Purely by Accident

by Jim Beegle

  The cab was a decrepit Chevy four-door that smelled musty and old. The ride took closer to twenty minutes, but shortly before eleven Mark paid the driver and walked into the Commonwealth Intercontinental Bank. He had expected to see a normal branch bank, like Bank of America in Dallas, with teller cages and lots of people transacting all manners of business that only banks seem to be able to do. Instead, he found he was standing in a lobby that reminded him more of Winston Lawton’s law office rather than a bank.

  “My name is Mark Vogel and I am here to see Mr. Roddy, please,” Mark said to the middle-aged black woman behind the desk just inside the doors. The lady looked Mark over quickly before speaking.

  “Is Mr. Roddy expecting you?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I have an appointment with him at eleven.”

  The woman picked up a phone, punched in three numbers and waited. After a moment, she told the voice on the other end of the line that Mark was here for his appointment. She listened for a moment and then hung up the phone.

  “Mr. Roddy will be here momentarily if you would like to have a seat.”

  Mark just nodded and took a chair close to where he was standing. He was not seated long before a tall, well-dressed black man came out and introduced himself to Mark.

  “I am Jonus Roddy, Mr. Vogel. We are expecting you. Welcome to our facilities and to Nassau.” Mr. Roddy extended his large hand.

  Mark smiled, thinking that everyone on the island must work for the tourism bureau. He shook hands with the man.

  “Is this your first trip to our island?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “Yes, it is, Mr. Roddy. I did not get in until late yesterday afternoon, so I have not had much time to see a lot of it yet.”

  “Oh, you must take time and enjoy yourself while you are here. And please call me either Jonus or Jon,” he told Mark.

  “Only if you will call me Mark,” Mark replied.

  “It would be an honor to do so. Would you please come with me, Mark?”

  He led Mark past the receptionist desk and down a hall. They passed through an outer office where a young woman, whom Mark assumed was Jonus’s secretary, was seated at a desk. He stopped before going past it and turned to Mark. “Could I offer you something to drink? Some tea perhaps?”

  When Mark declined his offer, Mr. Roddy opened the door to his office. The room was larger than both rooms of his hotel combined. A large desk took up part of the room, but there was also a small conference table with six chairs around it almost in the middle of the room. It was to this area that Jonus led Mark. Once they were seated, Mark waited for Mr. Roddy to bring up the reason for his visit. Americans are always in a hurry to get down to business, Mark thought. He had learned on several trips overseas while working for Micronix that this rushed manner was considered rude by non-Westerners. Mark had learned to take things at the pace they were presented to him and not try to control the flow of business.

  “So, you come to us all the way from Dallas, I understand? Will you get to be here long on your trip?” he asked.

  “I am not sure,” Mark replied honestly. “It will all depend on what transpires here, I suppose.”

  If Mr. Roddy were curious about why Mark was here, he did not show it. Mark considered this. When most people think about the Bahamas, it is either the beaches or the gambling that stands out. However, a lot of people also think of the banking system. People in the United States refer to these banks as “offshore.” This simply means that the laws and the taxes are favorable to doing business here. The banking system also has a great deal of security attached to it and is well known for allowing people or businesses to move money around with very little notice or interference from the government. For all Mark knew, this might be just the first of such usual unusual meetings Mr. Roddy would have today.

  “Well then, we should get you started so you will have some time left to enjoy your stay here with us,” Jonus said, getting up from the seat he had just sat in. He walked over to his desk and picked up a folder. He moved back to the table and retook his chair. “I believe you have some documents for me.”

  Mark opened his briefcase and extracted his passport and the letters from the law firm in Dallas. He also took his driver’s license out of his wallet and slid all three items across the table to Mr. Roddy. Jonus took the documents and opened the folder. He glanced at its contents briefly, then looked at Mark’s passport, his license, and the papers. Satisfied, he handed them all back. “If you would not mind coming with me, we will get you started,” Jonus said, getting up again. They walked to a door along the office wall. When they passed through it, Mark found himself in a wide, well-lit hall with marble floors. Their shoes echoed as they walked down the hall. They passed through a door and into another room.

