by Jay Heavner
Tom mused to himself as he drove. He turned off North Street better known as Dan's Run Road, behind the Dairy Dip, and into a parking spot there on the old town square. George Washington had been through this area many times back in colonial times. The first time was as a surveyor at age 16. Years later, as commander of Colonial forces, he commissioned the old Fort to be built for the protection of the settlers from the French and Indians when this was the wild frontier. The last was on his way to stop the Whiskey Rebellion. This town had a lot of history, but now it was time to see what Father Frank wanted and feed his growling stomach.
Chapter 4
Tom climbed out of his truck and headed toward the front double door to Cindi's Restaurant. He saw a couple he had gone to high school with coming out, greeted them, wanted to talk, but knowing Father Frank was waiting, cut it short, and went in. Near the cash register by the door, Tom saw the sticky buns. He had a weakness for them but wasn't hungry for them today. Tom looked around the place and saw the Padre waving for him from a booth. Tom walked over, stuck out his hand, but before he could move, Father Frank was up from his seat and gave the surprised Tom a hug. He let go and from a smile as broad as his face said, "So good to see you, brother."
That Father Frank. What a character. He always seemed to know what a person needed, Tom thought. Now feeling embarrassed and a little red in the face, Tom smiled and said, "So good to see you too, brother."
They had no more than sat down in the booth, than Carol, the waitress was there with coffee. "Coffee?" she asked with a big grin on her face. She had been watching the whole time as had been most of the patrons there. The restaurant was usually a fun place to work, and you never knew what kind of cut-up horseplay would occur that day.
“I’ll have some, Carol,” Tom said.
"Black, as usual, Tom?" He returned the grin.
“Yes, please.”
“And you, Padre?” Carol asked, still grinning now, almost giggling.
“Give me a warmer up, okay? I’ve had enough today to float a battleship already,” he said.
“Okay.”
She poured the coffee and asked Tom, “Anything else for you?”
"I think I'd like a number one." Before she could ask, Tom added, "make it wheat bread for the toast, and a tab of honey to sweeten me up."
Still grinning, she responded, "Coming right up, and Tom, you're so sweet, I don't know why you don't have bees flying around you. I don't know how your wife stands you."
With that, she left and headed for the kitchen with the order. Tom looked at the Padre and asked, "Well, how ya doin'?"
“Pretty good, God is good. Even a bad day is good with Him,” answered Father Frank.
“And you? You look like you slept in a truck,” he commented.
“I did.
“Oh, another one of those nights?”
"Yeah, another one of those nights," Tom groaned. "It's been five years today since his death and six since Sarah's."
Father Frank knew all about the son’s death. He had stopped in at Tom’s house a few days after the funeral to wish him condolences. They had a long chat and had been close friends since then. Tom was a lay pastor for his church, and Father Frank knew how men of the cloth often hold the grief in and are isolated because of this. The Padre was really a people person.
They had first met after the incident at the church shortly after Father Frank was assigned there. Someone had sprayed painted vulgarities, swastikas, and racial epithets on the outside of the church. Tom had talked to him at the church and asked him not to judge the town by the actions of one or a few. While there had been trouble in the past, nowadays, most people could see beyond the color of a man's skin. Father Frank was black, as black as the ace of spades. A black priest for an all-white congregation. It was true that a few people had left, but the church was growing handily. And most of those that had left had returned.
“Oh, in all the excitement, I forgot what I needed to do,” Tom said.
“And what’s that?” the Padre looked at him.
"I got to pee. My eyes are turning yellow." With that, Tom got out of the booth and headed for the bathroom. The Padre just shook his head and smiled.
Chapter 5
When Tom got back from the restroom, his breakfast was waiting for him at the booth. As he sat down, he said to Father Frank, "Wow, that was fast."
“You’re so predictable. I think the cook started it when you walked through the door. That and you took a long time in there.”
"Just takin' care of business," Tom chirped. "Now, what was it you wanted to see me about? I'll listen while I eat this food."
