever you decide will be all right with me."

Terrance's confusion intensified as Mrs. Bidwell spoke. He didn't expect this, especially now, after reflecting on what she said earlier about the cartel finding them. Before she said this, he'd just about convinced himself to agree with her on her plan to dump the whole story and return to their previous normal lives.

"Excuse me, you're now saying I can, and should, do whatever I determine is best with all this information, using all, part, or even none if I choose?" Terrance's tone of voice exposed his disbelief at her suggestion.

"That's correct," responded Mrs. Bidwell calmly.

"You're not concerned that part of the story I propose to write will solve nothing and, most likely, destroy the reputation of the person you've known for twenty years as Joseph Right?"

"I haven't said it wouldn't bother me for the public to find out the truth. I'm simply saying you have a responsibility to yourself to do whatever you feel is right. If you're willing to assume the risks that may go along with your actions, then who am I to say no."

Terrance heard only part of Mrs. Bidwell's response as his mind suddenly fixated on the image of his lifeless body being dumped into a deep quarry somewhere between here and Mexico never to be seen again. _What would happen to his adoptive parents? How would they feel, and what about Jess? Maybe Mrs. Bidwell was an old lady, but did that mean she had to give up her remaining years of life because of him_.

This decision required some serious thought. He didn't know for sure if they discovered his true identity in Harmony or if they did follow him back to Kansas or that this story would be picked up nationally and read by someone close to the case back in Illinois. He needed to be sure about this decision. He needed more information.

"Mrs. Bidwell," began Terrance, determined to ferret out every last morsel of information before he made a final decision, "how did you come to know about the cartel, that they were so ruthless and violent? Did Mr. Douglas, I mean, Mr. Right, tell you about them? What else might he have told you about his life prior to coming to Kansas?"

Mrs. Bidwell looked surprised at his request.

"Please, Mrs. Bidwell. It's important I know everything you know about this matter."

Her delay only whetted his curiosity. When she finally spoke, the reluctant tone in her voice made an impression on her inquisitor.

"There are other things he confided to me over the years, but I'm not sure I should betray his trust, even now." Again, she fell silent.

"Mrs. Bidwell, please." Terrance pleaded in earnestness.

Mrs. Bidwell sighed, her resignation apparent. "Well, I probably should tell you Joseph fully expected to be discovered by either the law or the cartel every single day he lived here. To his amazement, no one ever showed up. I've known the truth about him, at least in part, for the last fifteen years. He told me something terrible happened back in Illinois, and he had to run for his life. I expect you want to know if I know who murdered that man in Harmony. I don't. I never asked what happened, and I was never told. I do know Joseph was very angry about being drawn into the cartel's business unknowingly and told if he ever tried to leave he would be killed. You've probably already figured much of this out, I would imagine. It had to occur to you that something like this happened, didn't it? You probably concluded, just as I did, that Joseph or Howard hated that Whiting character, and he certainly had enough reason to kill him. Although it would be wrong, maybe he did do it. I expect if I were in his place, I would have thought about it, wouldn't you?"

"So, I've never questioned the right or the wrong of the matter of letting him live in my home all these years. I think I've become a fairly good judge of people over the span of my life, and I can tell you, without blinking an eye, Joseph Right was one of the finest human beings I have ever known. He did more, cared more, and suffered more than any hundred other people put together. So my conscious is clear."

"The cartel," Terrance interjected, "that's true? They are as violent and ruthless as you've told me?"

"Every bit, if not more," replied Mrs. Bidwell hurriedly. "Joseph would often remark that he should leave so as not to endanger me, also. He was always concerned someone else might be with him when they did get around to coming for him. That's one of the reasons he refused to socialize with others or to attend public affairs or have his picture taken; he was afraid they would kill whomever was with him."

"Why, then, did he haul kids around in his van? Wasn't he worried about them being hurt?"

"Oddly enough," explained Mrs. Bidwell, "the cartel wouldn't intentionally harm children. Turns out at least part of their former religious upbringing still maintained some control over their useless, miserable lives. Possibly, it was a matter of honor not to harm children, but everyone else that lived and breathed had better watch out. Joseph loved every minute of being with those kids. Those young people brought great joy to his life, allowing him to not completely give up on mankind and its violent and selfish nature."

Terrance took some time to ponder the decision now placed in his hands. _What should I do?_ So many conflicting thoughts banged around in his brain. His most prevailing notion to dump the whole story remained consistent with his natural first inclination to always get up and run. He didn't consider himself a real journalist. He worked only part-time, and he surely didn't want to get hurt doing it. He only wanted to earn enough money to allow him to attend to law school. Ultimately, what purpose did he serve by printing all or even part of the story? It was all history now. It merely served to amuse the readers of the newspaper for a few days. But then, as always, their interest moved on to something else. Plus, all the main players in this affair, excepting the cartel members, died long ago, and no matter how much information he provided, they stayed beyond the law. They were unreachable except for their hard assets in this country.

He, likewise, didn't relish destroying the reputation of a person who provided valuable services to the entire community for years. Even at his young age, he knew people needed role models, someone they could look up to. This guy fit that description to the letter. What happens when he exposes Joseph Right as an imposter? Everything he accomplished will be overshadowed by this new and incomplete information. The end result will be that the citizens of the community will become more cynical about government, community leaders, and elected officials. Plus, they will have lost one of the few people they believed deserved their admiration and respect. All this for the sole purpose of providing the bottom feeders of society, the ones who read all the scandalous information they can get their hands on as often as they can, something new to gloat over for a few days.

_But again, who am I to tell people what they should or should not think or read_ , questioned his still evolving value system. _What if every newsman went around hiding important information from the public? Hasn't that been tried before with horrible results in a number of cultures throughout history? One of the essential ingredients for a democracy is an informed citizenry. The people have a right to know what's going on around them. It's their responsibility to make responsible decisions about this information. Who appointed me censor over what information is good for them to hear, or not to hear? No one._

What if all reporters feared reporting certain stories because someone would get mad? What if they only reported the nice stuff that goes on? What happens to the informed society idea then? Throughout the history of this country and the world for that matter, brave men and women have gone forward, putting their personal safety on the line to bring all the news, to all the people. What right do I have to think I'm different?

Mrs. Bidwell sipped her coffee while observing Terrance wrestling with the issues confounding his decision. "Mr. Butler," the sound of her voice broke the long silence, "there is, yet, one additional important matter I should inform you of before you make your decision."

This admission of new information jolted Terrance from his mental turmoil. "Go on, I'm listening," replied Terrance.

"Mr. Butler, this is a most delicate matter. Rest assured, I do not broach this subject lightly, but my conscience dictates that you should be informed of things that are of a very personal nature." She halted as if awaiting her listener's response.

Terrance didn't disappoint her. "Mrs. Bidwell, I must know everything that you know about this. No matter what, please tell me. Our personal safety and the reputations of others are in the balance."

Once again, Mrs. Bidwell delayed responding. When she did, it came with all the force of a locomotive. "In your report, you mentioned a young lady, a Miss Whitney McClain. What else, if anything did you learn about her?"

He did not expect this question. It floored him, and he needed to compose himself before answering. "I wanted to ask you about her, but with everything that's going on I felt it would best be delayed until later. I have the eeriest feeling about this person. Is there something more you can tell me about her?"

Mrs. Bidwell ignored his question. "What caused you to begin asking yourself questions about Whitney?"

By now, Terrance had forgotten about the other matters. "I guess I first began to wonder when I saw her picture in the paper. Our facial features are practically identical, especially, our eyes. When the paper reported that she was a member of the society for people with different colored eyes, I began to wonder even more. Then I recalled the first time you and I met close up, in the light of day. You saw something that startled you when you saw my face up close. I'm sure of it. Later, I remember you asking me where I was from and about my parents, and I recalled telling you I was adopted. That's when you mentioned the condition that described people who have different colored eyes. I was confused at the time, but now, I wonder if maybe you knew something all along."

"Plus, the papers told about her being in Dallas for some length of time before she committed suicide. According to my adoptive parents, I was born in Dallas during that same period. Is it possible Whitney met someone in Dallas and ended up having a child she didn't want? Is that what you're going to tell me now?"

Without hesitation, Mrs. Bidwell responded. "No, it is not what I am going to tell you, and no, it is not possible she met someone and produced an unwanted child. According to the last decent person who knew her before she killed herself, she loved Howard Douglas up to the very end."

"Then I don't understand. What could she possibly have to do with this?" asked Terrance.

Before answering, Mrs. Bidwell went to her antique secretary sitting along the wall on the other side of the room and extracted a single piece of paper from a folder on the desk surface. She returned to the sofa and extended the piece of paper towards Terrance. "This will interest you."

Terrance accepted the document and began to read it aloud. PARENTS DENIAL TO RELEASE INFORMATION TO ADULT ADOPTEE. TEXAS CENTRAL ADOPTION AGENCY. "She did have a child." _Born, May 1, 1979_. "That's my birthday, too, the day that I was born in Dallas." _Travis Howard McClain_. "Was he named Howard because Howard Douglas was the father? But this would mean that she was pregnant when she left Harmony. But why would she do such a thing?" Terrance halted for a moment and looked to Mrs. Bidwell. "Am I right? What happened to make her leave? Please, you must tell me."

Mrs. Bidwell once more ignored his question. "Are you ready to hear another story—a very sad story?"

Terrance merely nodded, too unnerved to speak.

"Very well, but before I begin, please finish reading the handwriting on the bottom of the document you have in your hand."

Terrance complied without hesitation, and when finished, he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. A different Terrance Butler looked up ready to hear what came next in this ever-expanding tale of sorrow.

Mrs. Bidwell told Terrance the whole pathetic story. She told about Howard's indiscretion in Mexico and how Richard set him up and used it to drive Whitney away to a place where she would never be found, except by Richard. She told Terrance about the baby born only six months after Whitney disappeared from Howard's life, and how Richard pressured her until she finally relented and gave the baby up for adoption. The latter possibly playing a large part in the reason she committed suicide.

Then she went on to tell about the stranger who showed up the day of the funeral and told Howard the entire story of their betrayal by Richard while presenting him with the same piece of paper Terrance held in his hand. How Howard then determined he would exact retribution from all those responsible for ruining their lives, and how for the next three months, he went about making plans to do that.

She told about the Missouri connection, and how Howard pulled it off. Then finally, she related that Howard arrived in Kansas as the piece of paper in his hand suggested looking for two things: to locate the child conceived of his and Whitney's love and to find a way to make a new life as best he could so he might observe this child from afar and stand prepared to step forward if it became necessary.

Terrance made no effort to respond. Rather, he sat quietly, attempting to digest all this new information. Though it would take more time to absorb everything, two things immediately stood out: Nothing was said about who killed Richard Whiting and most importantly, was he the birth child of Whitney McClain and Howard Douglas?

Terrance looked up seeking more answers only to be cut off as usual by the teller of this amazing tale. She responded to the questions he had not yet voiced. "I don't know. He never told me. I suppose for security reasons he didn't want me to know. Your being here right now is purely a matter of your good fortune or your bad fortune depending upon how you choose to look at it. And, I still don't know who killed Richard Whiting."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A faint rapping sound came from outside Terrance's door. At first barely noticeable, it became more defined, insistent, louder, and even louder yet. "What is that annoying noise? Where is it coming from?" growled Terrance, still trying to wake up. _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ It sounded like an all out assault by this time. "What is that infernal noise? Why won't it go away and leave me alone? Where am I? Why do I feel so completely and utterly exhausted?" Slowly the fog cleared, and through two blurry eyes, Terrance recognized his apartment.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_ The noise became louder. A persistent loud voice now accompanied it. "Terrance, Terrance, my boy. Are you in there? You must get up. You've got to get to Kansas City for me. It's almost 11 a.m. The race starts in two hours." _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Terrance came to his senses, leapt out of bed, and discovering he wore the same clothes from the day before, hurried to the door. "I'm coming professor," he shouted. "Be right there."

The sight that greeted the professor once Terrance unbolted all the locks and removed the chair propped against the door did not give cause for a celebration. Unshaven, hair looking like a mistreated mop, clothing rumpled from being slept in, and appearing as if he needed at least another week's sleep, Terrance presented a most uninspiring picture standing before the professor.

When the professor finally regained his composure from seeing Terrance's condition and began to speak he sounded alarmed. "My goodness, are you all right? Are you well? Should I call a doctor?"

While still not mentally alert, Terrance realized that if he looked only one-tenth as bad as he felt, he presented a frightening sight. "No. No, I'm all right. Just give me a couple minutes, and I'll be ready to go. Sorry about being late. I got back in town late last night." _Why am I lying to this man?_ Terrance asked himself as he finished the sentence. _Is this the way it's going to be from now on, afraid to tell the truth to anyone, even to friends?_

"You're sure? Because I can get the old chariot out and go myself if you're not well." The professor's concern persisted.

"No, I'm ready to go," shouted Terrance as he returned from retrieving his keys and jacket after finishing a quick mouth rinse.

Standing on the stairs outside the apartment door facing the hesitant professor, Terrance's overall appearance offered little reassurance.

"Really, I'm ready. All I need are the numbers to bet and the cash. Let's see, it's right at 11 a.m., and it'll take me no more than an hour and a half to get there and get to the window. See, we've got plenty of time."

The professor cracked a smile for the first time. "Boy, you young folks don't know when to slow down, do you? I can vaguely recall myself barely running on fumes at times in my youth. One of these years it will catch up with you, though. One of these days you'll start to slow down. Well, here's the list and the cash, one hundred and eight dollars. Let me go over the list with you. See hear, in the first, third, and forth races we're betting three horses; in the second and fifth we're betting two horses; in the sixth race, we've got a single entry, but I feel real good about that horse, more so than the horses in the other races and that's why he's going off by himself. And do you know what else?" A mischievous smile flashed across the professor's face.

"No," answered Terrance cautiously.

"We're due," said the professor. "I mean we are due! I've got a real good feeling about this one. Are you with me on this, Terrance? You've got to be with me on this. So, let me hear you say it."

Terrance squinted, his puzzlement obvious. "Say what?"

"Now, don't let me down, son. I just told you what I felt, so let me hear you say it."

Terrance recognized the seriousness in his request. "We're... due?"

