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ONE

October, 1960 He met his contact at Galatoires in the Quarter, a shotgun restaurant

with tile floors and tables for four with white linen tablecloths. Galatoires was a New Orleans

tradition, and after having eaten in most of the better restaurants in New Orleans, it was still his

favorite. Not only that, the steady hum of conversation among both tourists and locals would

provide a soothing backdrop for what he was about to do.

Jack Wellborn was a tall man with classic European features and an air of sophistication

and confidence that, at least on this particular occasion, masked his true feelings. He sat erect in

a dark grey business suit, white shirt, and conservative tie, still in disbelief that it had come to

this. He had made discoveries that would change the world, but they were ahead of their time,

and as a result money for research had been a problem. Now he was approaching desperate.

Nothing made that more painfully apparent than his dinner companion, a large man whose palms

and interlaced fingers fell upon his oversized stomach as though it was his own personal podium

of power. Jack Wellborn had hated him for as long as he could remember and now he was asking

him for money. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

There had to be some other way. He put it out of his mind as he ordered a Godchaux salad, his

favorite. Fresh Gulf shrimp the size of your thumb and plump fresh tomatoes on a bed of crisp

lettuce, topped off with the chefs special dressing. Dessert would be Galatoires famous bread

pudding, arguably the best on the face of the earth. It was small consolation but at least the meal

would be something to look forward to. His dinner companion demanded whiskey, and then

without consulting the menu, ordered prime rib. End cut of course.

Their conversation over dinner was mostly polite but intense, especially when they

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argued over who would get what, and when. More than once, Jack Wellborn asked himself if this

really was his only option, but he knew the answer before the question had completely formed in

his mind. He had no choice. They finished their meal and settled the check. The atmosphere

remained guarded, but not without at least feigned resolution. The outcome was less than he

hoped for, but it was workable and more important, it was done. By this time tomorrow night he

would be home. Home. The word brought forth feelings of emptiness. He recalled the many

days, and nights, away from his wife and son. Sacrifices that he told himself were vital to their

future. To everyones future.

They walked without talking from Galatoires to the Old Absinthe House a few doors

down on Bourbon and went inside for a drink. He ordered a whiskey sour. He hated beer and had

never cultivated a taste for wine. He really didnt like whiskey either, but the sugar took the edge

off, and he liked the taste of the cherry after it had been sitting in the alcohol for a while. Like

most patrons they stood, leaning on the copper-topped wooden bar as muffled sounds of the

Vieux Carre floated in and out of the hundred and fifty year old tavern. He made a few vain

attempts at small talk, but with their business completed, there was little to talk about. His

companion struck up a conversation with a female patron while he fought the excitement that

came with knowing he would now have the cash that was so vital to his research. For a moment

he wondered if it would be enough, and if he would be able to meet the terms he had agreed to,

but he quickly dismissed the thought. They finished their drinks and stepped out onto Bourbon.

The temperature was mid-sixties and the humidity high a typical October night in New

Orleans. He lit a cigarette and watched with an uncomfortable mixture of satisfaction and disgust

as his dinner companion was gradually absorbed by the mist. Then he flicked the match into the

street and he too disappeared into the low-lying fog.

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Jack Wellborn hailed a cab for the short ride to the Royal Hotel on Canal. He spoke to the

night clerk as he made his way up the stairs to his room and unlocked the door. The room was

nothing to write home about, but it was adequate. There was a lavatory in the corner for shaving

and the showers and restroom were only a few feet down the hall. He felt unusually tired so he

collapsed onto the bed, his head finding rest against the simple stained oak headboard.

Ordinarily, he would have removed his coat and trousers immediately upon entering the room, a

common practice designed to get the most out of a trip to the cleaners. Tonight, it never entered

his mind. His vision was beginning to blur and he felt dizzy. He removed his glasses, rubbed his

eyes, and then reached for the journal on the nightstand. He immediately realized that something

wasnt right. His mind seemed to dart in all directions as he tried desperately to form a rational

thought. Was he having a seizure? A heart attack? His arms felt like lead as he finally managed

to pick up the pen. A horrifying panic took on a life of its own as it fought to prevent him from

getting those few words on paper. Holding the pen more like a tool than a writing instrument, he

struggled to force the last symbol onto the page. And then a burning pain filled his chest,

thousands of needles delivering a stinging sensation over his entire body. Suddenly, he couldnt

feel anything anymore, and a strange peace came over him. His thoughts turned to Lucy, then

Catherine, and finally his children. Then he thought about the truth, and wondered if anyone

would ever know.

As the door to the catwalk from the Saenger-Orleans Theater to the Royal Hotel opened

cautiously, amber gum-soled shoes moved silently through the doorway and down the hall

toward room seven. He didnt know what he would do if he made it in time but he knew he had

to try. He listened carefully as he cocked his ear to the door. Hearing nothing other the pounding

of his own heart, he knocked softly and almost simultaneously, tried the doorknob. The door

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opened without resistance. He had a sick feeling when he saw the man sprawled on the bed, his

head in an unnatural position against the headboard. He stepped forward to check for a pulse,

immediately realizing there would be none. He hadnt known what to expect, but this surely

wasnt it. What did he do now? Suddenly his heightened senses picked up the faint sound of

voices coming from the hall. Quickly he closed the journal that lay open on the bed and placed it

in his bag. Then he waited for the silence to return and he was gone.

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TWO

Twenty Years Later, 1980 T. Winston McBride was a round little man with wire-

rimmed glasses that were too small for his face. Mostly bald, he had tufts of hair around his ears

and in the back. He had come to LSU from South Carolina. To his friends and colleagues, he was

Ted or Dr. McBride, but to his students he was T. Winston. T. Winston spit when he talked. He

spit more when he got excited in the middle of some historical rant.

It was just after seven oclock on a Wednesday evening and Marshall Monroe, Jake to

his friends, sat in T. Winstons American History class on the campus of Louisiana State

University in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. American History was a sophomore level course but Jake

had somehow managed to become a graduating senior without having taken it so here he sat. The

lecture hall was small and dark, with thirty or so wooden school desks placed on risers that faced

the podium. The risers were more than a foot high, requiring a higher-than-normal step up and

making the highest riser uncomfortably close to the ceiling. Jake sat on the front row, as far to

the left of the podium as possible. From this vantage point, he could turn his body toward the

podium, appearing to give the professor his undivided attention while studying the fine looking

young women that peppered the tiered lecture hall. Jake was an incorrigible flirt. At nearly thirty,

he was typically one of the older students in his classes, but he could still pass for early twenties.

His six foot frame was muscular and well-toned and there was a presence about him that was

approaching charismatic. He was clean-shaven with piercing hazel eyes and a single dimple in

his right cheek. His dark hair was almost black, with just a touch of gray at the temples. His

clothes were a bit conservative but stylish. Jake was married, but not happily, and he made no

apologies for his love of good looking women.

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Jake hated his night classes. After working all day, the last thing he wanted to do was to

drive to LSU and fight to stay awake during and hour and a half lecture. The best thing about this

semester was the unusually large number of good looking women in his class. Well, that and the

fact that as a graduating senior this was the last night class he would ever have to take. This

particular night had struck a sour note, though. T. Winston began the lecture by announcing that

their semester project would be to write their family history. Jake couldnt think of anything he

would rather not do, and the fact that it would represent twenty-five percent of their final grade

didnt help his attitude.

As T. Winston railed on about the New Deal, Jake began to think about the family history

project. Strangely enough, he began to think about his dad. In fact, as hard as he tried, thats all

he could think about. He died when Jake was ten and it had been years since Jake had given him

more than a fleeting thought. He idolized his dad and his death had been so devastating that Jake

had taken all his memories of him and locked them away in a box in the back of his mind. Now,

as he allowed himself to lift the lid on that box, to peer inside and re-live some of those

memories, he was amazed at how disturbing some of the feelings still were, twenty years later.

He vividly remembered sitting on his aunts sofa and wondering what a heart attack was. At ten

years old, he had never known anyone who had died, especially not someones dad. He felt lost,

like that time in the train station, and afraid. Maybe it was a bad dream. He knew about those. He

thought maybe he would wake up soon and his dad would come home and everything would be

like it was. But of course, that didnt happen.