"I blessed it while you were busy. Yes, eat, and I'll tell you what's on my mind."
Tom stuffed some home fries in his mouth and then took a sip of coffee.
"Ever seen one of these?" With that, he pulled out a coin golden in color somewhat bigger than a quarter and laid it next to the plate near Tom's over-easy eggs.
“No, don’t think so. What is it?” Tom asked.
“Look closer, and think for a minute,” the Padre requested.
Tom picked it up. It was heavy for its size. Where had he seen something like this before? Where indeed? Tom laid it down on the table and said, “Okay, I give up. What is it?”
Tom reached for his coffee and took a big sip.
Father Frank looked at him thoughtfully. "It's an English guinea. It contains about 3 ounces of gold."
Tom almost choked on his coffee. “Did you say three ounces of gold?!”
Father Frank nodded.
“Do you know what that worth!?”
Father Frank nodded again. “Yes, I know what an ounce of gold is going for today.”
“That’s a lot of money. Where did you get that thing?” Tom asked.
"Keep this in confidence, please. It showed up in the offering at the church two Sundays ago," he said, lowering his voice. "Took me this long to find out what it was and how it got there." "
Tom nodded knowingly. “Keep talking. I’m all ears.”
Father Frank began the tale. "Finding out what it was turned out not to be too difficult. I went over to the library and got a book on old coins, American and British. That fellow on the front is King George II of England. That coin was made in the mid-1700s."
Then it dawned on Tom where he'd seen something like that before, at the museum at the old fort, Fort Ashby. "I think I may know where it came from," Tom interrupted. "This whole area around here has a lot of colonial history. Settlement began back in the early 1700s. It was probably lost by someone back there and just got found by...."
The Padre cut him off. "I wondered about that too, but listen to this. I took it into a coin shop in Cumberland to have it looked at. The owner's eyes 'bout fell out of their sockets when he saw the coin. He offered a thousand dollars right there on the spot. I told him it was not for sale. Then he started on this tale about Braddock's Gold. Ever hear about it?"
"Braddock's Gold," Tom thought out loud. "Yeah, there's an old legend, more of an old wife's tale about General Braddock of French and Indian War fame or infamy depending on who you talk to. They buried the troop's payroll in gold somewhere up on the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania. The British troops that knew its location were all killed along with General Braddock in the Battle of the Monongahela near present-day Pittsburgh. The gold was never recovered and has disappeared in the sands of history."
Father Frank looked at him knowingly. "Well, not quite. According to the coin dealer, a few coins have been turning up every now and then beginning at the start of the American Revolution, maybe even a little sooner."
"Wow. That's quite a story. How did you get the coin," Tom inquired?
"I rather tell you that at my office at the church. Finish your breakfast. You haven't taken a bite in five minutes, bet those eggs are getting cold," the Padre answered. "Hey Carol, could you get us some more coffee, please?" And then he looked sternly at Tom. "No more on this till you're done."
>
What could Tom say? Padre knows best. The rest of this story would have to wait until breakfast was finished. Tom ate fast.
Chapter 6
Alan Grey sat on the porch of the old hard scrapple farmhouse in an old rocking chair. The house in the big meadow sat high on the hill and faced the east. Alan had sat there many a morning sipping on a cup of coffee and enjoying the solitude. The house was far from the country lane that served as the main road in this isolated area. Trees blocked the view of the road. The only way you knew there was traffic passing by was a little auto noise or maybe a little dust from the road shoulders when it was very dry like now. The angled ridge on which it was built ended in a high cliff. The other side of the ridge was extremely steep, with lots of boulders sticking out. There was only one practical way to get to the old house, up the long farm lane that lead from the main road. At that point, there was a metal gate with a sturdy chain and lock, and two signs-NO Trespassing and BEWARE of Dog. It was the perfect place to get away or do something illegal.