"That's exactly right, son. We're due! Keep repeating this all the way to Kansas City. Remember Terrance, if you are a living, breathing human being, you have to believe in something. If we don't believe in something, if we cease to aspire, to dream, we are merely stardust forever adrift in an ever changing, indiscriminate universe. So for today, affirm your existence—believe!" Then the smiling old man turned around and walked away down the steps, whistling as he went on his way.

Travis watched the professor walk away. _What is it about that guy?_ wondered Terrance. _He really is one of the world's true optimists. How was he able to fight and claw his way through all the meanness, uncertainty, and horse crap served up by the world on a daily basis and come to this advanced stage in his life still believing in and looking for the good—especially without having subscribed to those incessantly proselytizing purveyors of religious dogma?_

Terrance, recalling his urgent mission, pulled the door shut behind him, and hurried towards his faithful Cherokee parked below in its usual assigned place. Not until he headed down the alley towards the main thoroughfare did the previous day's traumatic activities come to mind.

Never in his entire life had so many strange matters of importance lay on his plate: the meeting with Mrs. Bidwell to discuss the information discovered in Harmony, their mutual decision that he be the one to decide on whether or not to publish all, some part, or none of it in the local paper, and her confirmation of the real danger posed by the cartel to them both if he decided to go forward with the story. Add to this, his paranoia over the possibility that sinister cartel members tailed him from Illinois to Kansas.

An experience late yesterday afternoon justified his concern about being followed. As he left Mrs. Bidwell's residence, he took notice of a large black SUV with dark tinted windows sitting a half block down the street, parked on the wrong side, headed in the same direction as the Cherokee. From first glance, it looked out of place. The people who inhabited this old neighborhood could not afford such luxury vehicles. It looked as if the cartel had somehow followed him to this location in spite of his efforts to ensure otherwise, after all.

Not revealing his suspicion, he calmly got into his vehicle and pulled away, acting unaware of their presence. Once on the main street, he watched in his rear-view mirror as the black SUV pulled out onto the street going in the same direction while staying a block behind at all times. Terrance made several turns and changes in directions, yet the SUV stayed with him always a block behind. This went on until he decided to lose them.

He made a dash for his secluded alley-parking place and soon enjoyed the temporary safety of his apartment. He held out no real hope that they wouldn't find him again, but as he teetered on the brink of physical and mental exhaustion, he needed a place to crash and figure out what to do. Plus, not having exposed his hand yet, they still didn't know for sure why he went to Harmony and looked through the old newspapers. He believed he still had a little time before they made their move. He needed to make sure he made his first. Bolting all three locks on the door and propping a chair against it as he'd seen done in a number of old movies, he crashed in a pile not to revisit consciousness until the professor's rude awakening a short while ago.

So, right in the middle of the biggest crisis in his life, he headed to Kansas City to place a bet for the professor on a series of horse races to be run later in the day at a track in California, the aim being to pick the winner in six consecutive races and win something in the neighborhood of half to three-quarters million dollars, the usual pool for the Pick Six wager. The professor's earlier success in winning Pick Six cards had paid smaller purses due to the unfortunate fact several other players had the same picks, causing the pot to be split between fifty to a hundred bettors. The professor kept hoping for that special day when only he picked the six winners. If that happened, he took home the entire pool usually amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Terrance, as usual, got ten percent. Not bad for a few hours work. Except this time, he had other matters on his mind. No matter, he couldn't let the professor down, and who knew, if he did hit the _big one_ Terrance's money problems, at least in the short term, ceased to exist. That mattered for naught though if those thugs in the black SUV decided to come after him.

He pulled onto the divided highway that took him to within a few miles of the racetrack and settled back planning to use the windshield time to assess the whole situation. The forty plus mile drive this late Friday morning presented no difficulty as traffic continued to be light going in his direction. The first matter that regained center stage of his conscious mind related to the shocking admission by Mrs. Bidwell that she also suspected him to be the birth son of Whitney McClain and Howard Douglas. While she couldn't positively confirm this, she, too, believed all the available evidence amounted to something much more than a weird coincidence.

This put the whole project in an entirely different light. No longer did it concern not destroying a good man's life for the sake of printing a barnburner story to get him significant recognition or of simply deciding to protect their rear ends by never allowing the story to see the light of day. There also existed a very good chance that the main character was his real father, the central person he always regretted not knowing about. To think now about besmirching his memory for the purpose of gaining recognition for doing a part-time job he cared little about didn't make sense. If it came down to this single reason for not doing the story, then he needed more proof. He would need to have a DNA analysis made. To do that required physical specimens from the man known as Joseph Right: a strand of hair, a cigarette butt, an old razor blade, a piece of chewed gum, or any number of every day items that hold some small part of Joseph Right's former physical presence. Mrs. Bidwell had agreed to help him with that.

In the distance, he recognized the exit leading to the track. The drive over did help him sort things out. At least, he now had something of a plan to follow. After going inside the track and placing the professor's bet, he'd return to Lawrence and then proceed to gather the physical evidence necessary to do the DNA test. For the first time in the last few days, he sensed the slightest bit of optimism beginning to take a stand among the ruins of his scattered thoughts. This newfound sense of optimism vanished as soon as he glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw the menacing looking black SUV several car links behind. The cartel was back.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"What time is it? Where am I?" Terrance pulled the wool army blanket he kept in the Cherokee up around his shoulders and raised the car seat to an upright position. Nothing looked familiar. He vaguely recalled tearing out of the racetrack parking lot after he placed the professor's wager, with the SUV right behind. He looked at his watch, 2:35 a.m.

His memory of the previous day's events started to return. He remembered stopping to rest at this interstate rest stop south of Omaha on the Missouri side of the Missouri River. Once he'd given into his usual first impulse after seeing the SUV come closer, his instincts took over. He simply stomped on the accelerator and sped away. But why had he gone in a northerly direction? He didn't know anyone who lived in this direction and knew little about any of the cities in this area. If he had a destination in mind, shouldn't he have gotten farther than this? Calculating that his hasty escape started at the racetrack over thirteen hours ago, where had he been during all this time? He'd not slept more than a couple of hours at most.

As the fog lifted from his memory, he recalled the previous day's wild ride through the northeast Kansas and northwest Missouri countryside. The sight of that menacing SUV behind him again as he left the track caused him to crack. The last several days, commencing with the Harmony City Library visit where he first started worrying about the cartel, had taken its toll. What could he do now? He couldn't go on like this forever, running away every time he saw a menacing-looking vehicle in his rear-view mirror. One of these days, they would catch him out of his vehicle and then what? The same sense of desperation that set him off yesterday, resulting in his turning the countryside into a stock car race circuit, again assaulted his fragile intellect. Terrance realized the urgent necessity to rein in his overwrought emotions or he might end up anywhere, including dead.

"What should I do?" asked Terrance. Surely a plan more productive than what he'd been doing during the last twelve hours awaited his deliberations. Or did it? He didn't have any money, except the few bucks in his checking account. What possibilities were open to him without money? He needed to get some money, but where? He mustn't involve his adoptive parents in this mess. The same thing went for Jess. He didn't want those horrible people bothering her, for sure. That left only Mrs. Bidwell, but why should he expect her to help? She hardly knew him. All of his other friends were pretty much in the same financial shape as he, meaning they were almost destitute themselves. So whom did that leave? The only person that came to mind was the professor. Then it occurred to him—the Pick Six bet! He still had it in his pocket.

Terrance hurriedly rifled through his pockets trying to find the ticket. "Where is that thing? What did I do with it?" He remembered purchasing it yesterday. When he failed to find it in the usual places, he pulled out his threadbare canvas wallet. There, stuck in the same pocket where he kept his credit card, the card that most likely allowed the cartel to trace him back to Kansas, resided the ticket. Unfolding the ticket to make certain of its authenticity, he experienced a flash of inspiration. "What if this ticket is a winner?" If that were the case, the total value of the ticket after taxes, more or less, probably exceeded forty to fifty thousand dollars. If, as the professor hoped, it turned out to be the only winner, the total after tax value of the ticket could be upwards of three-quarter million dollars. A person wanting to get away faced much less difficulty with three-quarters of a million dollars. Then reality hit him. This money belonged to the professor and his kids. The professor had been counting on this money for a long time. _That's true_ , reasoned Terrance, _but none of those kids is about to be murdered by the Mexican Mafia._

"Wait a minute. What are you talking about?" said Terrance aloud. "Would you actually cheat the professor out of his dream just to save your own butt?" His answer surprised him. "Who knows what a frightened person will do to save their own life."

Slapping himself to put such notions out of his mind, Terrance admonished himself. "This is ridiculous. The chance of being the only individual to have a winning ticket is practically zero, so quit thinking about something that's not going to happen. You need to find another way and soon."

Terrance decided that sitting alongside a noisy interstate, tired, sore, and hungry stifled his best ideas. Starting the Cherokee, he pulled out of the rest stop still heading north hoping to find a well-lit truck stop. Within another ten miles he got his wish—a big travel center with enough lighting to accommodate a nighttime major league baseball game came into view. It made sense to settle in here until he determined how to get out of this mess. Plus, if the cartel showed up here, their presence would be detected straight off. This place provided him with a relatively safe environment, at least for the moment.

The coffee alone made the trip worthwhile. Hot, fresh, and emitting an aroma that brought forth fond memories of him as a kid helping his adoptive mom freshly grind the coffee at the local supermarket. He savored those memories and the aroma as he sat there. He had also ordered a donut, but for some reason, the thought of eating held no interest. He asked the waitress to put it into a bag for later. The word later brought him back to the primary reason he stopped at this million mega-watt caravansary in the first place. He needed to devise some sort of plan or possibly, there wouldn't be another later.

What to do? That had already been pretty much decided. He intended to get up and run, again. The only matter presently before his mind's escape committee concerned itself with financing his pending ultra-marathon. Absent adequate financing, out running this group of heavy hitters became almost impossible. _These people never quit coming. They have already invested twenty-two years in this particular pathetic display of human depravity, so why would they quit now?_

Terrance put forth no conditions as he racked his brain for ideas. He must come up with something because failure wasn't an option. His life, most probably, depended on it. After several more cups of coffee, no suitable idea yet presented itself. He sensed that feeling of utter desperation coming back.

"Think man. There's got to be something you can do. Come up with something, anything." The desperation in his voice would have been apparent to anyone in the restaurant within hearing range, except that a large semi-truck passed by the front of the restaurant at the same time he expressed his frustration out loud. Not a single person heard his plea, except one, himself. He detected the desperation in his voice and understood the seriousness of the situation. Some sort of escape plan had to come to him, and fast.

Without thinking, he pulled the Pick Six ticket out of his pocket and looked long and hard at it. Next, he extracted another piece of paper from his wallet that listed the 800 number for the twenty-four hour hotline made available to check on race results at anytime of the day. Lastly, he pulled out a cell phone he seldom ever turned on, much less used. During the early morning hours, it took but a few minutes to find out the race results. Slowly and with deliberation, he dialed the number.

"Ho-ly crap! Ho-ly crap! Ho-ly crap!" repeated Terrance in disbelief not more than five minutes later.

"Did you say something, hon?" asked the puzzled waitress as she passed by. "Do you want some more coffee? Maybe I should just bring you your own pot. Are you okay?"

"No, yes, I'm okay. I don't want any more coffee. Thanks. I've got to get going." His legs wobbled, and he felt faint as he rose from the booth. "He did it," he whispered, incredulity in his tone. "He did it. That old son-of-a-gun did it." Then suddenly aware of his changed status from that of a pauper on the run to a person of means—exactly three hundred forty-three thousand five hundred eighty-three dollars worth of means—he realized the necessity of being more discrete. It would be best not to let anyone know he had in his possession a single ticket worth such a huge sum of money, less, of course, Uncle Sam's share.

Back in his Cherokee after fumbling around for an eternity trying to pay the cashier, he felt relieved to be alone again. The thought then occurred to him, that of late, his trusty Cherokee provided him with the only place where he felt any sense of security. Feeling safe for the moment, his thoughts returned to the small betting token he held tightly in his hand.

"Okay, now what are you going to do? No more games. Make up your mind. Are you going to do it? Are you going to steal the professor's money and hit the road forever? He couldn't prove anything, as it would be my word against his. I'm the one who made the bet—with cash. If I want it, it's my money. No one can do anything about it. No more cartel, no more worrying about the future. I can go to any school I want, anywhere I want."

He took a break from his personal debate as he recognized the nearness of a line that once crossed never allowed you to cross back over again. Whatever road he traveled from this point never came back this way again. If he stepped over this line his current life, family, and friends forever became part of his past never again to be revisited.

"But, what kind of a life can I expect here now? None! My life here is over anyway. I've got to leave no matter what. I can't go back, or I'll just put the people I care for in danger. I only have two choices. I can leave broke without any prospects for a better life somewhere, or I can leave with this money, ensuring myself a chance of building a successful life somewhere far away."

Terrance considered his options. In the end, it came down to but a single issue—did he stand prepared to destroy the professor's dream to protect his own life? The answer came more quickly than he expected. He placed the key in the ignition, started the Cherokee, and pulled out of the parking space heading back towards the interstate.

"Well, okay then, how far am I from the closest major airport?"

## CHAPTER THIRTY

Howard forced his mind to focus on the serious matter at hand and leave the good or bad details of his former life as Howard Douglas until another time—perhaps some quiet day in the future when he stopped running for his life. In front of him lay miles of interstate, and for the next ten miles, his escape route took him through the capital of the state of Illinois. He focused on his driving to keep from getting caught speeding or driving inattentively. The last thing he needed was to get a ticket for Joseph Right on the first day of his resurrected life.

He left everything he owned back in Harmony, except, the photograph of he and Whitney and the single page adoption information denial form given to him by the stranger. From now on he answered only to the name, Joseph D. Right. Howard Douglas, if his luck held and he stayed smart, must never again be heard from. Everything to begin his new life had awaited him back at the metal barn outside of Harmony: a Missouri driver's license, a Social Security card, and a Missouri license plate for a two-year-old Chevrolet registered to Joseph A. Right. He even provided his new persona with a credit card.

Just shy of 1 a.m., he estimated another six to seven hours to reach the Springfield area and his rented trailer home. He based this projection on his earlier trips to Missouri. Once there, much unfinished business awaited his personal attention over the next couple of days. The way things looked, he figured to be in Lawrence, Kansas, by no later than four days from now. But if something did come up to delay him, he had no reason to worry. He hadn't another person to answer to now. The substantial sums of cash stolen from the cartel guaranteed that.