One of the most vivid memories Jake had was of his dad throwing dice against a pillow

on the bed. He could still see it as clearly as if it was happening right in front of him right now.

As a child, it was fascinating to Jake, but at the time he didnt realize just how remarkable it was.

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It was always an eightroll after roll. Thinking about it as an adult, Jake wondered how his dad

could have done that, or why he would want to. Las Vegas immediately came to mind and Jake

couldnt help wondering if the dice were somehow connected to his dads death. He remembered

seeing those same dice in the bottom of his mothers cedar chest. There was also an American

Legion cap, some old military pictures, and a journal.

T. Winstons family history project had a strange affect on Jake. He still had no interest

in who sat on what limb of his family tree, but suddenly he wanted to know everything about his

dad. Questions that had been suppressed for two decades kept fighting for position in his

consciousness, no longer willing to be ignored. Who was Jack Wellborn, really? Did he really

die of a heart attack? Was he really Jakes dad? If he was, why wasnt Jakes last name Wellborn

instead of Monroe? How did he control the dice? And were the answers in his dads journal?

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THREE

He sat alone in a comfortably worn, oversize leather executive chair and took another sip

of scotch. The ice in his glass made the only sound as he surveyed the memorabilia that filled the

shelves, hung on the walls, and crowded the top of the credenza. Aided only by the dim light of

the approaching California dawn, his eyes slowly scanned the items in the nearly monochromatic

scene, his mind reliving the experience that each one recalled.

Matt Roberts coveted his awards. They were his only legacy to a life of public service,

his role in making the world a better place. It all seemed such a travesty now. The huddled

masses of the world knew little if anything of his accomplishments, nor would they have

appreciated them if they had known. Here in his library with his trophies was the only venue in

which he received the recognition he so richly deserved. He took yet another sip and slowly

reached for the one trophy whose stature permitted it to hold a spot on the massive desk. An

eight by ten photograph in a plain black metal frame. There were a number of men in the

photograph, two in the foreground. One of these men was the President of the United States,

shaking hands with the man to whom he presented the Presidential Commendation. Roberts

looked up from the picture to the wall above him, to the commendation, complete with the

Presidential Seal. It was a great day, but it was fleeting. Within months, they had stripped him of

everything he had worked for and tossed him out like last weeks garbage. Idiots! They had

quickly forgotten where they would be without him and the work he had done for them. But he

had made them pay. He still wielded fearsome power, in the agency as well as in other places.

Some were loyal, some just owed him, but he could still reach out and touch if he really needed

to, although the years had loosened his grip, and the days of absolute power and unfettered

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control were gone. His search for Ivanovic provided the real passion for living. Without that

The telephone interrupted his train of thought. He picked up the receiver and brought it next to

his ear, saying nothing.

We got a hit on Jack Wellborns military records.

Ivanovic? Roberts asked quizzically.

No, the kid.

There was a brief moment of silence while Roberts made the connection, and then he

exploded. Wellborns kid! Dammit! What the hells he doing snooping around?

Just settle down. Its no big deal. Hes just nosing around about his old man. I just

thought you should know about it.

Surprises are always a big deal. How old is he now, twenty-five?

Just turned thirty.

Thirty! Roberts paused and then his voice relaxed and he began to laugh. I guess it has

been that long, hasnt it? What exactly is he looking for, and why am I just now finding out

about this?

Hes just trying to track down information about his old man. Other than the military

records, hes written a couple of letters to places in the Florida panhandle. He wrote the Legion

Post in St. Clair. Frank called me about that one. The letter he got from the kid just says he

doesnt know much about his old man and wants to know whatever he can tell him. We didnt

even know he was looking until Frank called me. Then we got the hit on the Army records.

Frank didnt even know he had a kid.

Yeah, after he remarried he moved them to some little hick town in north Louisiana and

changed their names, Roberts acknowledged. But look, the point is that I cant have him

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nosing around St. Clair. Were too close to Ivanovic to let him or anyone else to jeopardize that.

Ivanovic contact has to be there and were so close I can taste it. If the kid shows up and starts

asking questions, he may spook before we identify him. Im not about to have him slip through

my fingers because some kid is trying to dig up some trivial bullshit about his father.

Just relax. Hes just a normal kid, nothing like his old man. Its not unusual for a kid to

want to find out about his father. Besides, Ive taken care of it. Im sending a couple of

Castellanos boys to pay him a visit.

Vic Castellano? I thought he was dead.

Yeah, two years now. But Im sending a couple of his boys. Theyve done some work

for us since the old man died. I figured we needed to shake the kid up a little. Keep him scared

off just in case hes getting any more ideas. At least until we can zero in on Ivanovics contact.

Yeah, okay, Roberts agreed reluctantly. But I still dont him nosing around. You make

sure he gets the message.

Trust me, hell get the message. What about Wellborns wife, that Monroe broad?

Shouldnt we check her out again?

We cleared her after Jack Wellborn died, Roberts assured him, When we were trying

to locate his journal. Well keep an eye on her, but if she knew anything we wouldve known it

by now.

I wish I could be as sure of that as you are. Thats one tough broad.

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FOUR

Lucy Monroe was a tall woman at nearly five-ten, with hair the color of hot coals and

beautiful emerald green eyes. She was an in-your-face, no-nonsense country girl with a ready

smile and a heart as big as Dallas, unless you crossed her. If you did manage to get yourself on

her bad side, things could get ugly, and fast. She was thirty-eight when she met Jack Wellborn,

thirty-nine when they married. Her parents died when she was thirteen and she was left to care

for two younger sisters. It was a responsibility she was unable to share with anyone, and

therefore she had never allowed herself to be drawn into a serious relationship, until she met

Jakes dad.

Jake was counting on his mother to be his best source of information about his dad. After

all, she had been married to the man for nearly fourteen years, and she also had his journal,

which Jake was convinced was packed with information about him. For the first time in his life,

he wondered why his mother had never talked about his dad, although in looking back on it, he

now realized that she never really talked about anything in her life that involved her deepest

feelings. And of course Jake had never asked her about his dad, so maybe she figured he didnt

want to talk about him either. Maybe talking about him hurt her as much as it hurt him, maybe

more. Jake knew his mother loved him, but she definitely changed after his dad died. She wasnt

nearly as affectionate and she almost seemed to retreat inside herself.

Hi, Momma.

Well hello yourself, Marshall Monroe. How are you?

Im fine, Momma. I just called to let you know were coming home this weekend.

Thats wonderful, Marshall. When are you coming?

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Tomorrow after Sarah gets off work. Im taking off at noon and I dont have any classes

on Friday night, so Ill have everything packed and ready when she gets off at four-thirty.

Jakes mother had never liked Sarah or her family. To her mind, they were a bunch of

snobby aristocrats and Sarah was a spoiled little rich girl. As it turned out, she wasnt far off the

mark. Jake and Sarah met when they were both full-time students at LSU. Sarah had come to

LSU to find a husband, and if there was anything she was good at, it was manipulating people

and circumstances in order to get what she wanted. It didnt take Jake long to realize that he had

made a huge mistake, and to make matters worse, Sarahs refusal to rein in her spending habits

soon forced him to drop out of school to get a full time job. Determined to finish his degree, he

began taking night classes. Sarah took this as an opportunity to begin making up for all the things

shed missed as a result of, in her words, marrying so young. Jake often wondered why they

were still married. Other than sex, which had become little more than physical release, their

relationship had quickly deteriorated into that of two roommates, and not very compatible ones

at that.

When will I see you? his mother asked.

Itll be pretty late when we get there but Ill see you first thing Saturday morning. Jake

paused for a second, and then continued. Momma, do you remember that journal of Daddys?

You know, in the cedar chest, under Grandma Hardaways quilt. Jake waited for a response but

when there wasnt one, he continued.

My American History project is to write a personal family history and Im thinking there

has to be a boatload of information in Daddys journal. The project is twenty-five percent of our

final grade so I want to make it good.

Mercy!

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Yeah, mercy may be what I need, Jake quipped. Anyway, I want to look at his journal

when I come over Saturday morning. In fact, I might borrow it from you for awhile if its okay.