Alan sipped at his coffee as the sun rose over the horizon high on this hill along the Potomac River that summer morn in 1995. All those fools were going to work downstream from here, down in Washington, he thought. Movement caught his eye. The spider he tried to kill earlier was back. It had spun a new web at the corner of the porch post and the roof timber. And it had just captured a victim, a wasp. Quickly, she danced over to her catch and began to entomb him in a cocoon of silk. The wasp fought back, trying to sting her with his tail, but she carefully avoided his thrusts and continued to encircle him with her silky threads. Soon all Alan could see was a cocoon that continued to struggle. Skillfully the spider crept close and stung her prey. The wasp jerked and quickly was overcome by her poison. The spider now worked at securing the package to her web. She would slowly suck the juices and life from him in the days to come.
It was always so crisp after a storm, and they'd had a big one last night. The big sycamore tree that was near the house had blown over. The whole tree lay on its side with roots sticking at least six feet in the air. Alan thought that tree had probably seen many an Indian pass by as it was so old. Alan walked over to the horizontal remains of the tree. It was sad to see this behemoth of a tree laid low. There would be a lot of work to do to get this removed. Mike would be up soon, and he would be surprised at the casualty. Alan circled the tree slowly. What's that? Something very rusty about three feet long laid half-buried in the ground that the uprooting had exposed. He dug around one end with his hands and tried to lift it. No way, Jose. This thing must weight a ton. It felt like it was solid lead. He'd need Mike's help with this.
“Would you look at that?”
Alan looked up. Mike was walking toward him and the downed tree.
"Must have been some storm. I slept right through it," Mike said.
Yes, Alan thought, you slept right through it. After a fifth of Jack Daniel, you could sleep through the end of the world. Alan knew what alcohol could do to a man. He'd seen it ruin his dad and his family. One day, he'd leave this old coot behind, but this wasn't the day. Alan still needed him. That time would come one day when the timing was right.
“How’d the trailers make out? Any damage to them from the storm?” Mike asked.
“Don’t know, just got up and found the tree down and this old pipe,” Alan replied.
"Looks like we've got a full day's work right here just cutting up the tree and getting rid of that rusty pipe. That's some tough wood, sycamore. We'll pile the wood over by that hole near the edge and burn it later. The pipe will go in the hole, but let's get breakfast first. And we better check the trailers before we eat. The Voice won't like it if any of his precious crop’s been ruined."
Alan nodded. No, The Voice would not like it if the grow houses were damaged. High-grade marijuana was bringing a premium price with the Feds watching the borders like hawks. And you didn't want to disappoint The Voice.
Chapter 7
Alan Grey sat on the porch sipping his cup of coffee. It had been two days since the big storm. The sun rays were peeking over the horizon, and the warming rays would be hitting the old house that sat on the north end of Patterson Creek Ridge. No damage had been done to the old trailers that served as grow houses for The Voice. Alan liked to think about his life as the day dawned. Oh, the places you'll go and the sights you'll see Dr. Seuss had promised. Or was it more like that song like from the Grateful Dead? What a long strange trip it’s been. Both seem to fit his life. Growing up in the projects, abusive drunk for a father, poverty, juvenile jail, and sentenced to five years in prison for manslaughter. He'd gotten a lot longer sentence if the defense hadn't lost so much of the evidence.
He remembered his first day in prison. Big Tony had approached him and asked him if he needed protection. No, he said. He could take care of himself. He winced as he remembered the beating by the prison gang, the Black prison gang. The guards just laughed. The next day as he nursed his wounds and bruises, Big Tony asked him again if he needed protection. This time he said yes. Big Tony said he would take care of it. Later in the day, Alan saw the leader of the group that has hurt him. His face looked like it had been smashed into a table repeatedly. Later at supper, Big Tony stopped at his table and said to him, "They won't bother you again. In here, it's us versus them."
