by Jay Heavner
“Hello to my Benefactor. I hope your week has gone better than mine.”
The Benefactor seemed surprised. “How so?” The computer-generated voice asked.
“It’s been a rotten week so far,” said Tom. “I’ve had two trucks break down, both expensive, and I think I may be getting a cold. Either that or my sinuses are acting up again.”
“I am sorry to hear that, but you need to beware. It is commonly said misfortunes come in threes.”
Tom said, “I’m quite aware of that. Just hoping the third shoe to fall won’t be as expensive or drastic.” He stopped. “I know you didn’t call me to talk about the weather or broken-down trucks. Just what is it that’s on your mind today?”
“The usual, of course. Have you remembered where the treasure is?”
“No, I don’t know where Braddock’s Gold is buried, but you know about me being found passed out in my truck?”
“Yes, I knew about that.”
“And there was someone’s blood on the seat that wasn’t mine.”
The Benefactor was surprised. They had missed that. Even the best plan can have holes in it. He said flatly, “That is interesting.”
“Also, I’m having flashbacks of driving up to the farmhouse at Patterson Creek. It’s crazy, but one is me alone in my pickup and the other’s with a young man pointing a gun at me, and we’re in one of my business trucks. Then it goes blank.”
There was a brief pause between the two men. “Is that all?” asked the Benefactor.
“That’s all. I wish there was more. It gets very frustrating with these holes in my memory.”
“Let me fill you in a little. You have been to the farm, not once, but twice. The first time was when you were shot and received that scar on your head a year or so ago. The second was just before you were found unconscious in your truck several months past. You see, Mr. Kenney, I’ve been watching out for you. Someone else was willing to kill you for the information you have in your head. He is now very dead.”
Tom was shocked. “Do you mean to tell me the young man I saw in the flashbacks wanted to kill me? It was real and not a hallucination?”
“That is correct, Mr. Kenney. He will not harm anyone anymore, ever. I believe you will find it is his blood on the truck seat.”
There was silence from Tom for a long moment, and then The Benefactor asked, “Mr. Kenney? Mr. Kenney, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.” He paused again. “I need to know something.”
“Certainly, Mr. Kenney. What is it?”
“I gotta know. Did I kill him?”
The Benefactor was surprised again. “No, Mr. Kenney, you did not kill him. I was there with my associate when the target was eliminated.” He heard a sigh of relief on the phone. There was another period of silence. “Mr. Kenney, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here, and I was just wondering why. Guess I’ll die at the appointed time when Morty comes calling.”
“Would you explain yourself, Mr. Kenney? And who is this Morty?”
“My Bible tells me there is a season for everything—a time for joy, and a time for sorrow, a time to be born, and a time to die. Morty is our friend mortality. He comes calling for about 7,000 Americans each and every day. Rain or shine, cold or hot, it don’t matter to Morty. I’ve felt him near numerous times in my life—several times growing up when I believed I was invincible. He was there, everywhere in the three days of battle in the Ia Drang Valley in Vietnam. He was there at the farm when I got this scar on my head from a bullet meant to kill me, and he was there, waiting, waiting for me again just two months ago. I don’t know why I’m not dead other than that same Bible in Hebrews 9:27 tells me, ‘There is appointed a time for all to die and then face judgment,’ and I guess it was just not my time.”
A long silence followed. Now it was Tom’s turn to ask, “My Benefactor, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.” The words choked in his throat, and he barely got them out. How well he knew about old Morty. He’d seen men die. There was no denying the finality of this life. Something was stirring inside the man—something he hadn’t felt in years. “Please,” he said. “Please continue telling me what you believe.”
The preacher in Tom could not help but speak. “What do I believe? Are God’s promises true, or are they comforting myths? If they are just myths, there can be no real comfort in them. Christ Jesus, who shed his precious blood on a cruel Roman cross said, ‘I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish. No one can snatch them out of my hand.’ He goes on, ‘In this world, you will have troubles. But take heart! I have overcome the world.’ There’s a ton of other scriptures like these. God is good and faithful in all ways. If Morty and me held hands and I slipped into eternity today, I’d come to rest in God’s hand. His peace can be nothing short of amazing. It’s sustained me through all of my troubles. When I am weak, He’s always strong.”