  In front of Mark was a large vault. The door to the chamber was open and a guard sat at a table watching the two men as they approached. Mr. Roddy said something to the man and he produced a form that Jonus wrote on. While Jonus did this, the guard opened a door behind him and took out a small table on wheels. Without saying anything else to the man, Jonus motioned for Mark to follow and he pushed the table ahead of him into the vault. The room was large and reminded Mark of a post office. Small and large doors housing safety deposit boxes with numbers on them lined the wall from top to bottom. Jonus stopped in front of one of the largest boxes and fished a set of keys from his jacket pocket. He inserted his key into one of two keyholes on box number 11230, then turned to Mark.

  “Mark, if you would please, we now need your key in order to open the box door.” Mark set his briefcase on the table and opened it. From the small pocket in the lid, he took out the key and slid it into the unoccupied hole. Mr. Roddy turned both keys at the same time and opened the door. He pulled the safety deposit box out of the hole behind the door. It was much larger than Mark had anticipated. It was at least two and a half feet long, six inches high and almost a foot wide. He also concluded, as Jonus strained to put the metal box on the table, that it was heavy. Mr. Roddy then pushed the table with the box on it back out the vault door and through another set of doors to the left of the room they had come through. This time Mark was in another hall that had six doors—three on each side. Jonus opened the closest one on the left and turned on the light in the room. Inset lights revealed a small conference table with four chairs around it. Mr. Roddy moved the box from the cart to the table and turned to Mark.

  “You may take as long as you like,” he said, handing Mark the key he had used to open the box door. “If you need anything, please call me.” He motioned to a phone on a small table in the corner. “I am on extension 120. Just pick it up and dial. As it is lunchtime now, I will have something to eat brought to you in a little while. I will also send along some tea and water. When you are done, notify the guard and we will replace the box for you. The rent is paid on it until the end of this year so you may leave in it whatever you wish. I will check back with you in a few hours if I don’t hear from you before then.”

  “How do you know it will take that long?” Mark asked as Jonus got to the doorway.

  “The last time I saw Mr. Lawrence, he said it would,” Mr. Roddy told him. “By the way, I am sorry he is gone. He was a delightful man.”

  “Thank you. I miss him too. And just when did you see him last?” Mark asked.

  Jonus thought for a minute, looking at the ceiling. “Oh, about a month ago I think. I had known him for several years before that. He would visit us at least twice a year, sometimes more. A very pleasant fellow, he spoke of you the last time. He was very fond of you, I think.” Mark just nodded. “Well, if you need me, just call. I will leave you to it now.” And with that, he closed the door and left.

  Mark waited until his footsteps faded out of earshot before walking over to the box. He opened the hinged lid and saw a collection of very large envelopes. On top of the pile was a clear plastic container with a smaller USB thumb drive in it. . On a label stuck to the s
mall container in handwriting that Mark knew was Cecil’s, was printed: READ THIS FIRST. A set of numbers and letters, C3/E1, accompanied it.

  Mark put his briefcase on the table and removed his laptop computer. He booted the system and waited until the screen told him that the computer was functioning and awaiting his instructions. He then inserted the drive into one of the USB ports on the side of the computer. He scrolled through the browser and selected the drive that he had just inserted. He double clicked on it in order to see what files it held. Instead of opening and revealing the contents, a dialog box popped up on the window asking him to insert his password. He thought for only a second before typing in C3/E1. The screen paused and then sounded a warning tone. The screen flashed up another dialog box informing Mark that the password he had put in was incorrect and to try again. Now he was puzzled. He thought for a moment and typed in his name. Again the box appeared on the screen asking him to try again. For several minutes, he tried numerous ways of inputting the name of Mark Vogel into the password box. All of them failed.