Jake had a vivid memory of his dads journal. A faded wine-colored leatherette book with

worn edges and the word Journal embossed on the front cover in an intricate script. He played

in his mothers cedar chest when he was young and he remembered seeing the journal in the

bottom, along with some letters and pictures, an American Legion cap, and a small glass bottle

with some dice in it. Jake was anxious to look at everything again with the new perspective the

project had given him, especially the dice and the journal. He was sure that a lot of the answers

he was looking for were right there in the bottom of his mothers cedar chest.

You know, Momma, I need to make a good grade on this project, but theres something

more important to me that I hope we can talk about this weekend. He paused. I want to know

more about Daddy. I dont know why Ive never thought about it before, but do you realize that I

hardly know anything about him?

I know, Marshall. I know.

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FIVE

Jake was still thinking about his phone call to his mother when he picked up the mail and

started flipping through it. A hand-addressed envelope caught his eye. It looked like those

gimmick letters that marketing hacks use to sell their self-improvement books. In fact, he nearly

tossed it, but something made him open it first.

Your daddy was well known around these parts. He was kind of a wheeler-dealer, a

self-appointed promoter for the Panhandle. He did a lot to help this area and people liked him,

but he was a dreamer. Trouble was he never seemed to come up with any little ideas.

He could feel the heat in his face and his heart beating in his chest. He put the letter down

and grabbed the envelope.

Damn! He expressed his frustration out loud. No return address, just a post mark. St.

Clair, Florida. The letter was a single white sheet of blue lined, three-hole paper with a ragged

edge, obviously torn out of a spiral notebook. The ink was blue and judging from the frequent

ink splotches, it was written with a cheap ball point pen. The handwriting was the same on the

letter and the front of the envelope. He put the envelope back on the coffee table and continued

to read.

Most folks around these parts liked Jack Wellborn, but they worked hard for their

money and his big ideas scared them. He wasnt long on patience and when they didnt get

behind him right away, he started making trips outside the Panhandle, trying to bring in outside

money to back his ideas. Went all the way to New York City once. He had an idea to put a

gambling casino on the coast. Said it would create hundreds, maybe thousands of jobs. Might

have worked too, but he ruffled a few feathers here and in Tallahasseethe wrong feathers.

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Were talking powerful people with deep roots in Florida politics, and deep pockets. They didnt

like any idea that wasnt theirs, and they sure didnt like outside money unless it was coming to

them. Bottom line, they werent about to let somebody come in with anything like a casino

unless their fingers were deep in the pie, and that was something Jack Wellborn wasnt going to

allow. It took some time, but he finally realized he couldnt beat them. He had poured everything

he had into it, but the casino deal was a goner. I dont know, maybe he just couldnt handle it,

but one day he was just up and gone. Left everything, including his wife. That soured a lot of

folks on him. He had always been something of a ladys man. His wife had her share of problems

too, but he shouldnt have just left her like that.

Jake didnt know what to think. He put the letter down on the coffee table while he tried

to get his head around what it had to say. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

He went to the door, still in somewhat of a daze, and looked out the peep hole to see two men in

suits. Without thinking, he opened the door.

Marshall Monroe?

Im Marshall Monroe. What can I do for you?

The smaller of the two men looked to be in his early thirties. About five-nine, he had on a

navy blue suit and black wing-tips. He was built strangely. Skinny, but with a beer gut. His white

shirt was heavily starched and his tie was a classic diagonal stripe that looked like it might have

had a slight brush with a plate of spaghetti since the last trip to the cleaners.

We need to visit, he said as he pushed the door open with the back of his hand and

stepped past Jake into the living room. He moved quickly, leaving Jake with no time to react,

even if he might have. Jakes first thought was that the man was trying not to leave fingerprints,

a thought that didnt made him uncomfortable to say the least. The smaller man did the talking.

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His voice was a little high-pitched, almost monotonic. He stopped in front of the chair opposite

where Jake had been seated on the couch. He turned toward Jake, staring at him without

speaking. He obviously had no problem making eye contact. He had a baby face with unusually

deep eye sockets, high cheekbones, and beady little blue eyes that peered out from the depths. He

had a slight sneer and his face was scrunched up in a way that made it look like he was about to

break into laughter, something that was totally misleading.

Jake took his place on the couch and picked up the letter. He casually folded it, put it

back in the envelope and placed it on the couch beside him. The smaller man sat.

The big man was at least six-two, two-fifty. He stood by the front door, closing it behind

him as he assumed his position. He had slick black hair combed straight back and a dark suit that

was a little tight, emphasizing the size of his arms and shoulders. Jake figured him for ex-

military. His shoes had a mirror-finish, and everything was crisp and neat. He stood by the door

and never said a word, not that he had to. Jake wasnt sure exactly what was going on, but he

knew he wouldve been a lot more comfortable if the big man hadnt been there.

We understand you been asking around about your old man, the smaller man said.

Jake was already a little unnerved but this one totally blindsided him.

I dont know what youre talking about.

Please Mr. Monroe. Dont waste my time. We know you been nosing around, okay?

Whos we? Jake immediately wondered how the man knew he had been nosing

around. After all, all he had done was to send out a few letters asking about his dad. And until

the letter that came today, they had all turned out to be nothing but dead ends.

Lets just say that were associated with individuals who knew your father very well,

the man replied. In the interest of everyone concerned, you in particular, it would be better if

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you didnt ask any more questions about your father, at least for now.

Whys that? Jakes voice reflected his indignation, and he quickly realized what he had

said, and more significantly, how he had said it. He shot a nervous glance at the big man but he

never moved a muscle and the smaller man continued as though Jake had said nothing.

Because of your fathers role in certain activities, there are still a number of operations

that could be compromised if someone showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time, asking

the wrong questions.

I dont know how my trying to find out something about my dad could compromise

anything, Jake interrupted. And besides, Im still trying to figure out what questions to ask.

Actually, there were at least two or three questions Jake could think of to ask right now,

but his gut told him they wouldnt go over well. His heart jumped into his throat as the man

facing him reached across his chest and into his coat. Surely he noticed Jakes reaction, but his

expression never changed. He withdrew a slender cigar and began to lick it. He put it in his

mouth with no indication that he intended to light it, and continued talking.

Believe me, Mr. Monroe, were thinking of your best interest here. Its all about timing,

and yours is not good. You could get yourself in a lot of trouble, maybe even killed. When the

time is right, well see that all your questions are answered. He paused, perhaps expecting Jake

to say something. When he realized Jake wasnt going to, he resumed. Until then, making

further inquiries about your father wouldnt be smart. Do I need my associate to demonstrate

what could happen if these inquiries were to continue?

As if on cue, the big man took a single step forward. His expression never changed. Jake

hesitated, but only for a second.

No. That wont be necessary.

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So were clear on that point, right?

Yeah, were clear. Jake said reluctantly. He was doing his best to think, but it wasnt

working at the moment.

Outstanding, the man said and immediately stood and moved to the door. He opened it

and turned back to face Jake. Then our business here is finished.

He cracked a faint smile and without another word, both men were gone as abruptly as

they had come.

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SIX

It was nearly eleven p.m. before Sarah and Jake pulled into her parents driveway on

Friday night, but at six-thirty the next morning, Jakes tires bumped softly against the curb in

front of his mothers apartment building.

Lucy Monroe lived in a government-subsidized housing project in Bossier City,

Louisiana where she had moved shortly after she retired. It didnt take a rocket scientist to figure

out that she lived a pretty frugal existence. She could have moved in with Jake and Sarah, but she

had been independent since she was a young girl and she wasnt about to give it up now. Jake

often wondered why his dad didnt leave her any money, but like many things, he had never

asked her about it. As Jake got out of his car he couldnt help thinking again about the letter he

had received, and about his visitors. Even though he had tried not to think about it, it had

occupied most of his thoughts during the trip from Baton Rouge. He shook it off and headed to

his mothers apartment, knowing she would be up and coffee would be waiting.

Hows Sarah, Marshall? his mother asked as she placed a cup of hot coffee on the table

in front of him.