That was the day Alan learned to hate. As long as he hung with Big Tony and his group, no harm came to him. Alan became a model prisoner. He developed two faces, one for the guards and one for when he was alone with the other prisoners. He would serve whatever master he needed to survive. With gain time for good behavior, he got out at three years and six months. Big Tony and his group had kept him safe. The day before the release, Big Tony had talked to him. "You're gettin' out tomorrow, and they're gonna give you twenty bucks. How far you think you'll get on that? What you gonna do?"
Alan said he’d go see his mom, but he knew that he couldn’t stay there. His dad had told him he never wanted to see him again. It still hurt what that s.o.b. had said.
Big Tony listened and stated, "I know someone on the outside that can help you like I helped you in here if you're interested. Treat him fair, and he will help you. You don't want to cross him. Trust me. You don't want to cross him. I've seen what happened when you do. Interested?"
Alan said yes. Any friend of Big Tony’s was a friend of his.
Big Tony responded, “He’s not my friend, and he ain’t gonna be yours. Think of him as a, as a business partner, only you’re the junior partner. You don’t want to make mistakes. You’re expendable. Do well, and you can move up. Still interested?”
Alan said yes.
“Good,” said Big Tony. “When you leave here, go down to the end of the block and look for the Grey Bar Restaurant. Sit at the bar. Ask the guy behind it for a Grey Bar Special. Tell him, Big Tony sent you. You'll get breakfast and some further instructions. Follow them to the letter."
It had been as he said. He got a hardy breakfast. After he ate, the grizzled waiter placed a wallet and a cell phone on the counter. He looked Alan hard in the eye. "There's one hundred dollars in that wallet. Don't get drunk with it. Don't use it for drugs. Keep the cell phone charged and on always. Never, never ever use it for personal calls. Tomorrow you will get a call at 1300, that 1:00 P.M. to civilians. Answer it on the third ring. Got that?"
Alan said yes. He could remember it. He repeated it verbatim.
The grizzled waiter's eyebrows rose. He smiled. "I can see why Big Tony recommended you. You can do well with us, but remember this first and above all else. You don't ever want to disappoint The Voice."
Chapter 8
Alan finished his breakfast, got up, and went to the bathroom. When he returned, he looked at his place at the bar. It had been wiped clean. There was nothing there, only a shiny counter.
“Hey,” Alan said to the guy behind the counter, “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” the man replied. “I’ll put it on Big Tony’s tab. Where you
off to now, young man?”
“Home, wanna sees my mama,” Alan answered.
"I hear that a lot. Good luck. May you never spend a night up the road ever again," the man kidded.
“Which way to Interstate 70?”
“It’s about one mile down that way,” he pointed. “Stay on this street. You’ll see the signs.”
"Thanks," and with that, he was out the door.
The walk felt good. It had been so long since Alan had walked that far in a straight line, no concrete block walls or fences with razor wire to stop him. He went up to the interstate ramp and put out his thumb. He knew better than hitchhike on the main road itself. A guy could get arrested, and he had no desire to go back ever. Many cars passed him by. None stopped. Must know they’re near a prison. Finally, a grey, relatively new Ford pickup stopped. A man of about 50 was driving. He rolled down the window and asked, "Where you goin', son?"
"Hagerstown. You goin' that far?" he said, hoping for a ride.
“Well, what ya waitin’ for? Get in,” and get in Alan did.
He pulled onto the ramp and merged onto the highway going west.
Trying to be friendly, he asked the driver where he was going. He replied, "Well, it so happens I'm going up to West Virginia to look at some property my late favorite Uncle Michael left me. Actually, I was named after him and was his only living heir. I hadn't seen him in years, so it was a surprise when I got the call from the lawyer. Just the same, may he rest in peace. No more worries on this screwed up ole earth for him. No more rat race and the rats are winning."
To be polite, Alan said he was sorry to hear of the man’s loss.
"And what about you, son; what brings you out today?" he queried.
Alan flinched a little. Here’s where I get asked to get out of the truck. “To be truthful with you, sir, I just got out of prison and, I want to see my momma.”