But he doubted that sitting around doing nothing for the rest of his life fit his personality. As Joseph Right, there must be something for him to do in Kansas to be of help to a community. One thing for sure though, he wouldn't be providing a gleaming résumé that related to his previous work in the field of real estate development and management. That part of his life stayed with Howard Douglas.

Finding some kind of job to keep him busy was secondary. He chose to come to Lawrence for one reason—to see his son. At this time, no other reason justified him staying alive, if not to ensure the well being of his and Whitney's child. He didn't intend to interfere unless the child's welfare became an issue. If this couple that adopted his son provided the child with a safe and caring environment, he intended to stay out of the picture. As much as he relished the idea of being able to take the child and devote his life to caring for him, he realized it wasn't the right thing to do. Looking over his shoulder for the cartel for as long as he lived necessitated it being done this way. Those people weren't simply a modern day version of the stereotypical Mexican banditos. This highly professional and ruthless criminal organization never quit. They would look for him until they have a positively identified corpse lying in front of them. A lot of their money disappeared, and so had he.

One more time Howard reminded himself to pay attention to the highway. The last metro area was behind him and nothing but open road appeared ahead, all the way to St. Louis, Missouri. Except for the big rigs that ran the road at this late hour of the night, the road belonged to him. Originally, he considered driving the back roads all the way, but after thinking about it, he reasoned an out-of-state car traveling the back roads appeared more conspicuous to the local lawmen.

For the moment, he allowed his thoughts to return to his son. The easiest part of his whole scheme turned out to be locating his son. As Joseph Right, he contacted a private investigation firm in Springfield, Missouri. He gave them the basic information he received from the stranger, and they did the rest. An adoption agency located in northeast Kansas operated a pipeline between Kansas and north Texas. Several more Texas born children at this very moment, hopefully, enjoyed new lives as adopted children in the Lawrence area. He now knew the names of the adoptive parents, their address in Lawrence, what they did for a living, their religious and political affiliations, their driving records, and most importantly, that neither of them had been in trouble with the law. They were squeaky clean, thankfully.

Rolling through the night oblivious to the miles and the minutes ticking by, Howard drifted back in time to when he and Whitney shared a life together filled with so much love. He reflected on his good fortune to have found such a wonderful person. Albeit small consolation now, he had to admit that once his life had been wonderful. If by a freak accident of nature life permitted him to go back in time, only one place came to mind, back to when he and Whitney first met, before Richard ever came along. He would willingly give up every tomorrow for a thousand years for the chance to be with Whitney again for that same brief, but miraculous, romp through those sunny days of their youth.

As usual, his thoughts eventually turned to those individuals and actions that destroyed his small piece of heaven. He still directed the greatest part of his hatred towards Richard Whiting, even after seeing him dead. Never in his entire existence had Howard ever met such an unapologetic scoundrel. The man had no shame, no remorse for any of his despicable actions. After Whitney's suicide, he never wasted one minute being remorseful. He had to know he owned primary responsibility for the annihilation of this sweet person's disposition, her optimistic outlook on life, and, ultimately, her suicide. But, in typical Richard fashion, he didn't even find the time to attend the funeral. She became history, and other opportunities knocked at his door.

The cartel came next in line, but Howard had a hard time hating a faceless mass, which is what the cartel represented. He knew he'd gotten back at them in the only way that made a difference to them. He stole their money. You could kill a dozen of them and it wouldn't be looked upon nearly as bad as when you take their money, and he stole a whole lot of their money. What he didn't steal, he told the FBI where to find. No longer did he feel any compulsion to exact revenge from that quarter.

Finally, if Richard was the primary object of his hatred, someone else remained the object of his anger—himself. In his heart, he knew the responsibility for opening the gates for these barbarians in the first place, was with him. Absent his stupid actions with the young woman in Mexico, none of this could have happened. Therefore, he, too, deserved much of the blame for Whitney's suicide. Metaphorically speaking, he may not have fired the gun, but he pointed out the target. In the end, he deserved no more mercy then Richard or the cartel.

This thought often crossed his mind. _Why should I go on living now that Richard is dead and the cartel hurt where it matters? Why don't I pull over now and run a hose from the exhaust to the passenger compartment and be done with it?_ It was an attractive idea, but an idea whose time must wait because he had to watch over a small boy in Kansas. He would not fail again.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Terrance decided to go for it, to make a getaway with all the cash. He still found it hard to believe—him doing something like this. This scenario never appeared on the radar screen as something a person with his elevated notions of ethics and morality might consider, much less do. _No use lying to yourself_ , he admitted. _You're a liar and a cheat. You're going to steal something that belongs to someone else. Please don't start crying about it being a matter of life and death—which may be true. You're terrified of what the cartel will do to you, and you're acting just like a rat trying to get off a sinking ship. You'll do anything to save your own skin, including deserting your friends and love ones_. His opinion of himself lessened, by degrees, in this short time span.

Terrance allowed this new inventory of his character to sink in as he drove towards Omaha, Nebraska, where he anticipated finding a large airport. He had expected more of himself and thought of himself as basically a good person, not the type to do something like this. Accepting himself as a petty villain required some time. Then another thought hit him. _Would I be like this if I become a lawyer?_ To think about the underhanded opportunities available to a person with a law degree frightened him.

"But what's the alternative?" said Terrance aloud. "Turn around and go back and fight them? Go to the police for help? What could they do? Nothing! The cartel will kill me if I stay. No one else can help me. It's totally up to me. If I want to stay alive and have something akin to a normal life with opportunities, this is my only chance. If the professor won one of these big payoffs, he can figure out how to win another."

Terrance knew the argument for his soul had ended. He somehow needed to make peace with this new version of Terrance Butler, and understand that the person and the name Terrance C. Butler belonged to the past, along with his unrealistic notions of honor, decency, and justice. He sensed the creeping tentacles of despair and loneliness crawling upon his person following this revelation. Perhaps this same feeling had visited itself upon Howard Douglas as he, too, fled through the darkness so many years ago, away forever from everything he once held dear. At that moment, he knew how Howard Douglas must have felt, and he would never wish the blackness of this moment upon another human being.

Off in the distance appeared the glow of a large metro area. His new life would begin there. He still needed to stop and get directions to the airport. Then he'd drive to the airport, park his loyal Cherokee in the long term parking area, head to the terminal, and buy a ticket to a big city in the south by the ocean, maybe Miami. The use of his debit card and real identification, for the last time, provided him with sufficient funds to secure passage. When to cash in the Pick Six ticket with a new identity had to be decided later.

Matters of the heart, on the other hand, made leaving difficult. He cared deeply for his adoptive parents, as well as Jess, the professor, and a few more close friends. This part made leaving a lot more difficult.

Another well-lit travel plaza appeared up ahead. It looked to be a safe place to get directions and collect the few things from the Cherokee he intended to take along with him into his new life.

Terrance parked right under the brightest parking lot light in the huge travel plaza for safety and then went inside to ask directions. He learned that from where he stood at the moment, the airport was less than twenty minutes away. Searching the car for items to take along with him began with the glove box where he found nothing of interest. From the back of the vehicle he retrieved his college windbreaker. Then checking the sun visor compartment as the last possible place capable of containing anything of value, he discovered a three by five color photograph of himself, Jess, and Harvey. Staring at the photograph caused him to recall Howard Douglas's desperate flight from Harmony many years earlier. Only a cell phone was left, and he couldn't make up his mind on that. He expected to have to secure a new cell phone, but what about carrying this one in case of an emergency? _It would be easy enough to get rid of later_ , he reasoned, _so why not?_ He vowed not to turn it on unless he absolutely had to.

It occurred to him that he hadn't checked his messages in the last few days. Again, what difference did it make who left him a message since he didn't intend to return the calls anyway? But, what harm would it do to check them?

A moment later, he heard the familiar greeting: "You have five unanswered messages in your mail box." They came at him rapid fire. Jess left the first message on Thursday. She wanted to know how things were while also checking on the prospects of getting together sometime soon. The second message came from the professor early Friday morning as he tried to get Terrance out of bed. His boss at the paper left the third message asking for an update on the story. Next, he heard the click of a phone hanging up. This scared him. Maybe the cartel had his cell number? The last message, however, knocked his socks off. This message came from his lawyer lady friend, Ms. Arête Xenos, Attorney at Law.

Arête, born of Greek parents, immigrated to this country at three years of age. Smart, very capable, in her early thirties, she didn't waste words. It didn't hurt her case either that she looked movie star gorgeous. She once told him her father named her after the daughter of a long dead Greek philosopher who boasted, "Experiencing pleasure is the ultimate good. Therefore, everything else, including virtue and philosophy, must be judged according to its capacity to bring us pleasure." He recalled giggling nervously in response to this interesting insight into her basic attitude towards life.

More than once, he had considered taking her up on her polite offers to get together for drinks and talk about his future. He really never understood it. Although aware of his good looks, he still didn't understand why a beautiful, sexy, and successful woman like this had an interest in him? Half the men on this part of the continent jumped when she snapped her fingers.

He played this particular message again unsure he heard everything correctly the first time. The recording said the same thing the second time: "Terrance, this is Arête. It's now late Friday afternoon. I need to talk with you about an exciting opportunity as soon as possible. The gist of it is: I've been offered a position in Atlanta with a prestigious legal firm. I've accepted the offer and will be moving to Atlanta in two weeks. They have also offered me the opportunity of bringing along with me an assistant or anyone else I want to work on my personal staff. This is something you may be interested in as I remember you telling me how you plan to become an attorney. I know the pay will be decent, and more importantly, they will subsidize whomever I choose as my assistant in their efforts to earn a law degree from one of the better universities in that area."

"I know this is a lot to unload on you with such short notice, but I thought of you immediately, and I would appreciate the opportunity to talk with you more about this. Please call me tonight or tomorrow. I've kept my calendar open Saturday night if you're interested. Please let me hear from you."

Terrance set the phone down in the passenger seat. The word surreal came to mind. _Something terribly weird is going on in the world right now_. He'd managed to exist for almost twenty-five years without a lot of excitement in his life, and, all of a sudden, life's circus backs up to his door and starts putting on a show.

He inventoried the events of the past several days. He'd discovered that a prominent local citizen not only was an imposter, but very likely his birth father and, quite possibly, a murderer on the run for twenty years. Next, he learned certain people, very anxious to locate this individual, belonged to an international cartel that had a habit of killing anyone who got in their way. Right now, it so happened, he stood square in the middle of their road.

There, also, existed the possibility that his birth mother committed suicide after giving him up for adoption. Following upon these extraordinary events, he recently came into possession of a horse race ticket worth over three hundred thousand dollars. Finally, a beautiful, successful woman, coming from out of the blue asked him to leave town with her, most likely as her private plaything, and in return, she will procure for him a salary and subsidize the cost of his acquiring a law degree.

_Incredible!_ He sat back in the Cherokee thinking about this amazing proposition. Although an attractive offer, he didn't need financial support anymore. He now possessed all the funds he needed. Certainly, she set a standard for attractive and intelligent women, but he never worried about attracting women in the past. So, why give this offer serious consideration?

The answer came to him quickly. _It would eliminate the need to become a cheat and a thief_. He now had another plausible escape route. He no longer needed to steal the professor's money to save his life.

_So, what's it going to be? There are probably worse fates than having to regularly express your gratitude to a very beautiful and generous woman for the next three or four years while no longer looking over your shoulder worrying about the cartel twenty-four hours a day_.

Then his thoughts drifted to Jess. _I can't drag her into this. No matter what I do, I have to stay away from her. I don't want her to get hurt because of this. Besides, we're so different anyway, how long would we last together? We want different things_.

He forced himself not to think about Jess. His feelings for her went beyond mere infatuation. But, his life had changed, so it mattered little. They no longer had the luxury of unlimited time to sort out their differences. He had to leave her behind for both of their sakes. Starting the car, he returned to the interstate intent on making his escape. Only this time, the escape route pointed to the south.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"What a waste of time," Terrance growled, as he raced back along the same interstate highway that carried him north earlier. "That's what you get for deciding to become a thief. Remember this in the future." Lady luck shined on him this time. Without Arête's call, a lonely life of lying and deceit had awaited him.

"The professor must be worried out of his mind," he reasoned. _Wouldn't you be worried if the person you trusted failed to show up with your three hundred thousand dollars? How are you going to explain this to the man? He's been your very good friend and you do this to him. Well, you better think of something in the next few hours it will take to get back to Lawrence_.

Terrance thought about it, and decided not to makeup anymore stories. Yet, he couldn't tell the professor about the cartel mess. That might put him in danger. He needed to figure this out.

A glance at his watch showed 4:33 a.m. He estimated another three hours travel time to get back to Lawrence, the place he started from over fifteen hours earlier. That put his arrival at about eight a.m. Also, he needed to find another place to stay for the next couple of weeks as soon as he arrived—certainly not with Jess for any of several reasons. But whom else did he trust? Who lived somewhere out of the way where his presence wouldn't be noticed as he came and went? He had to know somebody. "Of course," he said, "Anthony." His friend lived in an old warehouse north of the river in a sparsely populated area, which suited Terrance's purpose fine for the next couple weeks. Plus, his soon to be host owned a beat up old van that he rarely used, the perfect vehicle for his use until he left town. Resolving this potential problem so quickly lightened his spirits.

His newfound excitement faded quickly though as he recalled the less pleasant aspects of his old friend Anthony's lifestyle. He devoted his entire life to becoming an artist, a very sloppy artist. If a fire marshal or health inspector ever got inside the place, they would condemn it. Plus, having to sleep on an old army cot and use the same bathroom facilities as Anthony caused him to cringe. Not something to look forward to considering his friend's inattention to hygiene. "Beggars, in this particular case for sure, can not be choosers," Terrance reminded himself. "Well okay then, Mr. Herbert A. Clark, aka Anthony the Artist, here comes your new roommate. Break out the disinfectant!"

Hours later, after having arrived back in Lawrence and settled in at Anthony's, Terrance decided his first foray outside the warehouse must be to get things straight with the professor. That matter still weighed heavily upon his conscience. Then he could slip into his apartment—hopefully unseen—from the front entrance to gather up items to take with him to Atlanta while storing the rest of his belongings in a corner of Anthony's warehouse until he settled into a new place. The Cherokee provided enough room for only the bare essentials: clothing, television, DVD, computer gear, etc.