  Next, he tried Cecil’s name. Once again, the only thing he succeeded in doing was pulling up the box that told him he had not put in the correct password. He was getting frustrated and did not know what to do next. Years of working with computers had taught him not to get caught up in the emotions that go hand in hand with things that do not work. Instead, he did what he always did when faced with this type of problem. He took his pipe out of his pocket, filled it with tobacco, sat back in the chair, closed his eyes and began to think. After a few minutes, the room was full of smoke, but he did not have an answer to his problem. He was just beginning to think that the best thing to do was to try to electronically break into the drive itself in the hopes that the password was embedded in one of the comparative files in the security program. The problem with that was that he might destroy the drive and the data on it and still not find the password. He took out a pad of paper from his briefcase and wrote C3/E1 on it. He had to admit that they looked familiar to him. He was about to begin working with different combinations of the two letters and two numbers when a smile slowly began to grow on his face. Now he recognized the code.

  When he had gone to the library a when Cecil and he began to play chess via email, in an effort to improve his chess skills, he had run across several books that used a number code to map out a series of moves. On the chessboard, they would label the squares that went up and down with letters—A, B, C and so on. They would then label the squares running left to right with numbers. The reason this series looked so familiar to him was because he had looked it up specifically to see how Cecil had managed to beat him in only four moves in one of their first games. He now remembered what the move C3/E1 had resulted in. He took the pipe out of his mouth and sat back up in his chair. He then typed in the word CHECKMATE. This time the password box disappeared and the directory for the drive appeared on his screen. One of the little icons was labeled, “Read this one first.” Mark could tell by the icon what type of file it was. He doubled clicked on the file. He was rewarded with a screen full of sentences that formed what appeared to be a letter. He scrolled to the top to see:

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  Dear Mark, …

  Before he could get any farther, there was a knock at the door. A young woman entered with a tray bearing the water and tea he had been promised by Mr. Roddy. Mark closed the lid to his computer so she could not see the screen. She did not even look at the computer. Instead, she placed the tray on the opposite end of the table from where Mark was sitting, smiled and left the room, closing the door after her. His guest now gone, Mark opened the lid of the computer and began to read.

  Dear Mark,

  If you are reading this, I am assuming that you are sitting in the bank in the Bahamas and that you have already met Mr. Lawton and Mr. Roddy. They are nice fellows and good at what they do. You might want to keep that in mind as you read through this. I also assume that, if you are reading this, I have gone on to whatever awaits each of us on the other side of this life. I am sure that I did not suffer long and I am also sure that you stayed close by until the end. That was very kind of you and I thank you.

  I want to first start by thanking you for the kindness that you have shown me over the last year. I cannot remember when I have made such a good friend so quickly and enjoyed someone’s company so completely as I have yours. Your friendship was a great comfort to me as well as a great act of kindness. My memories of the games of chess and the stories we told each other were nice things to have with me as I began to be afraid of what was waiting as my health got worse.

  I am writing you this letter upon my return from the hospital. I know I do not have much longer left to live and I have so much to tell you and so much to get done before this lifetime is over. It is now Saturday somewhere around noon. On Monday I will fly here to the Bahamas and complete some business that I will tell you about later in this letter. I am writing on the computer that you were so kind to give me for my birthday. It also has been a great companion in the last few months. I hope you will forgive my attempt to secure the contents of this disk. I have no doubt that you are a clever fellow and I will be disappointed if it took you more than five minutes to figure out my code.

  Now for the reason you are here:

  I will begin by offering you an apology for not being completely honest with you about some things. As a matter of fact, I have been dishonest with you about a good number of things. Not so much in the things that I have told you over the last year, but about a good deal of things that I did not tell you. A lie can be a lie as much for the things that are left untold as much as it can be by the things that are told. You should find in the box an envelope labeled Number One. Before you read any further, would you please take it out and open it?