His mother didnt really didnt care how Sarah was. It was just small talk. And she didnt

like his new nickname any more than she liked Sarah, but unlike most things, she wouldnt just

come right out and say it. She would just calmly say I like Marshall, which meant that hell

would freeze over before she called him Jake. It may have been the one thing she and Sarah

agreed upon.

Shes fine, Momma.

His mother put warm homemade cinnamon rolls in front of Jake, along with a steaming

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cup of fresh hot coffee. Food was one of the few ways that Jakes mother expressed love, and she

did it well. Once more, his visitors and the letter popped into Jakes mind, but he was excited and

anxious to learn what he could from his mother, so he pushed the thought aside and dove right in.

Momma, I want to know more about Daddy. Im not sure why, but weve never really

talked about him.

Jakes mother looked at him like the weight of the world had just settled upon her. Her

face showed defeat, resignation. As her face allowed the slightest smile, she sighed softly and

asked, Okay, Marshall. What did you have in mind?

Well, for starters, Jake said, barely able to contain his excitement, What exactly did he

do for the government?

Marshall, I dont know what he did. When we met, he told me that he worked for the

government, but that he wasnt allowed to say what he did. After we were married, he was away

from home a lot. Most of the time I didnt know where he was going or how long he would be

gone.

Jake was immediately deflated, and a little shocked by his mothers revelation. Momma,

thats just crazy. How could you marry someone when you didnt even know what they did?

Didnt you think that was a little strange?

I didnt know what to think, she explained. I just accepted it at first. I loved him,

Marshall. But I eventually did tell him that I had a right to know what he was doing.

What did he say? Jake was pushing, but he was anxious for answers.

He said he just couldnt tell me. He said he was involved in a project that was important

to the security of the United States and that just knowing about it could put me in great danger.

Jake didnt know what to think. In a million years he wouldnt have guessed that he

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would run into something like this. Surely his mother was telling him the truth, but he still

wasnt getting the information he wanted. He decided to try another approach.

What about our name, Momma? You must know about that. Why is our name Monroe.

Why isnt it Wellborn?

Marshall, all I know is that he told me it was to protect us. I told him that he needed to

trust me, but he said it didnt have anything to do with trust and that when he was able to tell me

I would understand.

Momma, what do you think he really did? It was a question that Jake was reluctant to

ask but he was desperate and fighting back the growing disappointment boiling up inside him.

For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that his mother was not telling

him the truth.

I just dont know, Marshall. I wondered about it for a long time, and then I got tired of

wondering. It was driving me crazy. I know he loved me, and he loved you. He was good to both

of us. Thats all I really need to know, isnt it? There was a determination in her voice, along

with a plea for acceptance.

I guess so, Momma.

I dont want to talk about your daddy anymore, Marshall.

Okay, Momma. But I do want to look at his things, especially his journal?

Ive been thinking about that since you called, Marshall, and I just dont think I

remember anything like that.

Jake felt like someone had sucker punched him right in the gut. He couldnt breathe. Or

move. Surely this wasnt actually happening. He had played in that cedar chest too many times.

Momma, it has to be there, Jake insisted. Do you know how many times Ive seen it?

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Right there under Grandma Hardaways quilt?

Well, we can look.

Neither Jake nor his mother uttered a sound as they walked down the narrow hall to her

bedroom. Inside was the familiar cast iron double bed with the same white chenille bedspread

that had adorned it for years. The cedar chest, a natural blend of burnt red and a pale yellow, was

at the foot of the bed. That was the position it had occupied for as long as he could remember.

His mother stood in the doorway as Jake knelt down, raised the lid, and removed some of her

wool sweaters. Underneath the last layer of sweaters was Grandma Hardaways quilt. Jake took a

deep breath and lifted it out of the way. There were all the things he had remembered, just as he

had pictured them: The American Legion cap, pictures, letters, the diceand the bottom of the

cedar chest.

Jake felt physically ill. As they walked back to the kitchen, he prayed that his mother

hadnt actually destroyed the journal. He felt numb as he sat and finished his roll and coffee,

neither he nor his mother able to break the awkward silence. Before he finished, his mother got

up and disappeared into her bedroom. She was gone for some time and when she returned, it was

obvious she had been crying. She handed him a piece of paper. On it she had written everything

she could remember about Jack Wellborns family history. She also gave him all of the things

from the bottom of the cedar chest, including the dice. Jake did his best to act normal, and to be

grateful, but the visit had taken its toll on both of them, so he simply kissed his mother on the

cheek and left.

*****

It seemed that the return trip to Baton Rouge would never end. Jake didnt say a word on

the way home, and if Sarah said anything at all, he didnt remember it. Every time he thought

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SEVEN

Sarah! Jake shouted, then paused and repeated, louder. Sarah! Where are you?

Jake threw his keys on the counter in the laundry room. It was just after noon, but

everyone in the office, Jake included, had knocked off early to get ready for next weeks seminar

in Dothan, Alabama. He couldnt believe it had been nearly six months since he had found the

journal missing from the bottom of his mothers cedar chest. Since then, Sarahs mother had

suffered a stroke and they had moved to Minden, Louisiana so that Sarah could be closer to her

mother. Jake had completed his degree and had landed a job in nearby Bossier City. Sarah wasnt

working, presumably to spend more time with her mother. In spite of his visit from the goon

squad, Jake was determined to find out about his dad. He had thought about the journal and the

dice every day but so far, his uninvited visitors and the letter from St. Clair were about the only

evidence he had that his dad had even existed. Sometimes he was so frustrated he thought about

confronting his mother and demanding that she give him the journal. But he knew his only hope

was that eventually she would come to her senses. Unfortunately, instead of being his best

source, she was just the first of a string of dead ends. He still just couldnt understand what could

be in his dads journal that, would make a woman like his mother so afraid twenty years after it

was written.

Sarah, are you home? Jake shouted again as he grabbed a beer from the fridge and

made his way to the den. Then he remembered. Sarah and Allison were on their way to Dallas.

Bitch, Jake muttered disgustingly.

Jake had learned the truth about Dallas a long time ago. Sarah and Allison went to Dallas

to run the bars and party. Allison was Sarahs regular running buddy. She had coal black hair,

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steel blue eyes that could burn a hole straight through you, and the best figure money could buy.

She was also single, and Sarah wasnt, at least not legally. She and Allison figured they could do

whatever they wanted to in Dallas and call it a shopping trip without getting caught. The problem

with that line of thinking was that half of Northwest Louisiana went to Dallas, and even though

Dallas is plenty big, sooner or later, youre going to run into someone who knows you. The

world can be amazingly small, especially if youre trying to keep a secret. When Jake found out

about Sarahs infidelity, he was devastated at first and then angry. Of course, he had suspected it

for a long time, but now that he had proof he didnt know what to do. He hadnt been in love

with her for long time, but he was still committed to the marriage. So he didnt do anything, and

as time passed, he got to the point that most of the time he just didnt care anymore. But there

were times, like today, that it still pissed him off. He tried to put it out of his mind as he took a

long swig of beer and punched in familiar numbers on the portable phone.

I dont care who it is, Liz, Roger Underwood snapped. If it isnt someone whos ready

to sign on the dotted line for one of my screenplays, Im not talking to them. It was one-thirty

on a Friday in Los Angeles. Roger was tired and irritable and it showed.

Okay, but its Jake Monroe.

Jake! Hell, why didnt you say so? Put him on.

Jake met Roger Underwood in Journalism class when they were both full-time students at

LSU. It was raining cats and dogs the Friday that he and Jake met, nothing unusual for south

Louisiana, but still no picnic when youre trying to slog through it to get to class. Jake and Roger

were among the few who had made the decision to actually show up for class that day, and an

hour and a half later they were sitting in the Pastime Lounge, drinking Bud draft and talking

about the importance of names. The Pastime was a bar and restaurant under the I-110 bridge on

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South Boulevard, close to downtown. It was an LSU legend and Rogers kind of place - dark,

reasonably quiet during most daylight hours and with an endless supply of cheap, cold beer.

Actually, it was at the Pastime that Roger had given Jake his nickname.