After going over in his mind every little detail relating to the anticipated meeting with the professor, along with working out where to hide, how to travel around while back in the city, and what to take with him when he moved, he remembered the main reason for coming back into the midst of the storm one more time. He intended to make contact with Arête, his former distant admirer and soon-to-be outright benefactor. How did he plan to handle that and when?

He, for sure, didn't want to seem too eager to accept her offer. He needed to maintain the same distant, if not aloof attitude he'd displayed before. Already at his young age, he knew the danger involved in appearing too willing to attractive women. That also meant not telling her about his current predicament. If he stayed cool, he'd be okay. He thought about when to call her, maybe sometime before noon, but not too early. Right after meeting with the professor, or approximately mid-morning, is when he would call her.

As this plan settled in, another small detail came to his attention. Arête mentioned keeping her schedule open for Saturday night—tonight. The full implications of his plan finally sank in, meaning, he wouldn't be seeing Jess anymore. From now until sometime in the distant future, his time belonged to another woman, Arête. As waves of guilt feelings commenced to wash over him, he fought to remind himself of his current life and death situation. From this point on, Jess belonged to his past. This unpleasant realization lurched around inside his brain attempting to find friendly shelter without success.

Sometime later, a more resigned Terrance pondered how and when Jess might best find out they were finished as a couple. Did he simply disappear without any goodbye? If he did confront her with this unexpected decision, what reason did he give her? Maybe a job opportunity in Atlanta, simply too good to pass up that required him to spend all his free time for the next few years in the exclusive company of a beautiful female attorney who made this exciting job offer available to him? Just how did a coward go about explaining to the most devoted person in his life that his best interest required he move along to greener and safer pastures?

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"Oh, my god, people are going to see me in this thing." Terrance whined, as he pulled the floppy golf hat down further on his head, pushed a pair of heavy black-rimmed sunglasses onto his face, and let the clutch out on the 1974 Ford van. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as the vehicle lurched towards the warehouse door. He'd not driven a stick shift vehicle but once in his life. This fact only increased the driving difficulty as he tried to coax the beat up, rusty clunker that hadn't been serviced in over ten years, at least, onto the streets of a bustling community. If forced to make a guess, Terrance would have said that no more than four of the eight cylinders of this rust bucket's engine were firing or had plugs inserted. For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind that driving this vehicle in public constituted an even greater threat to himself and the public than the cartel. Fortunately for him, he hadn't noticed the inscription written across the back of the rolled up floppy hat he filched from Anthony's pile of clothing located by the bathroom door which read, "I'd rather be golfing."

_This may very well be one of the longest days of my life_ , thought Terrance as the barely functioning vehicle lurched along the side streets towards the professor's neighborhood. Before this day ended, several potentially humiliating experiences awaited him, including his meeting with the professor. Yet, he was determined to go forward and take his medicine. He deserved little mercy from the professor. He'd betrayed his trust.

Miraculously, over the next several minutes it took Terrance to cover the distance to the professor's home, he only rarely came close to smashing into other vehicles on the road. Possibly his failure to become a real threat resulted from his failing to get up enough speed to do a lot of damage even if he did hit something. Yet, he still gave a sigh of relief when he came to a safe stop in front of the professor's house.

Terrance sat in the jalopy for some time after he stopped looking around the area to make sure he detected no signs of the cartel's presence. Satisfied, Terrance took a deep breath, let it out, and grabbed for the inside door handle which came off in his hand. He patiently put it back on, opened the door, and exited towards the professor's front porch. Each step along the way caused his heart to beat faster. In due course, he stood before the professor's front door breathing so hard he wondered for a moment if he might not be hyperventilating. One thought occurred to him as he stood there—he never again wanted to feel as he did at that moment. "Never do anything like this again," he whispered.

_Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!_ The loud doorbell rang as Terrance stood in disbelief at the racket the small button set off. He barely tapped it and nothing less than Big Ben announced his presence. One thing about it, though, the folks inside knew, for sure, someone waited at the door. Standing frozen in place, Terrance heard footsteps as the home's occupant approached the front of the house. The front door began to swing inward.

"Terrance, my boy, how wonderful. What are you doing out here? But, please come in." _The man is either the best actor in the world or a saint_ , Terrance determined as the professor stepped aside, holding the door open for him to enter.

With head down to hide his shame, Terrance complied.

The professor spoke first as they walked into the parlor, "I was telling the missus just a few minutes ago that I expected you sometime this morning. Well, was I right?"

"About what?" said Terrance, his puzzlement obvious.

"About what? Didn't I tell you? I'm sure I told you." Now the professor appeared puzzled. "I said, 'We're due!' Don't you remember?"

"Oh, right. Now I remember. Yes, you did say that, and you were right. Boy, were you right." As Terrance said this he held out his hand towards the professor. In it, he held the wining ticket. "Here you are. Sorry it took so long for me to get it to you."

The professor accepted the valuable piece of paper from Terrance, but as he did, he couldn't help but notice the anguished expression on the young man's face. From that moment on, the professor never looked at the ticket.

"Thank you, son. Do you have a minute to sit? You know dreamers such as you and I ought to avail ourselves of each other's company more often. I've believed for sometime that it takes a dreamer to fully comprehend another dreamer. So please sit, and tell me what's been monopolizing that wonderful imagination of yours of late?"

Terrance did as requested. He couldn't believe the professor hadn't already jumped him for taking so long to get back with the ticket. Raising his head to give the offended party a full and complete target upon which he could vent his ire, Terrance waited. But no recriminations came forth. He saw only a pleasant, friendly man sitting across from him waiting for him to speak. _Is this person really human?_ thought Terrance. _Surely, he must have some doubts as to where I was last evening_.

Terrance's feelings of guilt and shame finally got the best of him. He couldn't keep his previous night's treachery inside any longer. He had to tell his friend what he did.

"Professor, I did something yesterday that I'm very ashamed of. I was going to take all the money and run away. I actually got as far as Omaha before I turned around. I'm sorry I betrayed your trust." Now, it was out, and no matter what happened next, nothing could be as bad as trying to keep it all inside. Terrance waited for a response.

The professor's expression never changed as he rose from his seat. "How about a glass of ice tea? I'm going to get myself a glass; how about you?"

Terrance didn't understand elderly people. Every time a crisis arose, they offered you something to drink. Try as he might, for the life of him, he couldn't make the connection. What is it about difficulties and liquids that necessitate bringing them together on such occasions? He had a lot to learn before he got old. If he ever got old, that is.

"Yes, thank you, I would appreciate a glass of iced tea." Why fight it. It was obviously part of their rituals.

The professor disappeared into the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with two large glasses filled to the brim with iced tea. Terrance accepted his graciously, and after taking a couple of sips of the delicious liquid, admitted that maybe these elderly folks were indeed onto something good. Why not soften the bad news with a treat beforehand?

"Now," said the professor after having reclaimed his seat, "where were we? Right. You were telling me about your supposed indiscretions, am I correct?"

"Professor, they weren't—" but the professor cut him off.

"Terrance, my boy, will you humor an old man and let him tell you a story?" asked the professor. "Good," he said without waiting for a response. "Actually, it's a fable. One of _Aesop's_ if I remember correctly. I'm very fond of fables as they are generally timeless in their relevance. Well, the name of this fable is, "The Bear and the Two Travelers," and it goes like this. Two men were traveling together when a bear suddenly met them on their path. One of them quickly climbed up into a tree and concealed himself in the branches. The other, seeing that he would be attacked fell flat on the ground, and when the bear came up and felt him with his snout and smelled him all over, he held his breath and feigned the appearance of death as much as he could. The bear soon left him, for it is said a bear will not touch a dead body. When he was quite gone, the other traveler descended from the tree and jocularly inquired of his friend what it was the bear had whispered in his ear. He gave me this advice, his companion replied, 'Never travel with a friend who deserts you at the approach of danger.'"

"Do you know what the moral of this little story is?" asked the professor as Terrance looked on in puzzlement. "As in my humble opinion, all good stories have a moral. The moral is: Misfortune tests the sincerity of friends."

"Now Terrance, I don't know what occurred recently in your life, and I will not pry. But I can easily see that you are operating under an abundance of personal stress. Nevertheless, you proved your friendship by refusing to succumb to whatever perils presently bedevil your life. I further believe it is your true nature to do what you did today. As a fellow traveler and friend, I stand ready to demonstrate that same loyalty to you."

All was quiet until the professor shared a final thought. "Terrance, I feel very fortunate to have been blessed with two wonderful, fair-minded, deeply spiritual parents. And they often reminded me that I was endowed with no purpose, or right, to hold myself out as a judge of another person's character. But, mind you, they never once told me I should not recognize it. Now, I will hear no more of your trip to Omaha."

It took Terrance a moment to still his quivering lips so he could speak. "Thank you, professor. I promise I will never do anything like this again. But, I was thinking, I'd like for you to keep all the winnings. It would make me feel better if you did, and it doesn't look as if I will need it, especially, if another deal I'm working on comes through."

"That's very generous of you son, but as I don't intend to cash this ticket for sometime, let's hold this most gracious offer of yours in abeyance for the next several weeks while I'm getting the final details worked out regarding the ranch. Then, if things are going okay for you, we will most certainly accept your offer. Deal?"

"It's a deal," said Terrance, cracking a smile.

"Good," said the professor. "Now about this other deal you're working on. I meant it when I said I'm not going to pry, but is there anything at all I can do to help?"

Terrance refused this much-appreciated offer. He wanted to confide to his friend, but it might end up putting him in danger. Besides, nothing the professor offered to do mattered now as he already planned to sneak out of town to Atlanta. That reminded him, he had to call Arête and make arrangements to see her, but not until he slipped into the apartment and retrieved some personal things. He cringed at the possibility of having to borrow clothing from Anthony.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Dark glasses and floppy golf hat in place, Terrance moved the clunker van away from the curb in front of the professor's house. Everything had gone amazingly well during the meeting. He vowed to never forget the valuable lessons learned today. He now knew that a career as a successful thief or con man did not belong anywhere on his future employment opportunities' list. Then again, a person never knows what they will try when a desperate situation confronts them. Next, and equally as important, he learned that if you have a true friend, believe in them or don't bother to consider them as a friend in the first place.

Terrance contrasted the different emotions experienced in the last hour, starting with the deep sense of dread and despair that enveloped him prior to meeting with the professor. And now, only a short time later, he felt a gigantic weight lifted from his shoulders—all very strange considering that none of the underlying facts had changed, only his perception of how another person viewed these same facts. Reality had not caused his anguish, but rather, his perception of the effects of this reality relating to other people caused his grief—something else to be remembered.

This sudden sense of relief distracted his attention from the clanking and banging pile of rusty metal he attempted to maneuver through the Saturday morning traffic. He concerned himself now with that other small matter that required his immediate attention—making the phone calls to Arête as well as to his boss. He still had no idea how to break the news to Jess.

For certain though, one additional item of previous concern had been taken care of back at the professor's. Again, he underestimated the value of a true friend as the professor insisted on Terrance storing his belongings in his basement for as long as he needed. Not only that, but the professor insisted on moving his belongings for him after he left. Now, he only needed to make one more disguised trip back to the apartment to gather the necessary items for his relocation to Atlanta. Terrance paused his thinking for a moment to appreciate his good friend's valuable assistance before pulling the vehicle into a small roadside park so he could make the calls. No one in their right mind considered making a cell phone call while trying to drive a heap like this around town.

With the van at a complete stop, the engine shut off, cell phone in one hand, and Arête's phone number written on a piece of paper in the other, Terrance dialed the cell phone. On the second ring, she picked up.

"Well hello, stranger. I wondered if you were going to call." _She must have Caller I.D_., Terrance reasoned as he listened to her playful greeting.

"Hello," replied Terrance, hoping he was the stranger she referred to. "I hope I'm not calling too early, but I wanted you to know I received your message."

"And?" she responded. "Is this something that you might have some interest in discussing? As I said earlier, I recall you told me more than once that you planned to become an attorney."

"Well, yes, I would appreciate the opportunity to talk with you about this." He tried hard to keep any tone of excitement out of his voice.

"Excellent. This is what I hoped to hear. I've kept my evening free so we can discuss this matter at length. I hope you're available. My schedule is going to be crazy for the next couple of weeks, so I'd like to get this matter settled as quickly as possible."

It took Terrance a couple of seconds to realize she awaited a response from him. "Oh, sure, I'm available."

"Wonderful, I'm so glad. How about 7 p.m. at my house? Let me give you the directions."

Another thirty seconds and Terrance sat in the van with written directions in one hand and a disconnected cell phone in the other.

_Now that is a focused person_ , thought Terrance. _Not one moment of hesitation or wasted conversation. This should prove to be very interesting relationship indeed_.

He looked over to the passenger seat again to ensure he did, in fact, put the clothing he'd retrieved from the apartment in the van. He had to look his best this evening. Once again he reminded himself not to appear too eager. _If people sense your desperation or your fear, the entire tone of the conversation or transaction may change_. No matter what, he must not show this lady how much the cartel affair frightened him. He needed to clear his mind of everything else: the cartel, Jess, everything. Tonight, only Arête mattered.

That left the call to update his boss as the last item he needed to take care of right now, and he intended it to be short and sweet. He would tell him he hadn't been able to find out anything new, "and oh, by the way, I'm giving my notice." That ought to about cover everything. No need to drag the thing out any longer. He wanted to be done with it.

But like before, his conscience insisted on making its presence known, and he asked himself one more time, _Is this the right thing to do? What about a reporter's responsibility? Does not the public have a right to know?_

Ask all he wanted, the same answers came back. He felt no more like a real reporter than any other young guy with a pencil looking for work..

And the public's right to know what exactly? That long ago some bad people messed up a young man's life, and to stay alive he chose to run away and hide? That one of the most decent men to ever live in their community started out in life with another name? That a man was murdered over twenty years ago in a place far away? That extremely violent criminals still exist today in the world who will not hesitate to kill any number of people in this community if they have the slightest notion those people have information they want? That a young man from this community, who stumbled onto this story, is most likely the birth son of a person long sought after by these murderers and, in all likelihood, will remain in danger for uncovering the story?

Terrance paused for only a moment before reaching his decision. "Yeah, right, they definitely need to know about that. How else could they expect to be good citizens unless they have this pathetic story to help them pass fifteen minutes of their morning? I don't think so, at least, not from me."