Tom continued, “Our days on this Earth are numbered and short. What is important? God? Our family? Relationship with others? Everything will amount to little in the end, but still, we must live our lives and strive to do our best. Honor God in all we do and do it with all our heart and excellence. What will matter ten thousand years from now, and what won’t? Old Morty can help us get clarity on that. Our lives are but a vapor, here in the morning, and soon gone. Morty can be a servant who points us to the One who holds all life in His hands. So what do you say, Benefactor? If Morty comes calling on you today, are you ready?”
After a short lull, The Benefactor spoke. “Mr. Kenney, you are an interesting person. You have given me much to think about. I look forward to our next conversation. I will consider what you have said. And Mr. Kenney, some of your memory seems to be coming back. See if you can remember where Braddock’s Gold is. You are no good to me dead.”
The phone clicked, and a dial tone sounded. Tom now knew why they hadn’t killed him. He was no good to him dead. But if he remembered where the gold was and told them, would they let him live then? They’d have no further use for him, and he could be a liability. Would The Benefactor be true to his word? Could he be trusted or not? Tom had little more than a feeling the answer was yes, but he’d been wrong before when he put his faith in people. Only God was totally faithful to His word. Tom shut his phone off. He didn’t want to talk with to anyone. Tom wanted to think. What did he need to do before Morty came calling on him?
Tom sat at the picnic bench for a long time. There was much to consider. A shadow came over him. He realized the sun had gone behind Knobley Mountain. A look at his watch told him it was almost supper time. He walked to the main door of the warehouse. It was locked, and everyone had gone home. Wonder what Joann has for supper?
Tom walked over to the farmhouse he called home and opened the door. The smell of spaghetti sauce filled his nose. It was his favorite. Joann had somehow wrangled the recipe out of the cook, Mrs. Cheshire, at the grade school. Tom had loved it since he was a kid. He walked into the dining room and saw the best china set out, candles, a delicious looking tossed salad waiting, and two glasses filled with white wine. They were going to be eating high on the hog tonight. Joann came into the room from the hall. Must have been in the bathroom, he thought.
“There you are, my Prince. I hope everything meets your satisfaction.”
“Looks great to this ole meat and taters kind of guy.”
“Sit down, and I’ll serve you. I know it’s been a rough week. You could use a change in your life,” she said. “And Miriah’s spending the night with her cousins.”
“Those girls get along good, and yes, I could use some change. This week’s been crazy with the trucks breaking down, and then today The Benefactor called. We talked for a long time. Somehow, I think the man’s tired of his life, and he’s searching for meaning in it and coming up empty. Strange, how I can have empathy for a man I should fear.”
The meal was excellent. They made small talk as they ate. Afterward, they put the leftovers in the refrigerator and pla
ced the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. The new one they installed a month ago cleaned like a hurricane. Tom went into the living room and sat down. Joann came in and snuggled up next to him. “You wanna have some fun tonight? We’re all alone.”
“Sounds like a great idea to me, but I can tell when something’s up. You’re holding something back from me. Spit it out. What’s up?”
She looked into his eyes and said, “Tom, I’m pregnant.”
The End
Psalms 91:3 For it is He who delivers you from the snare of the hunter. And from the deadly pestilence.
WANT TO READ MORE?
Braddock’s Gold Mystery Series
Braddock’s Gold
Hunter’s Moon
Fool’s Wisdom
Killing Darkness
Florida Murder Mystery Series
Death at Windover
Murder at the Canaveral Diner
Murder at the Indian River
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Fool’s Wisdom, Book three in Braddock’s Gold novel series
Chapter 1
April 1965
At the Kenney home place along WV Route 28, Short Gap, WV
Tom Kenney sat at the table in the old farmhouse he’d known as home his whole life. He was having a hard time sorting out all the information his father had just given him. When his father told him he needed to talk with him, his heart sank lower than whale dung in the deepest ocean. His worst fears were realized. His father had found out about the events of last Saturday, and he was a dead man. His father was going to read him the riot act. He was dead meat and would be grounded for life or longer. And worse of all, he’d disappointed the man who cared for and raised him after his mother had died when he was small. He could not bear the look he knew was coming. Still, there was something exciting about what he’d been a part of. It felt what a drug addiction must be like. That both frightened him and thrilled him.