No offense man, but we gotta do something about your name. You dont even look like

a Marshall. You need a good Southern name. Jake didnt give it much thought and they quickly

moved on to another topic of conversation but Roger was obviously still thinking about it

because suddenly, out of the blue, he almost shouted.

Jake! He paused briefly and then repeated it with pride. Thats it! Jake! He paused

briefly. Whaddya think?

Roger had a way of bringing people around to his way of thinking without coming across

as rude. But the truth was that Marshall really did like the new name. He had never liked

Marshall and there was something about the name Jake that gave him a real sense of confidence,

maybe even power. So, as frozen mugs of ice cold beer clicked together to make it official, and

Marshall Monroe became Jake, at least to most people.

Roger Underwood had returned to north Louisiana after he graduated from LSU and

accepted a position as a copy editor with the local newspaper, but five years ago he left to seek

his proverbial fame and fortune in the City of Angels. He and Jake had kept in touch and still

managed to catch up at least two or three times a year. Roger had achieved a remarkable level

of notoriety in the relatively short time he had been in Los Angeles, even if it hadnt exactly

happened like he had planned. His ambition in life was to be a successful screenwriter, and he

had managed to sell a couple of his screenplays. But his real claim to fame had come on the

lecture circuit. Oddly enough, it was the result of one of his diversions at LSU. It seems that Jake

wasnt the only impressionable young history student that T. Winston McBride, III had

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influenced. Roger had taken T. Winstons class as a sophomore, and apparently, T. Winston had

piqued Rogers interest in the activities of the Central Intelligence Agency. Roger was

particularly intrigued with the CIAs activities during the volatile sixties, especially the Kennedy

assassination and early integration efforts in Massachusetts. He had actually become something

of an expert in these highly controversial areas. As a result, there was always some group that

was ready and willing to pay what Roger deemed ridiculous amounts of money to listen

to him recite facts and propose theories that anybody could find if theyd just do a little

reading. It really all made perfect sense. Roger was a voracious reader, and anything that

involved intrigue or obscure information was right up his alley.

Jake, how the hell are you? Roger asked.

Im good, Roger. But I got a couple of things I need to run by you if youve got a few

minutes.

Sure. Whats up?

Roger was somewhat familiar with Jakes family from drinking sessions at LSU. And

even though he was long gone when Jake took T. Winstons class, Jake had told Roger all about

the family history project and his newfound passion to learn more about his dad. They hadnt

talked at length since Jakes trip to Bossier City and the missing journal. For some reason, Jake

wasnt ready to tell Roger about his visitors, or the letter, but he did bring him up to speed about

his mothers strange behavior and all the dead ends he had run into.

I have to agree with you. That is odd. But, maybe there really wasnt a journal. I mean,

you were only ten years old.

Come on, Roger! I was just young, not stupid.

It still made Jake sick every time he thought about the journal, but he remained convinced

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that if she hadnt destroyed it, pushing her would only make it more likely that she would do

exactly that. His only choice had been to look for other sources of information. His first thought

was his Aunt Beth. They had always been close, and he could talk to her it without worrying

about her running straight to his mother. Unfortunately, except for several weeks that she stayed

with Jack and Lucy following Jakes birth, she hadnt spent much time around his dad. Lucy

never talked to her about him either, so Jake probably knew as much as she did, if not more.

The only thing Jake could remember his parents talking about was dad having grown up

in a small town in the Florida panhandle. Figuring school records would be a good start, he

carefully re-examined the items from his mothers cedar chest. As he sifted through the pictures

and letters from his dads army days, it hit him. Military records! It was so obvious he didnt

know why he hadnt thought about it sooner.

Roger, do you remember telling me about not believing in coincidences?

Absolutely! No such thing.

Well, Im beginning to agree with you because over the past few months, every lead

Ive tried to follow up on has turned up nothing. Its either the greatest collection of coincidences

of all times or theres something fishy going on.

Then Id be looking for the fish. What the hell are you talking about anyway? Roger

asked impatiently.

Jake began to relay his experience with his dads military records. Roger interrupted.

That shouldve been the first thing you thought of.

I know, I know. But I didnt. Anyway, I finally got my hands on the right form and sent

in the request, and I got a reply claiming that all records were destroyed in a fire years ago.

Well there were some fires in the early nineteen hundreds that did destroy some

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military records.

Yeah, but theres more. My dad grew up in a little town in the Florida panhandle but

when I sent a letter to the place where he would have gone to school they had no record of a Jack

Wellborn ever having attended there.

Maybe you got the dates wrong. Or he could have lied about his age.

Maybe, but I spread the dates ten years either way just to be sure. I even wrote the

schools in nearby towns just in case. No Jack Wellborn.

Is that it? Roger was obviously anxious to get to the bottom line.

Not quite. I also wrote the American Legion Post. According to my dads Past

Commander pin and the embroidery on the American Legion cap, my dad would have been a

member there.

Lemme guess. Never heard of him.

You guessed it. Whats going on here, Roger? St. Clair is a small town, less than ten

thousand people. Somebody there wouldve known him and yet its like he never existed. Or

someone wants me to think he didnt. It just doesnt add up.

Yeah, the maths not exactly working out, is it? Roger paused. Maybe youre just

overlooking something.

Like what?

Well, with all this talk about working for the government, maybe he really did. And

maybe what he was doing was something that would make it necessary to eliminate all traces of

his existence.

Yeah, but twenty years later? Why would anyone care? I did think about something else

though, Roger.

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Youre killin me, Jake. Just cut to the chase, okay?

Sorry. My dad was working on something when he died that was amazing but Im pretty

sure it didnt have anything to do with his job. He could roll the same number on a pair of dice

fifteen or sixteen times in a row.

Youre kidding! Thats impossible!

Im not kidding and its not impossible, Jake assured him. I watched him do it at least

a hundred times. It was always an eight.

An eight! Why an eight?

Beats me. Im no gambler, but from what Ive read, you can make a lot of money if you

can roll the same number consistently.

Well, yeah! Roger was quiet for several seconds.

Roger, are you still there?

Yeah, yeah. Im just thinking. So do you know how he did it?

I wish. He held some kind of device, a little larger than a pack of cigarettes, in his left

hand and rolled the dice with his right. Trouble is, I cant figure out exactly what the device did.

I dont know if it totally controlled everything the dice did or it was a combination of skill and

the device. Im reasonably intelligent and I cant even get close to figuring out how something

like that might work.

Well, dont look at me, Roger said, The thing is though, I dont see a connection

between that and the other stuff about your dad. Youve gotta be missing something. Think about

it. Like you said, why would anyone care after twenty years? If he ever tried it in Vegas, they

wouldve caught him, no matter how smooth he was, and that wouldve been all over the

television and newspapers. And if they didnt catch him, your mother damn sure wouldnt live in

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a housing project. Not only that, what does that have to do with your dads journal, unless youre

thinking thats where he wrote down how he did it.

Thats exactly what Im thinking, Roger. But I agree with you, theres got to be more to

it than rolling dice. I think rolling dice is just a way to demonstrate it, whatever it is. So maybe if

he could control dice, he could control other things.

Like what?

I dont know. He told my mother was that he was working on something that was

important to national security. Maybe airplanes. Or missiles. I just dont know. But I can tell you

one thing Im really sure about.

Whats that?

Everything you ever wanted to know about it is in that journal.

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EIGHT

Jake had been to a number of seminars while he was working in Baton Rouge and going

to night classes, but for the first time he could remember he was actually looking forward to it. In

fact, even though he had never been to Dothan, Alabama, he could hardly wait to get there. It

was early Sunday afternoon and Jake was eastbound on I-20 just west of the Louisiana and

Mississippi state line. Sarah had called from Dallas just before he left to say that she and Allison

were going to do some more shopping before they headed home, which Jake knew was bullshit,

but it barely registered on his irritation meter. His mind was fully occupied and for the first time,

he didnt care what Sarah was doing or what she was going to do.

It had been nearly two days since his visitors had come calling but it still pretty much

dominated his thoughts. That visit and the letter from St. Clair had changed his outlook on

everything. It was like something out of a cheap movie, but it was clearly no movie. Jake wasnt

trying to fool himself. They might have seemed a little sloppy, but they were definitely pros. He

was no match for them. He was just a regular guy and they had definitely gotten his attention.