Terrance made the call, and being put through to his boss's voice mail made the task easier. He completed his entire report within thirty seconds. The gist of it being, "There is no more information available, and I quit."

Having completed all the calls he wanted to make at this time, Terrance cranked up his borrowed jalopy and coaxed it back onto the street passing through the downtown area heading back towards the bridge. All in all, it turned out to be a very successful morning. Everything worked out with the professor. A meeting had been set up with Arête. He dumped the story and quit his job, and now, he headed back to his slovenly friend's safe house for a few hours of badly needed rest on an army cot. One last thing he wanted to do was stop at a convenience store for some packaged food and drink once he got north of the bridge. The thought of eating anything available in Anthony's fridge or stored there on a shelf frightened him. It shouldn't be done, unless, of course, one had been chained to one of those half-ton metal monstrosities Anthony so fondly referred to as Nouveau Kaw Art for months without food.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The piercing whirl of a hand held grinder employed by his friend, Anthony, in his quest to remove every rough edge from a huge ball of twisted metal—another product of his yet unappreciated genius—forced Terrance to vacate his cot and seek the cool quiet of a loading dock located at the rear of the building along the railroad tracks. Anthony bended, welded, and grinded all forms of metal: big pieces, long pieces, and heavy pieces. Size and shape didn't matter as he always managed to find a place for it on his creations. Terrance envied Anthony's passion for his vocation. But after six hours of noise, his admiration had weakened by degrees.

Terrance tried hard to get some rest, but to no avail. Only a dead person could lie quietly while that racket went on. Consequently, Terrance looked haggard, not the image he hoped to present to Arête that evening. Already after 6 p.m., he couldn't do much about the bags under his eyes in the next hour. Then another small matter occurred to him. He hadn't showered, which meant he would have to utilize the same facilities as his host. The only way to describe the condition of Anthony's bathroom necessitated using terms such as public urinal, men's locker room, or dumpster area.

"Just suck it up and do it," were his final words as he headed for the bathroom covered in nothing more than an extra-large towel and wearing his running shoes. He forgot to bring his shower shoes, and he wasn't about to step into that fungus pit in only his bare feet.

After having finished the fastest shower and shave ever attempted by a young male, Terrance stood out on the back loading dock brushing his teeth and gargling mouthwash. No way did he intend to let something he regularly put into his mouth get close to that germ incubator.

Once back inside by the cot, he looked at his watch and realized he had to step on it. By his best estimate, even if he busted his rear, it took at least twenty minutes to travel to Arête's suburban spread. He hurriedly finished dressing, choosing to wear one of his favorite outfits he'd picked out with Jess's help a few months back. The light blue color dominated the background of his favorite long sleeve shirt and complimented his flawless, slightly tanned complexion and dirty blond hair. Jess often joked that she "only dated him for his looks because he didn't have any money and could only barely ride a horse."

"Put those thoughts out of your mind. You've got to do this," he told himself.

On the street and rolling south in the van, he realized he hadn't taken into account his unorthodox mode of transportation when estimating the travel time to Arête's. Plus, as it got darker, he had a hard time seeing while wearing the dark sunglasses. He decided he had to give up the glasses, but still wear the hat, just in case the black SUV happened to be out on the street looking for him. He hadn't forgotten about them or how spooked he'd gotten only the day before. These guys personified persistence. He knew that after twenty years they weren't going to leave the area simply because he lost them on his wild race across rural America.

He needed to hurry. This lady wouldn't abide tardiness in an employee, and that's what he would be to her—an employee. No matter what else happened between them in private, she was the boss. _Well, so be it_ , thought Terrance. _If that's what it takes to stay alive, to get a law degree, and to have a future as opposed to running from the cartel until I'm old and gray, I'll do it_. He mustn't forget the perks either—the lady defined the word beautiful. Over the next few years, he stood to gain much from her teaching him about life, money, and society, along with important things not available to him elsewhere. _This is the only sensible way to go. This is going to work_ , he reassured himself.

It looked as if he'd make it in time after all according to the 6:52 p.m. reading on his watch. The absence of daylight pleased him as it eliminated having to explain why he drove over in a rolling junk wagon.

The closer he got to the address, the more familiar the area became. He knew it well. A number of prominent people in the community chose to live in this part of town. The homes were built on three acres lots, with barns, long driveways, pools, guesthouses, and rows of white fencing, reminding him of the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky.

Following Arête's instructions, Terrance eventually discovered he'd been directed via the long route to an area of the community he knew well. He could have gotten here a lot quicker if he'd only stopped and thought about the address location instead of blindly following directions. "Is that what this is going to be about from now on—following directions?" Terrance asked. Again he admonished himself for making a simple deal difficult. "What if it is like that? I'll be well rewarded for my efforts."

By now, the area he drove through looked increasingly familiar. He'd traversed this route many times before. Some of the most enjoyable moments of his young life were associated with traveling this same route. This must be an omen—to experience fond memories at a time like this as he prepared to set off on an entirely new adventure to places and experiences he'd never allowed himself to imagine before. Today marked the first day of a new life. A life of thinking differently, acting differently, and seeing the world differently awaited him. No more equivocating. The future appeared clear to him now; things were going to be all right. Somehow, someway, it would all work out for the best.

He refocused his attention in time to recognize his turn and pressed hard on the break pedal. The van's barely functioning breaking system responded slowly, causing him to overshoot the driveway and making him back up. Fortunately, no cars followed close behind.

"What is it with people's need for space," he asked himself as a now much more at ease Terrance steered the van up the long driveway towards the house in the distance. "It seems like no one wants to have neighbors anymore."

Terrance saw a light on the front porch. This pleased him, as he preferred not having to stumble towards the porch in the dark. Bringing the van to a stop some distance from the house, he turned off the clanking engine before it could disturb anyone. So far, no one appeared to be aware of his presence. He took one last look at his tired face in the rear-view mirror before he exited the van.

He approached the large front porch, looking to see if he could catch sight of anyone through one of the big front windows. Not a soul appeared. He felt a slight unsteadiness in his knees as he stepped onto the porch. "There is nothing to be afraid of," he assured himself. "It's going to be all right. This is the right thing to do."

He took one last deep breath as he reached forward and knocked loudly on the wooden screen door. Instantly, a commotion began inside, followed by footsteps coming towards the door. The door opened and a beautiful lady stood in front of him, smiling. He was right. This is where he belonged.

"Hello, Jess," he said.

_Baaaaaaaaa-Wooooooooo!_ The charging beast wailed as he bolted through the open door past a misty-eyed Jess to get at his best and, too long, absent friend.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Terrance didn't bother trying to put up a defense when Harvey knocked him flat on his back on the porch while firmly planting his paws on his chest, giving him a good face licking.

"You big dummy, get off of me, I mean it!" Harvey however, paid no attention to his best friend's pleas as he expressed his excitement in the only way he knew how. If the truth be told, Terrance didn't care. The sight of Jess's pretty, smiling face was like finding out that Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all really existed, and you were a kid again. It felt wonderful.

His inner demons, driven by thoughts of self-preservation and self-centeredness, almost caused him to step over the edge into a way of life alien to his basic notions of honesty and loyalty. Having come so close, he knew now, as he lay flat on his back, that running away and leaving Jess had about as much chance of happening as him getting this small _elephant_ off his chest without some help. More and more he started to believe he might not be that next great _do whatever it takes to win at any cost entrepreneur_ he imagined himself to be.

"I hope you're enjoying this," cried out a weakening Terrance as he lay there resigned to his fate. "I swear, I'll always return your calls. I swear! Now will you please help me?"

If Jess thought about taking revenge, her relieved look didn't show it. She didn't appear to be a person concerned about not having a phone call returned. The look on her face said something else. It said, _I've been worried about you; I'm glad you're finally here_.

"Not you, too, Fifi," broke in Jess as the smaller half of her personal security contingent arrived at the scene hoping to get in on part of the action now that Harvey had softened up the prey. "Get back in the house, and Harvey, that's enough. You heard me, that's enough!"

It took more stern commands to get Harvey to break off his welcoming ritual and go back inside the house where he eagerly awaited his pal. Jess knelt down beside Terrance as he laid there flat on his back with a contented smile occupying his whole face. Usually, Jess offered some good-natured wisecrack about how he deserved this friendly mauling from Harvey, but not this time.

Terrance felt so relieved just to be on Jess's front porch that he stayed there, reluctant to lose the moment. The culmination of so many feelings, ideas, fears, and doubts had been thrown into a big bucket to see which came out on top. For a time, it looked as if his less noble instincts prevailed, but at the last moment, from somewhere deep inside, the better parts of his nature emerged, and he avoided making another big mistake.

It has been said many times that a sucker is born every day and such looked to be the case as Jess leaned over a smidgen too far in her attempt to wipe some of the dog slobber from Terrance's face with the dish towel she held in her hand. In extending her torso over him in order to get a better look at the damage done by Harvey, she gave Terrance the opportunity to wrap his arms around her upper body and slowly pull her down by his side. A tender kiss, most appropriate for those occasions where lovers come back together following a long absence, ensued.

"Jess," said Terrance, relaxing his embrace.

"Yes," replied Jess.

"Jess, I need to tell you about some things that are happening in my life."

"I know," said Jess calmly. "I've been waiting."

Upon hearing this response, Terrance smiled.

_Of course, she would be waiting; she always knows when something is not right_.

"Could we go inside first? If we stay here much longer those puppies will break the screen door down to get back out here," pleaded Jess as she rose up to a sitting position.

Terrance reluctantly agreed to leave his position now that he knew for sure how much Jess meant to him. Plus, he intended to tell her everything that happened and he wasn't sure how she might react to certain parts of his tale. What if she told him to hit the road?

After mollifying the dogs with a variety of chew toys to keep them occupied, they faced one another in the living room. Jess stood waiting for him to begin.

"I'm going to be more honest with you right now, Jess, than I've ever been with anyone in my life. I'm going to tell you everything. From this point on—if you're still with me after I finish—I never intend to live another day keeping any information about my life from you. You may want to sit over there until I've told you the entire story. I'm not proud of it."

Jess took only a moment to make her decision. She walked across the room to Terrance's side, took his hand, and sat with him on the couch. She held on to his hand and indicated with raised brows that she awaited his story.

Terrance sat for sometime before he commenced speaking. Now that he intended to do it, he wasn't quite sure where to start. So many things must be told. In the end, he decided to divide the story into two parts. First, he must tell her about those things that had the potential of affecting her own life and safety. Then afterwards, if she chose to stay, they could deal with a number of less critical issues.

"What I want to tell you about started on Friday before last. I had just returned from a trip to Kansas City with the professor. Up until I got to work, it had been a very good day. The trouble started at work. My boss assigned me the responsibility of gathering background information and writing a story on a local individual by the name of Joseph Right." Terrance halted as he noticed Jess's reaction to the name. "You've heard of the guy?"

"Certainly, he was one of the largest donors to the shelter for years. I met him on a couple of occasions when he came to the shelter with kids to help them select a pet. He was a very nice man. I was sorry to read that he passed on. Go on with your story," commented Jess hurriedly.

"Well, hold on, because you're about to learn a lot more about the man," said Terrance. "I naturally figured this would be another one of those fluff obituary stories, and I resented being charged with this responsibility. I hoped they were going to start assigning me more important subjects."

At this point, Terrance abruptly halted the story. A little voice in his head asked him if he ought to be telling this story to Jess without her knowing the danger involved. She had a right to know what she might be getting into.

"What's wrong? Why have you stopped?" Jess asked.

"Jess, before I tell you what I know, which has the potential to turn your entire life upside down and, very possibly, put you in physical danger, I'm going to tell you about a couple of things I came close to doing that I am not proud of. If after you hear about them, and you're still interested in being a part of my life, we can go on with more of the story. Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes," said Jess without hesitation.

He looked straight into her eyes as he began the first part of the story, attempting to see if her face revealed any indication of doubt. "When I left my hiding place less than an hour ago, I didn't intend to end up here at your door step. I was on my way to a lady attorney's home for the purpose of working out a suitable arrangement whereby she would take me along to Atlanta with her when she left town for a new job in two weeks."

"My reason for leaving is that I feared for my life. Some violent people are, very possibly, going to try to kill me for what they think I know. This lady, from out of the blue—I swear, I never had any type of relationship with her before—left me a message on my voice mail, making me an offer to go to Atlanta with her as her assistant. She would pay me a salary, and she ensured me that her new company would provide for my law school education. Being desperate and already on the run, I had gotten as far as Omaha when her message gave me an alternative. I turned around and came back to Lawrence to a friend's warehouse where I hid out, and I called her to express my interest in her offer. I arranged to meet with her tonight to work out the details."

Terrance halted for a moment to gauge Jess's reaction. He detected no change. "I asked myself over and over again if there was any other way to do this, but I could think of nothing. I didn't want to drag you into this, and I felt that with those people after me we could never have a life together here, where you're most happy. So, I did the only thing I could think of doing, I started running. I was already gone when this lady contacted me with this offer. I had by that time rationalized our relationship out of existence, and I figured it would be better to go on the run with someone helping me out as opposed to going by myself and starving. That was the plan, and until sixty seconds before I knocked on your door, that's what I thought I was going to do."

"The only thing," said Terrance, "is that I didn't know, until I was on my way there, how much I loved you. When I found myself at your door only a few minutes ago, I was never more surprised or happier than I've ever been in my life. I'm sorry, Jess."

Terrance turned his face away, afraid of what he might see or hear next. _What would she do now?_

All during the silence, Jess kept holding his hand in hers as Terrance sat waiting.

"You mentioned a couple of things," said Jess, breaking the silence. "Is there something else you're going to tell me?"

"Yes, I—" began Terrance until Jess cut him off.

"Does it involve another woman, you murdering someone, or you robbing a bank?" asked Jess.

"No," answered Terrance.

"Then I suggest we let this other story wait until another time," responded Jess assertively.

"I want to remind you of something. Do you recall my academic accomplishments in school? Do you recall that I never received anything but straight A's? Most educated people who know me consider me something of a minor genius. I've been offered scholarships to complete my Doctorate studies at most of the prestigious universities in the country. I have a wonderful mind, and I can figure things out. Do you recall any of this?" She finished speaking and waited for his response.

"Yes, I recall," answered Terrance tentatively.

"Good, and for the record, what was your cumulative GPA in college?" inquired Jess.

"I maintained a B average as I recall," answered Terrance.