His father sat down at the table and had a manila folder in his hand. He laid it in front of Tom and told him to open it. Tom was sure it was evidence of his misdeeds. Instead, the first thing he saw was a picture of his mother at about age sixteen. My, she was a beauty. He could see why his Dad liked her at first sight. She had long dark hair, light olive skin, and dark, almost coal-black eyes that shined like two embers in her head. And at the bottom in the margin, someone had written in ink, “Goodland Cherokee Orphanage School.” Tom looked up from the picture with surprise. His Dad said, “Tom, it’s time I told you about your mother. I know you don’t remember much about her. You were so young when she passed. It was hard on you and harder on me. There will never be a better woman created on this earth. The cancer took her from us way too soon.”
He stopped and wiped a tear from his cheek. “I still miss her dancing eyes and sweet smile. How she ever kept those in that hole they called a school, I’ll never know. But she did, and that’s what first attracted her to me. I had just returned from military service with Uncle Sam in Europe after WWII. One of the soldiers I fought alongside of through France and Germany told me of his home in North Carolina and asked me if I wanted to have some R and R, you know, Rest and Relaxation time in the mountains there. It sounded like a pretty good idea to me, a cot and meals and no one shooting at me. So we went from the port in Norfolk, Virginia, by bus to the hills, I mean the mountains of western North Carolina. I thought we had mountains here in WV, and we do have them all over the state, but those mountains seemed like they went up to the very face of God. My buddy got us jobs working at the Indian Orphanage. He was a good talker. He could sell refrigerators to the Eskimos. He told them we were all-round handymen, and soon we were fixin’ up that old place best we could and learning how to do it as we went. It didn’t take me long to see this place was no paradise. The government’s policy with Indians at that time was to de-Indian the Indian out of the Indian to save the Indian. I saw some of the kids beaten if they spoke Cherokee or did anything that had any Indian attached to it.
It was there I met your Mom. She told me she was dropped off at the orphanage when she was just a baby. She never knew who her parents were, but from what little records she found, she was either full blood Cherokee or at least half. To make a long story short, we fell in love. She was sixteen at the time. With the money I saved up, I bought an old rattle-trap car, and we used it to make our escape from the orphanage.
No one ever looked for her. They were happy to be rid of another mouth to feed. She’d have to leave anyway as soon as she came of age. With her looks, she could pass for a white person, and that’s what we did when we got home here. Your grandpa, I think, suspected something was up, but he never did say anything. We lived in this old house with my maw and paw for many years. When they got old and feeble, she was the one who took care of them. She was a good woman. You came along in 1947, and she now had three besides herself to care for. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. She was a fine woman, like one of those virtuous women they talk about in the Bible.”
“So what I wanted to tell you was, Tom, you are either half Cherokee or at least a quarter. Back then, there was kind of a bad stigma in being mixed race, and I know there still is some, but this is something I thought you were ready for.”
Tom looked stunned and said so. He looked at the other pictures in the folder. Each one had his mother in it. Some were with his dad. Some had her with his grandparents. A few were group pictures, and a few were of him with his mother. Tom wanted to tear up when he saw these, but he fought it. The youth didn’t want anyone to think he was not manly. Sissies cried. His father saw this turmoil in Tom but said nothing. He knew what was going on in the young man.
Finally, his dad said, “I’ll leave you here with these for now so you can look at them. I got to get off to work.”
He rose from the table and headed for the door. He grabbed his coat and hat off the clothes pole by the back door. Tom notices a little tremor in his Dad’s right hand. Then he turned to Tom and dryly said, “Try to stay out of trouble today.” And with that, he was gone.
Tom’s stomach churned a little. The story must have really shaken his dad up as his hands had always been so steady and firm. And it seemed his dad knew more than he was saying, or did he? He looked at the pictures for another ten minutes or so and then heard the wheels of the black 57 Chevy on the dirt and gravel coming up to the house. It stopped around the back, and the driver honked the horn. Tom took one last look at the first picture he had seen in the folder, the picture of his mother. He sighed and closed the folder. Tom grabbed his coat and ball hat of the clothes pole and headed out the back door.
“Hey, buddy, you look like you saw a ghost. You okay?” questioned the driver.
“Yeah, I’ll be alright. I just heard some surprising news. It’ll all work out, somehow. You still want to go through with this?”
“Damn straight. I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” the driver replied.
“Then, let’s do it. I love it when a plan comes together.”
The driver smiled a satisfied grin. “Then, what’s keeping us? Let’s get with it.”
The driver backed up the hot rod, put it in Drive, went down the gravel and dirt driveway, stopped at WV Route 28, waited for a truck heading for Fort Ashby to go by, then turned left and headed toward Cumberland, Maryland and their day with destiny.