But as scared as he was, the more he thought about it, the madder it made him. Maybe it was his

Scottish heritage, but he was having a hard time getting past the feeling that he wasnt going to

let a couple of goons keep him from finding out about his dad. Sure its easy to say when theyre

not in your face, but hell, why should they care anyway? Come to think of it, why should

anybody care? He was looking forward to the long drive because he needed the time to clear his

head. He was trying to process everything that had happened in the several months. The one

thought the he just couldnt get out of his mind was why anyone would still be monitoring the

activities of a man who had been dead for twenty years. Then, after he had been driving for about

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ten minutes it hit him like a freight train. It made him so weak he nearly had to pull to the

shoulder of the road. What if they werent monitoring his dads activities? What if they were

monitoring his activities?

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NINE

On Wednesday, the seminar adjourned at one-thirty so everyone could play in the golf

tournament at Dothans finest country club. Attendance was encouraged, even if you werent a

golfer. In preparation for this mandate, Jake had scripted an unfortunate and sudden bout of food

poisoning, an affliction that would confine him to his room all evening and until the next

mornings session. This affliction would be further legitimized by the fact that unlike most

attendees who might decide to skip the tournament, Jake would not be found in the bar after the

tournament, or at any time during the evening for that matter, even though he might look equally

hung over tomorrow morning because of not enough sleep. In fact, he would very likely not

reappear on the scene until even the heartiest of the party animals in the group had passed out in

their rooms. With a full tank and an almost unbearable excitement, Jake headed south. Even with

the fifty-five mph speed limit, in a little over two hours he would reach his destination in the

panhandle of Florida.

It was right at four oclock when Jake hit the city limits of St. Clair, Florida. He was both

excited and a little scared, and he had the strangest feeling of traveling back in time. Everything

about St. Clair seemed to fit the profile of a sleepy little Gulf Coast town of ten thousand or so

folks. It was one of those many towns that had grown up along either side of Highway 90, also

known as the Gulf Coast Highway. Jake pulled into the parking lot of the local grocery store and

immediately noticed how noisy it was. The paving material was crushed sea shells, also a

common paving material on the lower coast of Louisiana. He pulled to a parking spot in front of

the grocery, reached over the seat back and pulled his briefcase into the front, opened it, and took

out the letter.

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Your daddy was well known around these parts. Jake must have read the letter at least

fifty times since he received it, but it still gave him chills. maybe he just couldnt handle it,

but one day he was just up and gone.

Jake had suspected early on that he was being stonewalled in his attempts to learn about

his dad. His visit from the two goons certainly seemed to back up those suspicions, and they

were further supported by the information contained in the letter. Obviously, he wanted to talk to

the person who wrote it, but since he had no idea who that person was and no way to find out, he

had to accept it as another dead end. His first stop would be the American Legion Post that he

had written, and he also wanted to visit the local library for any historical information he might

be able to dig up. As he was thinking about what to do first, it occurred to him that his game plan

was pretty weak. Come to think of it, after the library, he really didnt have a plan. Worse yet, it

was almost four-thirty, and he had to be back in Dothan by the next morning for an eight oclock

seminar.

Jake went into the grocery, bought a pack of spearmint, and asked the lady at the check-

out counter for directions to the Legion hall. While he was at it, he also asked her how to get to

the library. She had a heavy accent that Jake didnt immediately recognize so he decided she

must be a local. She informed him that the library closed at six on Wednesdays.

They got to get outta there in time for prayer meeting, ya know.

Jake grinned. She gave him an inquisitive look with a slight touch of tease. He thanked

her and headed for the Legion Hall.

The American Legion post in St. Clair, Florida was concrete block construction with

steel-frame jalousie windows. It was locked up tighter than dicks hat band. Looking through one

of the windows, Jake could see a bulletin board and printed materials on some of the tables,

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indications that it wasnt totally abandoned. Unfortunately, it was also apparent that it hadnt

seen regular use in quite some time. As he started back to his car, an elderly gentleman watched

from the sidewalk. He was tall and slender, and he wore faded bib overalls that stopped about

two inches above well-worn lace-up work boots. His tan Carhart jacket was almost as worn as

his boots, and he had on an ancient baseball cap with a John Deere patch on it.

Aint nobody there.

Yeah, I figured that out, Jake replied. Is it still active?

Depends on what you mean by active. Frank comes in some days, according to how hes

feeling. Then, of course, everybody shows up on the last Thursday of every month for Bingo.

Frank? Jake immediately wondered if Frank was the person who had written his letter.

How old is Frank? Jake asked.

Oh, I reckon hes scarin eighty by now, the old man said. Why are you asking?

Im looking for someone who knew my dad. He lived here when he was younger. His

name was Jack Wellborn. You ever heard of him?

Oh, sure. Everybodys heard of Jack Wellborn. He was kind of a legend around these

parts, that is until he just sorta disappeared.

Disappeared?

Yep, but thats been years ago. He was quite a character, a real wheeler-dealer. Him and

some of them rich folks out of New York were planning to build a casino down on the coast.

Wellborn, I guess he was your dad if you say so, drummed up lots of support among the locals.

Most folks hereabouts liked him, even though they werent too keen on his casino idea. He said

it would put St. Clair on the map, bring lots of jobs. You know, that kind of talk. Trouble is, as

the story goes, they didnt grease the right palms down in Tallahassee, and before you know it,

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they was gone. Overnight, just like they was never here.

So, thats it. You dont know what happened to them? What happened to my dad?

Nope. Never met the man myself, the old man said. Just heard the stories.

Well, thanks for the information. By the way, whats your name?

You dont need to know my name, son. I aint nobody.

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TEN

Jake sat in the parking lot of the St. Clair Library for a good fifteen minutes after he

found the place, trying to digest the events of the past hour. He had no way of knowing if the old

man at the Legion hall was legit or just a local nutcase. What the old man had told him was

believable enough but that was all Jake really had. That and the letter. The bottom line was that

he had lots of information indicating that Jack Wellborn had never even been in St. Clair and not

much reliable proof that he had. That was about to change.

At quarter after five Jake walked into the library. It was a busy little place with a lot more

resources than he had expected in a town this size. There was a map of the library on a podium

just inside the door. Although it was against his nature to consult a map, Jake was short on time,

so he decided to study it before he started wandering around. The map indicated a Genealogy

section in the back left and an Archived Periodicals area just to the right of it. The librarians

were at a counter that backed up to the wall to the left, just in front of the two areas Jake was

interested in. As he moved toward the librarians counter, a bulletin board on the wall to the left

caught his eye. It was encased in a wooden frame and it had locking glass doors that presumably

prevented the items being displayed from being defaced or stolen. It hardly seemed necessary in

this little hamlet, but you never know. Drawing closer, Jake saw that there were a number of

photographs on display. The heading at the top of the board identified the photos as belonging to

the librarys Genealogy collection. The subhead just below further identified the presentation

as Residents of St. Clair At Work and Play. The majority of the photos were black and white

prints, apparently quite old. One in particular, the largest of the group, pictured a dozen members

of a baseball team. Half of them were standing, the remainder kneeling in front. The players

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names were listed on a typewritten strip of paper below the photo. Lyle Stansbury 1st base,

Allan Rimmer L. Fielder, George McSwain Pitcher, Frank Richbourg Catcher, Jack

Wellborn Shortstop

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ELEVEN

It was almost seven and for nearly an hour Jake had been sitting in his car in front of the

Tastee Freeze in downtown St. Clair. He had ordered a BigBurger and a strawberry shake, but

they sat on the car seat untouched. He finally had hard evidence that Jack Wellborn had not only

been here, but had definite roots here, and the shock still had him by the jugular. He didnt know

what to think. He was both overwhelmed and exhausted. He managed to ask the librarian about

the photo and if they had any other materials relating to Jack Wellborn. She directed him to the

Archived Periodicals section, where he was able to locate a couple of obscure newspaper

articles covering local social events. They included his dads name as having attended, but no

significant details. He was about to give up when the headline in a small box caught his eye.