"You barely had a B. You have talent, but it's not in the academic world. I've told you—stick with your looks and your charm. Let nerds like me take care of life's non-linear equations. Given your indecisiveness regarding our relationship until now, I can understand why you attempted to handle the problems in your life in the foolish way you've just now told me about. But now, you know how you feel. You say you love me, and I love you. So from this point on, we're going forward together with us both involved in all the important decision making processes. Agreed?"

Terrance's sigh of relief didn't go unnoticed. He said nothing, only squeezed her hand tighter.

Jess made one last remark on the subject. "If you ever cut us out of the loop again, no matter what, Harvey and I will make tonight's greeting seem pleasant. Now, tell me the part about us getting killed over some information you've discovered."

Terrance, once he got started, told her every detail he could remember since the moment he first received the Joseph Right assignment, including the part where he started to run away with the professor's winning ticket in his pocket. For the most part, Jess sat impassively until he got to the part where he chose Anthony's warehouse as his hide out. She knew all about Anthony's slovenliness. She cringed upon hearing that Terrance ate, slept, and showered in that place.

"You're going to stay here with me until we get a handle on our safest course of action. No one knows about me, so they will have no reason to look for you here. The owners of this place will be gone for another month, at least. I can take that heap you arrived in back to its rightful owner, and I'll tell him to stay quiet about seeing you. We'll leave the Cherokee where it is for the time being. Now about your attorney friend—I think you should call her and tell her you've reconsidered and won't be able to accept the position after all. I can't blame her for seeking your company, and she doesn't deserve to be left hanging. While you're doing that, I'll fix something for you to eat. You've lost weight and probably only eaten junk food since this all started. I'll be waiting for you in the kitchen in fifteen minutes." Then without waiting for a response, she got up and, with the dogs following, went into the kitchen.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Terrance sat alone thinking about the big mess he'd created up until now. Jess did come out way ahead when they compared cognitive abilities, and the prospect of him ever leaving her no longer was an issue. She did need to be in the lead as they tried to figure out a safe and practical way to get him and, now, her out of this mess. That's twice in one day where he refused to trust someone very close to him. He needed to remember to trust his friends and love ones. No longer did it seem merely a matter of his being ignorant, he'd been told and shown twice. If he repeated this mistake again, it more appropriately indicated a lack of intelligence on his part.

"Where's that cell phone?" he asked as he stood up to check his pockets. Not finding it on him, he figured he left it in the van. The van would be as good a place as any to go and make his apologies to Arête. He entertained one last thought as he headed out the door. _Boy, I hope I never meet up with her as an opponent in a courtroom someday_.

The pleasant and familiar aroma of homemade bread baking in the oven greeted him upon his return to the house. A pot of soup simmered on the stove. She always made bread when she fixed soup. A big bowl of hot soup with a thick slap of warm bread loaded with butter, it didn't get much better than that. Plus, whenever she baked, she always made a fruit pie. That meant a fruit pie was waiting for him somewhere in the kitchen. He remembered how close he came, a short while ago, to losing all this. Again, a feeling of thankfulness rippled through him.

Jess saw him as soon as he appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Okay, come and sit down. The soup is ready for you, and the bread will be ready any minute. After you're done eating, we'll talk more. I've also fixed one of your favorite peach pies that you can have later with vanilla ice cream."

Terrance followed her instructions. Both dogs watched intently from a distance, obviously hoping, they, too, were intended to be a party to the feast. The bowl of vegetable soup sent the pungent scent of herbs and spices wafting towards his nostrils. Next came a large glass of cold milk with the hot fresh bread and butter soon to follow. Jess mentioned nothing more about the lady attorney nor would she ever mention her again.

She returned to the kitchen table to find Terrance smiling, his bowl empty, half a loaf of bread missing, and the dogs close by.

"Ready for pie and ice cream?" she asked while clearing the table.

"Yes, please," responded Terrance knowing full well that if he somehow managed to live to be a hundred it couldn't get any better than this. On this special night, he intended to partake of every offering from this amazing woman as if it were to be his last day on earth. A good motto for him to remember from this point forward, "Live as if this day would be your last, never taking your love ones for granted."

His eyes lit up as she placed a large slice of peach pie covered with an enormous scoop of ice cream before him. His server had to see the delight in his eyes and the smile on his face. _Maybe she was right_ , thought Terrance. _Maybe I'm just a big kid at heart_.

Terrance put aside his fears of the cartel and his recent embarrassment from telling Arête he changed his mind and dove right into this sweet feast. Jess, after some time, came over and sat down at the table across from him, placing an eight by fourteen-inch accordion file on the table. Her companion, meanwhile, gorged on warm peach pie and vanilla ice cream. He ate until he ran out of space and couldn't hold any more. Like most men and boys, he'd eaten to the point of risking his stomach exploding.

"Terrance, how much money do you have in the bank or anywhere else for that matter?" asked Jess. "I'm only concerned with liquid assets as anything else would have to be converted to a liquid asset, and we don't have time to sell furniture and cars if we decide to leave without being found out."

"I've got a couple thousand dollars in the bank right now, and my coin collection in a safety deposit box is probably worth three or four thousand dollars. Also, I think Mom and Dad have some bonds in my name at their bank, but I don't know how much they're worth. I told you about giving the professor my ten percent share of the three hundred plus thousand. I can't think of anything else. Why?"

"Okay, two thousand dollars. The rest is no good to us right now. Maybe in a few years, but certainly not now," said Jess as a physically stuffed Terrance thought about her inquiry.

"Well, here's the deal. If we're moving around we've got to travel fast and light. That means we'll take with us only our clothes and cash or negotiable paper. With your two thousand dollars, we're not going to get very far. Would you agree?"

"I guess, but what's negotiable paper?" responded Terrance.

"I'll tell you about that some other time. Right now, let's keep ourselves focused." Jess pulled the large file towards her and extracted a single folder from it. She pushed the larger folder away and commenced to review the documents contained in a smaller folder.

"Did I ever tell you about the project I worked on back in 1998 and 1999 where myself and two other women developed an investment model for the stock market? One of the graduate courses I took to get my Graduate Degree in Economics required it. The project dealt with statistical modeling. With stock market investing all the rage at the time, we decided investing would be the best way to see if our model actually worked. Well, we all got A's because it worked very well, thank you very much."

"I never knew you invested in the market," said a surprised Terrance between groans.

"Why should you? You barely paid any attention to me then. You were to busy rampaging through all the sororities to have that much time for me. Anyway, we did very well, and what's more, we rolled everything out of equities into cash and T-bills right before the market headed south. Now that part, we can't take credit for. The class ended, and we simply wanted to put everything into something more secure. We were only participating in the market for the short term, so we got out. It was pure luck that we cashed out before the crash."

"But, we can't use your money. That's not fair. I don't know how much you have, but I don't want you to spend it on me." Terrance sat back defiantly.

His defiant look softened as he watched Jess's eyes narrow and her cheeks turn red.

"Do you recall the gist of the lengthy talk we had not more than thirty minutes ago in the living room?" She stared hard at Terrance as she awaited his answer.

"Yes," answered Terrance somewhat meekly.

"Excellent. Now I want you to superimpose that conversation over the statement you just now made while defending your God-given maleness, and tell me how they compare."

Terrance recognized a trap. He had no choice but to bail out early. "You're right. We're partners now in everything we do and own. It's probably going to turn out that you're bringing a lot more into this relationship then your new partner. I'd prefer that not to be the case."

"Well, get over it because it's not important. Our safety is important. Our future is important. So, do you want to know how much I have for the kitty?" A mischievous smile lit up her face.

Terrance thought before answering. "Well, the way you're grinning, it's got to be, at least, five or ten thousand dollars. Am I right?"

"Close enough," replied Jess, shoving the financial report over to him.

Terrance looked down at the piece of paper attempting to decipher all the numbers. His eyes widened and he grabbed the document to bring it up close to his gaping eyes. "Two hundred and thirteen thousand dollars! You made that much money in the stock market and you're out here feeding animals? You've got to be some kind of genius to do that. Holy crap!"

For the first time Jess let loose with a big smile. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"No, Jess, this is amazing. You're some kind of genius. I wish I could remember that. If we ever get out of the mess I've gotten us in to, it's probably you who should be the one to go to law school, not me."

"No, I wouldn't make a good lawyer. You're the one who's going to law school in this family. You will be a fine lawyer; I'm sure of it. Being the type of lawyer I think you want to be, and the kind I believe you will be, isn't about being a genius, it's about being a good, decent person and wanting to help."

Everything quieted down as they sat smiling at one another like children enjoying the freedom of having not yet been told it's impolite to stare. Jess reached across the table to grasp Terrance's hands in hers. "You told me something important about yourself today, Terrance. When you started to run away because you were afraid, you put aside your fears, stopped, and came back for me. I believe that tells me pretty much all I need to know about you. Thank you for coming back."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"This is by far the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in," mused Terrance the following morning. He recalled his exclamation of disbelief when Jess told him a year earlier how much she paid for the bed. Since then, he'd admitted to the hastiness of his initial estimate of its worth several times. _She really does have a good head on her shoulders_ , admitted Terrance for the umpteenth time since the previous evening. She wanted very little to do with society's fascination with material things. But, on the rare occasion when she spotted something she thought returned value for value, she would spare no expense or effort.

"And why not," mumbled Terrance, "that is, if you've got a couple hundred thousand extra bucks in your pocket?"

_No more underestimating people from now on, and better yet, stop judging people all together_. What were his stellar qualifications ceding him the right to pronounce judgment upon others? Is it that he's had more good-looking girlfriends in high school and college than his buddies or because he came into this world with natural good looks? Because, every other thing he ever tried, he rated average at best. He should find another hobby.

He glanced over at the wall clock. By his reckoning, he'd slept almost ten hours. Even now, the effects of the past week lingered. It felt like having a hangover without drinking the booze. He crawled out of bed and headed for the shower before going to the walk-in closet where he knew Jess kept some of his clothing for occasions like this.

After a hot shower and a good tooth brushing, Terrance started to look around the house for Jess. Not finding her, he grabbed a sweatshirt and headed out the front door towards the barn. That's where she usually spent the mornings. No sooner had he stepped through the front door then he found her and the dogs. She sat watching him from the big wooden rocking chair at the end of the porch, wrapped in her grandmother's handmade quilt, and beside her, of course, her two sidekicks, Harvey and Fifi, observed his every move.

"Sorry I slept so long. How long have you been up?" he asked.

"We've been up for a couple hours, but I'm glad you were able to get the rest you looked as if you needed. How about some breakfast? The coffee's fresh and hot. Or, I could drive to the bakery and get—what are you grinning at?"

"Nothing," answered Terrance as he sat down on the heavy wooden bench close to Jess. "I was thinking again how absolutely amazing you are and how slow I must be to not realize this before now."

"You're not slow, so stop saying that. And you forget that I'm something of a savvy investor. I always had faith that I would someday get a good return on this particular investment. You were never so dark and brooding that an intelligent person couldn't see your good qualities and your potential. At worst, on a cold lonely night, you're not at all hard to snuggle up with." Jess rose from her chair and came over and sat down on Terrance's lap as she finished talking.

"I'm going inside to fix you some buckwheat pancakes, and I have maple syrup to go with them. After you've eaten, I've some ideas we can discuss." Without waiting for a comment, she and the dogs went into the house, leaving Terrance alone to make his peace with the beautiful fall morning—not a difficult task at all.

The morning's feast didn't leave him as incapacitated as the previous evening meal. All during breakfast, Jess busied herself with feeding the dogs, washing dishes, and tidying up. Not once did she sit down at the table and join him as he ate the perfectly prepared pancakes.

"Anything wrong?" he asked as he downed the last of his coffee. "You've been awful quiet the last fifteen minutes. I hope you're not having second thoughts, but I wouldn't blame you if you did." He waited for her reply.

Jess said nothing as she put down her dishcloth and walked over to Terrance. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, "I want you to promise me that you will never say anything like that to me again. You probably don't realize it, but you just now insulted me. Do you think so little of me as to believe I could make such a commitment to you last night, as I did, and turn right around this morning and say, excuse me, but never mind? If you have any doubts about my loyalty and my commitment, you should leave right now." Jess continued looking him in the eyes, awaiting a response.

Terrance could see again how immature his remark sounded. "I'm sorry, that was stupid. I promise I'm going to do better. This is all so new to me."

"Accepted, and I know it is. Now if you're ready, we can go over an idea I have." Jess retreated to the other room to retrieve a note pad before joining Terrance at the table.

"Well, after thinking about everything, I suggest we start with this." Jess pushed a single piece of notebook paper towards Terrance. She had written on the paper, in bold handwriting, the following words: "The more you experience, the less you know. The sage wanders without knowing, looks without seeing, accomplishes without acting."

Terrance barely caught himself before he made some derisive remark about this being one of those unfathomable _Tao_ messages she always pushed off on him. Instead, as an adult member of this new partnership, he held his tongue and waited for Jess to explain.

"I know this stuff doesn't make a lot of sense to you," offered Jess, "but to me, it makes all the sense in the world. Let me explain. Our best and only plan right at this moment is to make preparations to get out of this part of the country as quickly as possible and never come back. For us to start running, we would always be looking over our shoulders, forever worrying about the cartel. Isn't that right? Well, what if we turned it around? What if we became the hunters? What if we stayed where we are familiar with the terrain and went looking for them? We keep them in front of us, not behind us. That's all this is saying. The farther away we travel, the less we know about where we are. But, if we operate in this area, we can stay on top of where they are and what they're doing."

This idea intrigued Terrance. "Go on, I'm listening."

"Good. Now here's my idea. We set a trap. We get them to come to a place where we are waiting for them, and then we follow them. We find out what they look like, where they operate from, and how many of them there are. Everything they do, we will observe. Only when we are confident of what we are dealing with, will we make our decision on what to do."

Terrance could tell Jess had spent some time thinking about this. "Okay, now tell me about the trap part of the plan. You do know that these are blood thirsty murderers we'll be chasing down, don't you? Because if you'll recall, neither of us could bring ourselves to kill and clean that fish we caught down at the river last year. Not exactly the résumés I would be looking for if I were hiring people to go out chasing crooks and killers."

"We're not going to fight them, you goofball. We're only going to watch them from a safe distance," replied Jess frowning.

"Good, then the only thing we need to discuss now is what constitutes a safe distance. I vote for California," said Terrance, maintaining a straight face.