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  Mark stopped his reading and looked in the safety deposit box. Sure enough, there was a nine by twelve white envelope with the label just as Cecil had promised. He took it out but, before he opened it, he got up and walked to the other end of the table and poured a cup of tea from the pot left for him a few minutes ago. He sipped it as he sat back down and carefully tore open the envelope. In it were several documents. One was an old Texas driver’s license. It was in the name of David Albert Cameron of 1456 E. Washington Drive, Houston, Texas. The date on it showed that it had expired on July 15, 1975. Mark looked at the picture. Something about it looked very familiar to him. He did not try to force identification. He decided that he would let it come to him like the password, or trusted that when he returned to Cecil’s letter it would be explained to him. Next, he took up several old yellowing, but official-looking papers. One was a birth certificate for the same David Albert Cameron, born on July 15, 1947, to Mr. David Arnold Cameron and Mrs. Lilly Mae Walker/Cameron both of Eastland County, Texas. The next paper was a marriage license stating that Mr. David Albert Cameron of Eastland County, Texas, had married, on the 29th of September in the year of 1965, Miss Vera Celest Murdock of Parker County, Texas.

  Under the marriage license was another birth certificate. This one, dated October 28, 1966, was for David Albert Cameron Jr., born in Eastland County, Texas, to David Sr. and Vera. David Jr. had not weighed very much at birth, Mark noted, reading over the old birth certificate. Just a little over six pounds. Mark paused when he came to the last two papers in the stack. They were death certificates: one registering the passing of Vera on February 10, 1969, and the other showing the death, on the same day, of David Jr. On both certificates, the cause of death was listed as “natural.” Mark sat for a moment and took unconscious sips from the teacup. The whole chronological series of documents had made him very sad and, for the life of him, he did not know why. He did not even know these people. Or did he? He decided he would let Cecil tell him if he did or did not, and turned his attention back to his computer and Cecil’s letter.

  <<<<<<<>>>>>>>

  I have only been Cecil Lawrence for the last twenty or so y
ears. Before then, up until September of 1974, I was David Albert Cameron, Sr. I was born in 1947 to a dirt-poor sharecropper and his wife. I was the second of two sons and the youngest of their four children. My memories of early childhood are few, but most of them are of being cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and hungry most of the time. It wasn’t until I started Junior High School that I realized just how poor my family was. I didn’t know anything about that before then because all my friends and all my relations were in the same position my family was. It came as quite a shock when I discovered that most of my classmates in the seventh grade wore shirts and pants that had only belonged to Sears and Roebucks before they got them—and not an older brother or another family in our church. It was more obvious when I noticed that they brought sandwiches in their lunches made of bread from the store and filled with meat—instead of the butter sandwiches made with leftover breakfast biscuits that my mother sent with me. It did not matter long anyway. My education about my social standing in life and my academics was soon interrupted. My dad died and left my mother to raise us on her own. My brother, Charles, the oldest of the four of us, had already taken up alcoholism as his life’s work. So at the ripe old age of thirteen or so, I became the man of the house. I quit school and went to work in a cotton mill trying to keep a roof over our heads and trying to keep all my digits on my hands. In my free time, I worked the farm that my daddy left when he died. We did not own it, and part of the reason I had to go to work was to try to pay off the debt we owed the man who owned the land. The rest of the reason was pretty simple. If I didn’t farm, we didn’t eat.

  A year after my dad died, my brother was killed in a bar fight. I am not sure of the details, but his death, like his life, served no purpose. Over the next few years, my sisters both grew up and married men with the same types of ambitions as my brother. Just before I turned eighteen, my mother died. I really don’t know the cause of her death. If I had to guess, I would say that she just simply wore out. Everyone will tell you that you can face just about anything in life as long as you don’t have to face it alone. To an extent, I can tell you that this is indeed true. I soon found being dirt poor and alone to be a greater problem than just being poor.