Breaking News: Wellborn Acquitted of Assault Charges Against Judge Mays. Details in

Fridays Messenger.

Jake searched frantically for the Friday edition referenced in the article, but he was out of

luck. He didnt know who this Judge Mays was, but needless to say, he wanted to find out what

this article was all about. He asked one of the librarians where he might find the Friday edition in

question. After checking her records, she informed him that they didnt have that edition, but

there was a regional museum not far from St. Clair. They had a larger collection of newspapers,

and he might find it there. Of course, their hours were limited, and none of them were at night.

Jake ate his BigBurger. It was cold, but he was hungry, so it all evened out. He drove

around for awhile, finishing off his watery shake and trying to think of something else he could

do. He hated to just pack it in and head back to Dothan, but he had run out of options. In one

sense, he had accomplished a lot. On the other hand, he didnt have much to show for the time

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and effort he had put forth. At seven forty-five, he pulled back into the shell parking lot of

Hildebrands Grocery and went inside. He walked to the managers office, a glass cage similar to

the DJ booth in dance clubs, and asked to borrow a phone book. Jake had a habit of checking for

Wellborns in every city or town he visited. Who knows why? After all, he never called any of

them. And with Wellborn being a fairly common name, there were plenty. He flipped to the

listings under W and continued until he came to Wellborn. He traced the listings with his index

fingerand there it was.

Wellborn, Jack Mrs. 515 Elm Street 524-8065

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TWELVE

Jake was doing his best to think, but he was tired and it was late. He knew his dad had

been married once, before he married his mother, but he had never considered the possibility that

his dads first wife might still be alive. His heart was in his throat as he listened to the ringing in

his ear.

Hello. It was a womans voice, soft and somewhat guarded. Jake looked at his watch. It

was eight-thirty.

Is this Mrs. Jack Wellborn?

She isnt here right now. Who is this?

Im sorry. This is Marshall Monroe. I apologize for calling so late, but Im trying to

locate Jack Wellborns first wife.

Catherine Wellborn is Jack Wellborns only wife. Her voice was no longer soft, and

her indignation was much more than implied.

Im sorry. Maam, Im Jack Wellborns son and Im trying to find out something about

my dad. I know its late but could I please come and talk to you?

For nearly two hours, Jake talked with Marjorie McGinnis about Jack WellbornMr.

Wellborn, as she called him. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that he listened, since

she definitely did most of the talking. She seemed to be starved for companionship, and to Jakes

surprise, she was both anxious to tell her story and incredibly candid in telling it.

Marjorie Margo McInnis was a petite woman with prominent features and an attractive

figure, especially for a woman her age. She looked to be in her mid to late fifties with fine, blond

hair that fell in huge curls to her shoulders and back. She spoke in a soft, sultry voice, except of

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course when Jake made his comment about his dads first wife, which apparently struck a nerve.

She had an infectious smile, and Jake felt sure that she was even better looking when she was

younger. She was in fact, much younger when she had come to live with Catherine Wellborn

shortly after Catherines husband, Jack Wellborn, disappeared. Margo was newly divorced when

she arrived in St. Clair, a circumstance that was not looked upon favorably in the fifties. She

needed a nice, cheap place to stay and Catherine, with her husband gone, needed money. Margo

landed a job in the womens department of the local clothing store and never left. Shortly after

moving to St. Clair, Margo met a local Florida Senator. He was very powerful, and very married.

According to Margo, they fell madly in love.

Well, to be truthful, it was probably more like lust. It was a difficult time in my life. I

needed sex and money, not necessarily in that order. Looking back on it, Im quite certain all the

Senator needed or wanted was sex. But he had plenty of money and according to him his wife

had no interest in sex, so our needs meshed quite well. Several years into our relationship, I

asked him to divorce his wife, but he told me it was out of the question. I guess I wanted the

security of being his wife instead of his mistress. But he said that the scandal of divorce would

end his career in Florida politics. I thought things might change after his wife died, but I suppose

I knew better. After all, a respected widower remaining pure as the wind-driven snow and

faithfully honoring his dearly departed will still buy you a lot of votes in the state of Florida. I

was pretty upset with him for a long while after that and I tried to break it off, but he told me that

he would decide when our relationship would end and that if I ever tried to get out, he would kill

me. I believed him, Marshall. I have learned that he is an insanely jealous man. Jake noticed a

touch of bitterness in the way she said it. If not bitterness, certainly headed in that direction.

Catherine Wellborn became more and more comfortable with Margo in time, and

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eventually shared intimate details of her life and her marriage to Jack Wellborn. Margo told Jake

that she had honored Catherine Wellborns confidence, and had never repeated those details to

anyone, not even to the Senator. Now however, as she continued, she seemed more than willing

to share them with Jake.

Miss Catherine and Mr. Wellborn had three children, but they all died young. The oldest

drowned when she was six. The second one died as an infant, and the youngest was hit in the

head with a baseball, and died three days later. Miss Catherine couldnt bear the thought of

losing another child. To be certain that didnt happen, she and Mr. Wellborn did not have a

physical relationship after their last childs death. She told me she knew that Mr. Wellborn was

devastated when their children died, but he eventually accepted it and moved on. But she said

that she just couldnt do that. It seems she buried herself in church work. Mr. Wellborn became

consumed with business development in the Panhandle. They never talked to anyone about it, but

I think their problems were partly responsible for his reputation as a ladys man. A man has

needs, Jake. Lord, dont I know that. Miss Catherine once told me that she knew Jack had

physical needs that she couldnt satisfy. Evidently she tolerated his stepping out as a minor

irritation, that is until he began traveling to New Orleans. After that, she said he changed. She

didnt know who it was, but she knew he had found someone else. Not long after that one of his

business deals began to fall apart, and a few months later, he was gone.

Miss Margo, do you know when that was? Jake was trying to put puzzle pieces

together and this would be a big one.

Im sorry, honey. I dont. Margo continued. Miss Catherine was hit hard by Mr.

Wellborns death. She learned about it from one of his cousins. Your mother called his cousin to

tell her about your fathers death, and his cousin called Miss Catherine. She went down fast after

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that. Her mind finally failed her and she had to be confined to Okaloosa Sanatorium. It used to be

a tuberculosis center but its a nursing home now. Im afraid she doesnt know anyone anymore.

I went to see her every week for a while, sometimes two or three times a week. Now I only go

about once a month. She hasnt asked for me or anyone else in a long time.

How sad, Jake thought, sad about Miss Catherine, but perhaps even sadder about Margo.

From the looks of things, she had been a virtual slave to the Senator and he had left her with little

or nothing to show for it.

Margo was quick to tell Jake that the house they were sitting in was not the Wellborn

home place. She seemed nervous about the house. Maybe she was worried that as Jack

Wellborns son, Jake might feel like the house was his, a thought that never entered his mind.

The home place had been torn down many years ago to make way for a freight terminal and Miss

Catherine had signed over ownership of the Elm Street house to Margo. Jake thought it might be

a good time to leave. She had spent several hours talking to him and it was getting late. But as he

started to thank her for time, she interrupted.

Mr. Monroe, I have something I think you might be interested in.

Just call me Marshall. For some reason, Jake just didnt seem appropriate in this

situation.

Very well, then. Marshall. Your father had quite a collection of books. Id love for you

to have them if you want them. I really dont know why you shouldnt have them. After all, he

was your father.

Want them? Oh, my goodness. Are you kidding? That would be great! Jake couldnt

believe his ears. This was beyond his wildest dreams.

I thought you might like that. He had a curious habit of writing in his books, Margo

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said. Comments in the margins, thoughts on blank pages. I only looked at a few of them, but I

think youll find them interesting.

Oh, you just have no idea! I cant tell you how much this means to me.

Margo was beaming. You already have, Marshall. I can see it in your eyes. She paused.

She had a far-away look in her eyes. Then she continued. You know, they were almost lost

forever. The books, that is. I recovered them after Miss Catherine went to the sanatorium. The

story is quite amusing if youd like to hear it. Actually, it scared me to death at the time, but it

seems really funny now.

Absolutely! Id love to hear it.