Jess ignored his weak attempt at humor. "Do you know what we will use for bait?" asked Jess. "The Cherokee will be the bait. We'll park it in a spot where we're sure they'll find it and where we can watch them from a safe distance. I've got the telephoto equipment. All we need to do is find the right place. Well, what do you think?"

Her eyes displayed no fear. _She wants to do this_ , observed Terrance. He never knew this side of her before.

Jess made more notes in her spiral notebook. "I've got a few more ideas I'm working on, but I'll wait until I collect more information before I tell you about them."

_If this group of criminals intended to destroy their lives, Jess wasn't going to roll over for them_. Her attitude impressed Terrance. _If she was willing to fight, he_ —

The ringing of Terrance's cell phone from the bedroom interrupted his thoughts. _Who could be calling me?_ he wondered. _Should I answer it? At least, I should see if I recognize the number of the person calling_. By the time he got to the phone, the caller had been rolled to his voice mail. Soon after the cell phone beeped, indicating a message awaited. Entering the retrieval code, his voice mail informed him of one message in his box. The message followed: "Terrance, this is Mrs. Bidwell. It's Sunday morning at 10 a.m. I need to speak with you as soon as possible. Please call me as soon as you can. I'll await your call."

Terrance looked around for Jess who stood right behind him. "It was a call from Mrs. Bidwell asking me to call her to set up a time for a meeting. She said she needs to speak with me," said Terrance somewhat puzzled. "What else could we have left to talk about? Maybe the cartel contacted her. What should I do?" He felt relieved to have someone help him make these decisions.

Jess hesitated before answering. "We do need to know what she wants, and by using the cell phone, no one can determine where you're calling from. Ask her what she wants to talk to you about. If she wants to meet with you, tell her you will meet with her at the coffee shop on the corner of Tenth and Massachusetts, at 11 a.m. I'll drive you to within a couple blocks of the place a half hour early and then park the van down the street and watch who comes along. When you're finished talking, call me on my cell phone, and then you can duck out through the alley entrance, and I'll pick you up in the parking lot behind the courthouse. Got it?"

"Have you done this stuff before?" asked an incredulous Terrance.

"No, I have not. Now call her back."

Terrance did as she instructed and dialed the number. After only two rings, Mrs. Bidwell answered. "Hello, Terrance. Thank you for returning my call so soon. How are you this morning?"

"I'm doing very well, thank you, Mrs. Bidwell." Terrance rolled his eyes back in amazement at the woman's refusal to get nervous even in this crisis situation. "You mentioned we needed to talk. Has something happened? Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Thank you for asking, and no, nothing at all has happened. But, I did happen to look at the paper this morning, and couldn't help but notice that no articles made mention of our mutual friend. Were you aware of that?"

"Yes, Mrs. Bidwell, I am aware of that. It's unfortunate that no additional information availed itself for that piece. I fully expect that this matter is finished. I gave notice to my employer, so I can't imagine that it will ever come up again in the future." Jess tapped him hard on the shoulder. "Mrs. Bidwell, is there anything else you want to tell me about? Do you have information relating to our friends from down south?"

"No, nothing, except that I don't think anyone's going to have to worry about that now. However, there are some other important matters I feel we need to talk about, and I hoped you could come to my house this afternoon. Would 2 p.m. work for you?"

"Hold on please," said Terrance as he turned to Jess. "She wants me to come to her house and meet with her at 2 p.m.?"

Jess thought for a moment. Her instincts always told her to go directly at the problem if you had the opportunity. "Tell her you will be there," said Jess.

"Two p.m. it is, Mrs. Bidwell."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Eleven a.m. to 1:58 p.m. felt more like three days than three hours. Terrance sat fidgeting in the passenger seat of the much-maligned van waiting for Jess to pull over to the side of a tree-lined residential street and let him out. Mrs. Bidwell lived two blocks over from where Jess parked. He planned to walk the two blocks to her house while Jess went to a designated spot to await his call. If she didn't hear from him in two hours, she planned to call the police. "Well, I'll be seeing you later, I hope," said Terrance as he prepared to exit the van. "If—"

"Be quiet," commanded Jess before he said anything else. "Don't start thinking negatively. We're going to get out of this and spend a long life together." Then, she leaned over and kissed him, gently shoved him out the door, and drove away.

Terrance stood on the side of the curb wearing his goofy golf hat and dark sunglasses watching the van recede into the distance. "I sure hope you're right," he whispered before turning to go to meet his fate. If questioned later, he couldn't have told you what he saw during his two-block walk. His mind focused on one thing—the cartel's whereabouts at that exact moment. If it didn't appear menacing to him, it didn't exist, especially, as he neared Mrs. Bidwell's home. He walked up to the house with all his defensive senses on full alert. The slightest out-of-place noise or movement, and he'd be showing his pursuers his favorite track star imitation.

As he stood on the large front porch in front of the door, he listened intently for strange noises from within. One minute, two minutes passed, and he heard not a sound. _Maybe she isn't home_ , he thought. _Maybe they've taken her captive and are waiting for me behind this very door?_ He started to leave, but before taking a single step, the door opened, and there stood Mrs. Bidwell asking him to come inside.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Butler. Have you been standing here long? I didn't see your car drive up. Please come inside. Can I get you some refreshment before we start? I have some fresh lemonade."

He followed her instructions. Everything looked okay. He may as well get this elderly, liquid offering ritual out of the way first so they could get down to business. "Yes, thank you," he answered as he observed everything in eyesight, including her. This still may turn out to be a trap.

"Excellent. Please come and sit down while I get it for you." If something underhanded lay in wait for him, this lady gave no indication of it.

He heard the ice cubes clank into the glass, followed by the pouring of the refreshment. A moment later, she returned, offering him a big cold glass of lemonade. "There you are. Take your time. Whenever you've refreshed yourself, we'll talk."

He quickly took a big gulp. "I'm fine, let's do it. What is it you have to tell me?"

"Yes, well, first I want to tell you that I think you made a very wise and noble decision not to go forward with the story. Very possibly, the nobility of your decision is of lesser importance to you right now than certain other factors, but I believe as years go along your attitude will change regarding this."

He glanced around the room as he responded. "That may be—"

His hostess cut him off. "Mr. Butler, there's no one else here, if that's what's concerning you. You have absolutely nothing to be worried about."

"How can that be? What about the cartel? I've seen them. They're following me around. You don't know what I've been through since last we met. I'm scared out of my wits."

Mrs. Bidwell turned sympathetic. "That's what I've heard, and I'm sorry about that, but—"

The look of sheer horror on Terrance's face caused Mrs. Bidwell to halt in mid-sentence. He stared past her through the front window to the street where a black SUV pulled to the curb in front of the house. A heavy set, well-dressed Hispanic male exited the car and started walking towards the front door of Mrs. Bidwell's home. Terrance jumped out of his chair and headed for the back door as Mrs. Bidwell caught hold of his wrist.

"Please wait, Mr. Butler. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's someone I want you to meet."

"What?" howled a confused Terrance. "You want me to meet someone from the cartel? Are you crazy?" _Why is this lady holding on to my arm so tightly?_

"He's not from the cartel. He's a former foster child of mine. I asked him to watch out for you these last few days. It's okay." Yet, she retained her tight grip on his wrist.

He halted his escape momentarily to absorb the information provided by Mrs. Bidwell. "What? That guy's not with the cartel? How can you be sure?"

"Stay where you are; I'll be right back," pleaded Mrs. Bidwell. She released his wrist and walked over to the fireplace mantel, selecting a framed picture of a young man and bringing it over to Terrance.

"The man coming to the door is Javier Lopez. My husband and I were his foster parents for a number of years. He is very loyal to me, and he thinks of me as his mother. I asked him to tail you for a few days to see if anyone followed you. His real job is an insurance investigator. This is a picture of him when he was sixteen years old. He's only here because I asked him to help us. Please sit back down. I want you to meet him. You have nothing to be afraid of."

Terrance's chest pounded. He didn't know what to do. Should he believe her? Or should he take his customary first idea and jump up and run? Then he thought of Jess, and he realized he might be leading a bunch of murderers back to her if this guy followed him. He took a deep breath and sat back down. He no longer had the will to run.

This time when he spoke, he sounded much calmer. "The other day you trusted me to make the right decision. Now, I'm going to trust you."

Mrs. Bidwell smiled like a proud mother at his response. "Again, Mr. Butler, I am well-pleased with your decision."

She left Terrance sitting on the sofa and walked to the door to greet her newest guest. "Come in Javier. It's so nice to see you. I want you to meet my new young friend."

Thirty minutes later, Terrance felt like a condemned person given back his life. Javier turned out to be one of the nicest people he'd ever met. He displayed great affection towards Mrs. Bidwell, and he also apologized for his awkward attempts to watch Terrance's _back door_ , so to speak. But at least, as far as he could determine, no one was following him. Before he left, he gave Terrance his business card and told him to call him if he could ever be of service.

Once they were alone, Mrs. Bidwell asked Terrance how he felt. He appeared to be a changed man. No longer did he look haggard and terrified.

"Mrs. Bidwell, I can't recall when I have felt so relieved. My girlfriend and I were preparing to clear out of town forever. That reminds me, I need to call her within the next hour or she's instructed to call the police. I'm sorry I didn't trust you, but I was scared. It won't happen again."

"I'd like to meet your girlfriend sometime. Is this a serious relationship? Pardon me for prying, but my reasons will soon become apparent," said Mrs. Bidwell.

Terrace laughed. "You know what, I can honestly say that to have found out how much we care about each other and how committed we are to each other as a result of this frightening experience made it worth it. I now know who I want to spend the rest of my life with."

"That's wonderful," replied Mrs. Bidwell. "And the story, do you still feel the same way about the story—now that you realize the cartel is not outside waiting for you?"

"More so than before," replied Terrance. "And not because of the fact that, in all likelihood the subject is my birth father. He was a good man, and in spite of some very tough breaks, he became an even better man. I'm not going to destroy that for no good purpose."

"I couldn't agree with you more," said Mrs. Bidwell, "and while we are on the subject of the man who by all indications was your real father, I have something for you." Mrs. Bidwell went into the adjacent room and retrieved a large brown envelope.

"You mentioned needing some of Joseph's hair and other items so you can secure a DNA test for you and Joseph. I believe you will find sufficient material in here to accomplish that." She handed the envelope to Terrance.

Terrance accepted the envelope, recalling having requested the samples. However, as he sat there holding the envelope, he realized things had changed. What purpose would a DNA test serve now? To prove who his real father was or wasn't? Then what constituted a real father? Someone who dutifully passed the combined genetic mutations of a million members of the same family tree on to an opposite sex representative of another equally diverse family tree for the purpose of producing yet another child in a very long line? Or, did it have more to do with being there as a caring parent day in and day out? Terrance was partial towards the latter. Therefore, he already had two male individuals who had fulfilled that roll admirably: his adoptive father who raised him and a man named Joseph Right who devoted his life to watching over him all those years. So what purpose would a DNA test serve him? The answer, very simply, was—no purpose at all.

"Mrs. Bidwell, I appreciate your efforts here, but I don't believe I'm going to need this after all. I believe Howard Douglas is my birth father. Although, I will never be able to share this with the world, I will still be proud to claim him and Whitney McClain as my ancestry." He handed the envelope back to Mrs. Bidwell. "Do with this as you choose. I'll never ask you for it again."

A smile unlike any other displayed before covered the entirety of Mrs. Bidwell's face as she accepted the envelope. "I am well-pleased, Mr. Butler. You are displaying a level of wisdom usually reserved for people well beyond you in years, and although I am confident that you're the son Joseph came here to be near, I agree with your notion of human qualities superseding genetic makeup. This reassures me you will be up to the task."

Ignoring her remark, Terrance observed as Mrs. Bidwell returned the envelope to the other room while taking a dainty handkerchief from her dress pocket to dry her eyes. It looked to him as if they both felt a great sense of relief.

When she returned from the other room, he couldn't help but ask a question. "Mrs. Bidwell, were we ever in any danger from the cartel? If we weren't, you can tell me because I've made my decision, and it will not change."

His hostess walked towards him without answering. After she sat down, she responded, "Mr. Butler, everything I related to you regarding the cartel is true. Do not ever think differently. They are out there waiting and watching, and they always will be."

"I don't understand," said Terrance. "It's been over twenty years. What is it after twenty years that could be so important to them? What are they looking for?"

"This," answered his hostess as she handed him another envelope. "This is what they are after, and the reason why they will never forget."

Terrance inspected the envelope. The return address listed a Swiss bank and was addressed to, Account Holder, Box 2011, Kansas City, Missouri. Terrance looked back to Mrs. Bidwell. "Do you want me to read this?"

"Please," she answered.

Terrance scanned the enclosed documents, and when he looked back to Mrs. Bidwell, he appeared confused. "This says there is almost seven million dollars in this account. There's no name listed, only a number. Are you telling me Howard Douglas stole this money from the cartel, and that's why they are still after him?"

"You are exactly right, except that it was more like a million and a half when he took it. It earned interest all these years so that's how it got to the current amount. Joseph included me as co-owner of the account some years ago just in case."

"I don't suppose you could simply give it back to them and ask them to forget all about it, could you? No, of course, you can't do that. They would kill you anyway. So, what are you going to do with all this money?"

"I don't intend to do anything with it, that's not my job. That's going to be your job, Terrance. You've proved by your recent actions and decisions more so than the obvious physical similarities you display that you're the rightful heir to Joseph Right's legacy. It will be your job when you finish your schooling. You're going to need that law degree, for sure, now. I expect setting up a foundation and administering to it will keep you fairly busy. I'll provide for your education and upkeep from now on out of these funds until you're ready to take control in a few years. I think you will be able to accomplish a great deal of good with the resources you will have available. Don't you?"

Terrance sat speechless and looked prepared to stay that way for sometime.

"But remember, Terrance, never assume the cartel isn't out there waiting for someone to slip up. They will be out there waiting, forever."

It's a good thing Mrs. Bidwell checked the time and reminded Terrance to call Jess before the hour passed. He did manage to call Jess, who sat waiting all this time ready to come charging to his rescue, and convince her to pick him up in front of Mrs. Bidwell's house. She consented, although most reluctantly, after many assurances.