Shortly after Mr. Wellborn left, we had a visit from two gentlemen, and believe me, I

use the term loosely. Oh, they were nice enough at first. They wore nice suits and they said they

had a business arrangement with Mr. Wellborn. He was supposed to provide them with some sort

of information and they believed it might be among the things he left here. Miss Catherine was

still at home, but her mind wasnt right. She didnt say anything when they asked to look through

his things, so I spoke up and said I didnt think we could let them go through his things without

his permission. But then Miss Catherine interrupted me and told me to let them look. After

searching for several minutes, they became very agitated and then just started ransacking the

place, going through everything in the house. I was plenty scared, but when I looked at Miss

Catherine, dont you know she was smiling. I was afraid she was about to start laughing. She was

sitting in her rocker with her handkerchief in her hand and her hand held up to her mouth, but I

could clearly see a smile on her face. Honestly, I thought she had completely lost her marbles.

Finally the men reappeared in the living room. One of them grabbed my arm so tightly that it

hurt.

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Dont you even think about calling the law, you hear me?

I assured him I wouldnt and that was it. They turned and left. I dont think Ive ever

been so glad to see someone leave. Anyway, as soon as they left, Miss Catherine started

laughing. It was just a giggle at first, but she kept on until she was doubled over and laughing out

loud. Naturally, I asked her what was so funny, since I felt anything but amused.

Im sorry about the house, honey, truly I am, she said. But its just so funny. You see,

I knew exactly what they were looking for, and where it was. Thats why I knew they would

never find it.

I asked her what in heavens name she was talking about, and she admitted that she

didnt really know what they were looking for, but that whatever it was, it was probably in Mr.

Wellborns papers or books. I was totally confused, and I asked her why they didnt find it.

Well, honey, she said, you know I was really mad at Mr. Wellborn after he left. I

suppose in a way it wasnt entirely his fault, mind you, but I was mad just the same. One

Saturday when you were in Ft. Walton, I took all of his books and papers and buried them in a

trunk in the back yard, under that old persimmon tree. It took me almost two hours. Its a good

thing the ground was soft. At the time, I thought it was a good place for them, she giggled,

under an old sour persimmon tree. So, you see, I knew they would never find what they were

looking for. Isnt that funny?

Jake interrupted. Miss Margo, did you ever tell anyone about that visit?

No, I never did. She appeared shocked that he would have considered such a

possibility.

Not even the Senator.

Oh, heavens no! she exclaimed, and Jake saw the fear in her eyes. He would have just

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gotten mad. He has quite a temper, and there was really nothing he could have done. Those men

werent from around here, and since they had ransacked the whole house, I was sure wed never

see or hear from them again.

And did you?

No, thank the Lord.

Did Miss Catherine ever hear from my dad again?

Well in a way, I suppose. Shortly before he died, he called and said that he wanted to

come home for a visit. I had never met him and based on what little I had heard, I didnt have a

very high opinion of him, so Im afraid I wasnt very nice to him on the phone.

What did you tell him? Did he come home? Jake didnt really want to ask the

questions, but he knew he had to know.

He never came home, she replied. I told him Miss Catherine didnt want to talk to

him. The phone was silent for a bit and finally he just said Thank you and hung up.

Miss Margo, I received a letter from someone here in St. Clair who evidently knew a

good bit about my dad. Jake showed her the letter. She read it and then looked at Jake with a

blank stare. She didnt say a word.

Miss Margo, do you know who wrote that letter? Jake asked.

She didnt react immediately. For several seconds, she seemed to be in some kind of

trance. Finally, she spoke.

No, Marshall, I dont.

Jake didnt believe her. Oh, he believed she wasnt the one who wrote it, but he was

certain she knew who did. Suddenly he had that same suffocating feeling he had felt at his

mothers after discovering that the journal was gone. He knew then he wasnt going to press

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Margo McGinnis any further about who wrote the letter. He wasnt going to press her because he

didnt see any point in making her lie again, and he knew she would.

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THIRTEEN

Jake couldnt even count the number of times he dozed off on the trip back to Dothan.

Finally, at nearly two in the morning, he pulled back into the parking lot in front of his

bungalow. He was startled by one of his fellow seminar attendees who suddenly materialized

from behind the shrubbery. Jake recovered quickly, realizing that this guy was either desperately

hunting for his room door or relieving himself in the bushes. In either case, Jake was certain the

man wasnt going to remember anything about the evening. In fact, it seemed highly unlikely

that he would be in any condition to even make it to the morning meeting.

The trunk of Jakes car was full of his dads books. He didnt actually count them, but

there had to be over a hundred. He had been tempted to pull off somewhere along the way and

take a look, but he knew if he did, he might never make it back to Dothan alive. As much as he

wanted to dive into the pile of books immediately, the only smart thing to do was to suffer

through the seminar that was coming up in just a few hours, take a quick power nap and then

spend the evening digging through every one that he could. This would also fly well with the

higher ups, since he would still be taking it easy after his bout with food poisoning.

*****

Damn! Jake had that feeling that you have when you wake up from a deep sleep and

dont know where you are, which was precisely what had happened. After the days session had

ended, shortly after four-thirty, he had gone straight to his room. Much too anxious to actually

attempt the nap he had planned, he began going through his dads books. It couldnt have been

many minutes later that exhaustion won over desire and he passed out. Now he was startled into

consciousness, his eyes fighting through the haze to find the clock radio on the nightstand. Nine-

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thirty. Good grief! The physical and emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours had obviously

hit him harder than he realized.

For the next two hours, Jake scan read his dads books. Margo McGinnis had been

right. In the margins and on most pages that did not have printed type on them, Jack Wellborn

had written about everything from the contents of that particular book to topics totally unrelated

to the books subject matter. They were primarily non-fiction books and covered a wide variety

of subjects that included military strategy, history, philosophy, math, and physics. The group that

covered physics appeared to be the largest and most used. And as he had suspected when he first

noticed them, this group also appeared to be the books that his dad had written in more

frequently than the others. After scanning several of these, Jake opened the one that appeared

most worn, Quantum Mechanics. The first blank page in the front was filled with hand-written

notes, including formulas about force, velocity, and mass. Pretty much basic physics, or so it

seemed. The second page shifted gears completely to something about mind control. At the top

of the third page was written in pencil, At the Royal Hotel, New Orleans 1948 and below

that, in large handwritten script Eureka, Ive Found It!

The hair on Jakes neck came to attention. He felt a cold chill and his heart began racing.

Could this be what he thought it was? Could this be it? His hands were shaking so badly he could

barely hold the book. The entries continued, in script, the letters much smaller now.

I have discovered a powerful force that, once harnessed and perfected, will allow me to

accomplish many worthwhile things.

Oh, my God! Jake thought as he hurriedly read the rest of the page. His heart continued

to race as he read. There were repetitions of the same sentence with only subtle variations. It was

almost like his dad wanted to make certain that what he had to say was written in the clearest and

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most precise manner.

I have discovered a powerful force within me that, once harnessed and perfected, will

allow me to accomplish other worthwhile things. I have discovered a power that, once perfected,

will allow me to accomplish many other worthwhile things.

Quickly, Jake turned the page, anxious for something more definitive, something to sink

his teeth into. Something to reveal what it was.

Damn! The next page was where the text of the book started. He flipped quickly to the

back of the book. Come on, there has to be more!

There were more hand-written notes, but they were all on entirely different subjects,

nothing related to the Eureka reference. Jake was certain that Eureka referred to some

revelation related to his dads experiments with the dice, especially considering the physics

formulas and references on the previous pages. He scanned the rest of the group, finishing just

before midnight without finding anything else that mattered. With a mixture of frustration and

exhaustion, he hit the bed. He was convinced that the rest of the puzzle was somewhere in his

dads books, but he knew he could never make it through all of them in one night. Not only that,

he had a six hundred mile drive to make the next day, and more reasons than ever to make it

safely.

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FOURTEEN

Bloody 98 is a state highway that runs from Mobile, Alabama to intersect with

Highway 49, just below Hattiesburg, Mississippi. It is notoriously one of the deadliest stretches

of road in the United States. It got its nickname as a result of the unusually large number of

horrible accidents that have occurred along its many twists and turns.

Jak

final entry/martin

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