Waiting for her outside on the sidewalk, he waved as she cautiously drove up in the clanking and lurching old van. At first, Terrance had a hard time recognizing her as she, too, had secured dark sunglasses and a huge sunbonnet. She looked ridiculous just like he did two hours earlier when he arrived here. He stood there laughing for a moment before getting into the van. As he entered the van, he put his dark glasses and hat back on because they were a team now, and if one of them looked ridiculous, then both of them would look ridiculous.

Sitting there with the girl he loved in the most hideous vehicle west of the Missouri River with the weight of the entire world off his shoulders, he felt down right giddy. "Darlin'," he said in his best imitation cowboy drawl as he leaned over towards her, "sumpin' wonderful's happened."

"That right?" replied his still skeptical companion.

"Do I have a story to tell you, and I'll do just that while we're on our way to trade this remarkable piece of machinery in on a real nice Jeep Cherokee. By the way, have I told you today how absolutely amazing you are?"

## CHAPTER FORTY

The small cardboard box sat on the kitchen table in front of a weary Joseph Right as he thought about the mementos it held. It occurred to him that the items contained in the box represented the most important events of his life. Now, over twenty years after the traumatic events that caused him to take flight in the middle of the night away from his hometown of Harmony, Illinois, he allowed himself to recall that night as well as the tragic events that preceded and followed it, while he still had the time. For by all indications, each passing day brought him closer to the end.

His doctors told him he suffered from a degenerative heart condition and that little could be done to help him, except for a heart transplant. Sitting in his second story apartment where he'd resided for over twenty years as the lone renter in the home of a wonderful elderly lady, he knew he wouldn't allow that to happen. Such dramatic efforts, in his opinion, were best reserved for people who look towards the future, not people whose thoughts dwelt mostly with the past.

"The fall of the year," he said aloud. "I can't think of a better time to go than during the fall season. So many things that affected my life, for good and bad, occurred during this season." He then commenced, without intending to, to recall those occasions starting with he and Whitney deciding to live together back in the fall of 1976. They became engaged in the fall of 1977. Then Whitney disappeared in the fall of 1978. Finally, the murder of Richard took place in the fall of 1981, followed by his own flight from Harmony. All in all, an important period in his life, and the idea of him taking his last breath during this same time period occurred to him as most appropriate.

He reached into the small box and pulled out the photograph of him and Whitney, the one he carried with him the night Howard Douglas escaped from Harmony those many years ago. The photograph showed the wear and tear of being handled daily for all those years, but he didn't notice the difference. The pretty blond girl in the photograph standing beside him was perfect in every way. Even now, as he sat holding the picture, it seemed only a short time ago that he lived life as the happiest, most fortunate young man in the entire world. Once more, as he did every time he looked at the photograph, he asked why he allowed himself to get involved with something that ended up destroying both of their lives. To the very last second of his existence on earth he believed his blind and destructive ambition owned most of the blame.

Touching the picture to his lips, he placed it in the box, and then brought out the sheet of paper presented to him by the stranger the day of Whitney's funeral. This document had kept him alive. Without the knowledge of a child born to him and Whitney, he wouldn't have lasted a single day longer than the day Richard Whiting died. Knowing about the child gave him reason to endure the pain of Whitney's tragic death. He had to stay alive to ensure their son's well being at the home of his adoptive parents in Lawrence.

And that's what he did. From a safe distance, he observed the boy year after year, never once seeing cause or giving cause for concern. His son's new parents were good, hard-working people, and they provided him with a decent home. Although busy people, they involved him in sports such as baseball and soccer, but not football, which Joseph agreed with. The boy's participation in sports had likewise given Joseph cause to get involved to such a great degree in the first place. He umpired, hauled kids around, donated money, and even coached. He did everything he could to keep those kids on the field and having fun so he had more chances to see his son.

Recalling one special day, Joseph replaced the document back into the box and brought out a nearly new baseball. This was the ball his son hit through all the outfielders to get an inside the park home run and win the game. Joseph observed this from his umpiring position at home plate, and only his promise never to interfere in the boy's life prevented him from picking the kid up and hugging him as he came across home plate. When the ball made it back to the opposing pitcher, he'd calmly retrieved the ball to check it for marks and promptly took it out of play—forever.

Smiling as he returned the ball back to the box, he then brought out another photograph. This one showed him standing beside Isaac Diggs, the man he befriended that night long ago down by the river. Isaac had said he intended to shoot him, but Joseph never believed him, for even a minute. Instead, he talked him into coming to work at the shelter and after a month there, Isaac found his own purpose for living, going on to become one of his few close friends and a caring person who never tired of helping people who were less well off than he. "Thank you for being my friend, Isaac," whispered Joseph as he placed the item into the box.

The next memento Joseph brought out caused him to tighten his jaw. This item represented a side of his character no one knew about—the angry, vindictive side. This side designed an elaborate scheme to murder another human being that all came together after months of planning one late fall night.

All Howard Douglas's planning appeared complete. October 1, 1981, would be the day Richard Whiting died, and Howard intended to be the one who killed him. Almost everything went as planned. He had driven to the estate well after dark and entered by the rear gate, left his car at the barn, walked towards the rear of the house prepared to enter through the back patio door—which he had a key to—go inside and find Richard in his lower level office, and kill him. Howard's straightforward plan had an excellent chance of working if only he had gotten to Richard first. But he didn't.

As Howard approached the rear of the house from the barn, a black Cadillac drove up and three men in dark clothing jumped out. Without delaying, they went directly to the same lower entrance that Howard planned to use to enter the house. Howard waited and watched from behind the barn. After about fifteen minutes, the three men exited through the same door, returned to their vehicle, and drove off.

Howard waited to see if anyone returned before he again approached the back of the house. He hoped this delay didn't complicate his plans. He'd positioned everything to begin his new life that night. So, when he quietly entered the house and made his way towards Richard's office, he came unprepared for the horrific sight that awaited him as he entered the downstairs party room. Richard lay dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He knew it was Richard even though the victim's face had been blown off. Someone had beaten him to it. Who?

In a flash, it came to him—the cartel. They had discovered the missing funds and assumed Richard did all the stealing. They did his work for him. But now, they would surely come looking for him, too. Howard started his escape right then. He mustn't go back to the condo because the same men would be there to do the same thing to him. Howard left town immediately, stopping only to change vehicles and get rid of the gun he never used and the Rolex watch given to him by Richard. Only years later did he find the clip full of bullets he now held in his hand, in his get-away car's trunk. Turns out he went into Richard's house with an unloaded gun. He couldn't have shot the guy anyway. When he did discover the clip, he decided to keep it as a stark reminder of the darker side of his nature.

Through the years he wondered if he would have been able to do it, if the cartel had not gotten there first or if he'd not forgotten his bullets. He really couldn't answer that question, and in the end, it didn't matter anyway because either way, Howard's soul was indelibly scared by the prolonged presence of so much villainous and putrefied hatred. To rejoice, as he did, when he saw Richard's mutilated corpse lying there in a pool of blood, showed how far he'd traveled beyond the pale of decent human behavior. It required years of continuous, unselfish labor for the betterment of life for thousands of less fortunate men, women, and children before he regained his humanity.

Joseph placed the gun clip into the box and retrieved the last remaining items in the box: the sixteen letters he wrote but never gave to his son. A ribbon gathered the letters into a neat bundle. He gently caressed them and let his mind drift back to those summers when he watched his son with so much quiet pride. He was the most wonderful child. He never smarted off or cried or yelled like so many of the other unruly youngsters. He always seemed to be having fun, no matter if he played in the game or sat on the bench. Whenever you looked his way, he was usually doing something to get a laugh or have some fun. Sometimes, Joseph would swear he saw Whitney—the kid looked and acted so much like her. She, too, had a way of putting a positive spin on everything. Likewise, she enjoyed helping her friends have a good time no matter what they were doing. _Boy, she would have been proud of her son_ , he thought.

It began to get late, and Joseph started to get weary— _one of the side effects of having a malfunctioning ticker_ , he reasoned. Someone else had to do something with these letters when he passed on, as he couldn't. He thought about how in the past he secretly harbored a hope that someday the young man would get to read these letters from a doting father and know of his sense of pride—to know his real father loved him from afar and chose not to interfere in his life during those important developing years. Most of all, to let him know he deeply regretted his selfish actions so many years earlier that cost them their life together.

One day as Joseph watched from a distance as his son and the adoptive father hugged following a game, he realized his fantasies were but a lingering fragment of the selfish nature of the old Howard Douglas that caused his and Whitney's lasting misfortune. The same attitude that argued against Whitney when she asked him to quit his job, not knowing the cartel wouldn't allow him to leave. The same attitude that told him it was okay to have a few drinks with the pretty young lady in Cancun. And now, it told him to record his thoughts and feelings in hopes that this young man, who had a good father already, might find them someday and learn of his dedication all those years as he watched over his welfare from a distance. After the sixteenth year, he never wrote another letter. His only reward would be derived from watching from a distance as this wonderful young boy grew into a man.

Many times over the years his sadness over the loss of Whitney and his son became unbearable. Still, he told no one of his grief and relied upon his dedication to the shelter to keep him going. For he believed that for him to end his life as he had thought about doing, with so many people depending on him epitomized the word selfishness. That is what the young Howard Douglas might do, but not the older Joseph Right. He must wait, no matter how much he hurt inside. Now, thankfully, his time drew near. His son had grown into a healthy twenty-four-year-old man, prepared to go out into the world. The shelter functioned almost as well without him. As far as he could determine, the need for him on this earth had past. It was the time for him to go.

## EPILOGUE

"What an absolutely gorgeous day," said Terrance as he sat back in Jess's old rocking chair on the front porch of the caretaker house. From his vantage point, he could see Jess with the dogs out by the corral feeding the horses. Two thoroughbreds followed her every move as she tossed out fresh hay. They recognized a true friend, and now, so did he. His vivid recollection of Jess's stand up performance in the face of perceived imminent danger maintained a permanent home in his memory.

Terrance now more fully comprehended the moral of the professor's story, "Never travel with a friend who deserts you at the approach of danger." They each had answered that question for the last time. No matter where life's journey led them, they made the journey together.

He thought back six weeks to the wild days that brought such profound changes to his life. Enough excitement occurred during that one intense period to last him two lifetimes. Now, here he sat as contented as a twenty-four year old man, in love with a wonderful young woman, could be. He and Jess started living together and planned to be married early next year. His dream to attend law school at the university in Lawrence would become a reality in January—a mere two months away. His financial situation would never be an issue again, and a large part of his life's work waited for him once he graduated from law school. No longer in dire need of money, he donated his ten percent of the Pick Six winnings to the professor's project. But more importantly, he'd crossed generational barriers and made a lifelong friend of the professor. Lastly, he filled a deep hole in his soul with the discovery of his birth parents.

Each of these events alone gave him a reason to be grateful. But together, he still had difficulty comprehending this much good fortune.

The sound of Jess's laughter roused Terrance from his pleasant reveries. Harvey, as usual, started acting out. After watching Jess feed hay to the horses, Harvey decided he, too, wanted some. Grabbing a mouthful of hay, he tried to chew it like the horses, and always ended up spitting out hay and throwing his big head around trying to get any loose stems off his face. Jess never ceased delighting in this act.

Considering the long trip they only last night returned from, everyone seemed to have lots of energy. He, Jess, and the dogs had piled into the trusty Cherokee and made a quick trip, yet again, back to Illinois to deliver Joseph Right's ashes to their final resting place—spread out upon the earth covering Whitney's grave, as well as down by the small creek behind the graveyard under the oak trees where he and Whitney were reported to have enjoyed so many of their best moments.

This time he felt none of the fear and foreboding that accompanied his previous trip. He and Jess sat by the creek and talked, as Howard and Whitney must have so long ago.

Terrance sensed a strong connection with the reunited spirits of Howard and Whitney as he and Jess enjoyed the peaceful moments. There he was an integral part of something good. When he departed from this place he planned to carry on the rightful legacy of his birth parent's stolen lives. It made no difference that he would never be able to prove that Howard and Whitney were his real birth parents. For Terrance, their spirit had become more important than their genes. In his mind, all three of them were part of the same spiritual force—more than enough reason for him to claim them as his parents. He harbored no regrets about allowing Mrs. Bidwell to destroy the only remaining evidence that proved his lineage.

To consecrate this union, Terrance picked up the small bundle of letters on the table and pressed them against his heart. Mrs. Bidwell gave them to him before he and Jess left for Illinois. She told him that long ago Joseph had hoped that one day his son would read his letters and know how much he cared for him.

Terrance looked at the letters—sixteen in all. Why sixteen Mrs. Bidwell couldn't say. But it made no difference; he was ecstatic to have them. He planned to read one each year for the next sixteen years, to take his time, and to savor each, one at a time. Hurrying no longer was a part of his life.

Terrance thought of another unexpected benefit arising from this amazing series of events—a renewed appreciation for all the love and concern shown him by his adoptive parents over his entire life. At seventeen when he found out about the adoption, an invisible wall of his own creation came between them. He tore down that wall and began working diligently to ensure nothing like it ever got built between them again.

_So much for a young man to experience in so short a period of time_ , thought Terrance. He pondered the possibility of other young men throughout history experiencing such enlightening adventures. To start out traveling far from home, seeking fame and fortune, only to end up finding everything you ever wanted back where you started. Along the way finding out you're not always the good natured, honest person you thought yourself to be, but rather, at times, a selfish schemer and deceiver. Learning you aren't the only person in the world having been treated unjustly by life, that other people also experience injustices. Discovering first hand the wreckage of your fellow man's evil deeds and finding out that man's efforts are not always for the best. To accept that good and evil can exist side by side and that often, the greatest danger doesn't lie with evil coming from without, rather it lies with evil coming from within. In the end, Terrance realized he would never have arrived at this fortunate position in life but for his recent experiences. Each one opened different parts of his mind and, if he ever made the mistake of believing he no longer need be concerned with such personal shortcomings, he might expect to see them revisited upon him.

In the future, he must never forget where he came from or what he had experienced. More importantly, each day he must tend to the defects of character that attempt to gain footholds in the fertile soil of his mind.

Terrance placed the bundle of letters on the table and picked up the small, framed proverb Jess gave him the day he set out on the adventure that brought him full circle. He may have saved himself a lot of trouble by reading the complete proverb the day she gave it to him, especially the last line.

"If you are without, there is room to

receive. If you possess much, fear of

loss will confound you. Do as the

wise man, become part of the whole.

Be still within, for _All Things Return_."
