The Titanic Atonement

By Danny Ferguson

In this galvanizing thriller, a guilt-ridden pirate leaves a last will and testament, claiming that the sinking of the Titanic was intentional. He gives exact details of how this, the most notorious unsolved crime of the twentieth century, was accomplished.
In 2012, when the will is finally made public, Gunny Vernon, a retired recon marine, learns that his adopted grandson is the sole heir to the deceased pirate's fortune. When Gunny and family find themselves required to comply with the conditions of the will, they are suddenly embroiled in great danger, which pits them against a stacked deck loaded with bad genes and fanatical terrorists. Gunny's exploits take him to Venice, Rome, Halifax and Bermuda, and eventually to his home state of North Carolina where he travels from the island of Ocracoke, to the historic township of Bath, to the college football town of Greenville, and finally, to Winston-Salem where he inadvertently solves an eighty year old homicide of an heir to a tobacco tycoon, and at the same time discovers three of the most priceless Christian antiquities in existence. Then, at last, he determines who is responsible for the sinking of the Titanic, and a monumental class action lawsuit is filed, which forces the disclosure of the true meaning of the Titanic Atonement, a meaning, which will foster mutual respect, undying love and an everlasting peace in the dangerous world of today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danny Ferguson
• Release date: Apr 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985013813

Danny Ferguson

Danny T. Ferguson has been a criminal defense lawyer and public defender for 40 years. After serving in the U.S. Marine Corp, Mr. Ferguson graduated from East Carolina University and the University of Memphis School of Law. He lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with his wife, Betty, and their three dogs, two black labs, Abe and Chloe and an Irish Setter, Casey. Mr. Ferguson's children and grandchildren live in Charleston, South Carolina.

Book preview

PART ONE

TRAVESTY

They said that even God couldn’t sink her.

CHAPTER ONE

April 15, 1912 – 12:07 a.m.

Iceberg! the porter bellowed as he walked briskly down the first class passageway of C deck, giving sharp raps on each door and calling out loudly, alerting the guests of the impending danger. Quickly, he ordered, don your life vests and come out on deck!

The family in cabin C-58 heard the warning and, like the other startled guests, hastened to get dressed in their warmest clothes and get out on deck. I’m sure this is just a drill, Randolph said in an effort to bring some solace to his small family in this very tense moment. Shortly, with Papa Randolph holding his young son’s right hand, and with Mama Roberta holding the child’s left, the three of them exited their cabin to face the unknown.

Stepping out into the passageway, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of other anxious passengers. Confusion reigned as they were herded toward a stairway that led to the upper deck where a ship’s officer was directing passengers to life boat stations, fore and aft. Strangely, at the top of the stairway, another uniformed figure stood in a darkened corner. He seemed to be watching and waiting. When the young family from cabin C–58 approached, the shadowy man became unswervingly focused on them. As they drew near, he reached out and tapped Randolph on the shoulder.

Mr. Priestly, he said, his voice sounding vaguely familiar, Would you and your family please follow me?

Wondering how this stranger knew his name, Randolph had misgivings, but noted the uniform and presumed the man to be official. With some reluctance, Randolph dutifully complied and directed his family to follow the man out onto the promenade deck. Unable to see this man’s face in the dim lighting, they could tell only that he was short in height and small in frame.

All around them, big-eyed passengers were rushing hither and yon, searching for the right lifeboat station, but this uniformed man did not seem to be interested in lifeboats. Rather, he escorted the Priestly family to a dark corner of the first class promenade deck. No one was nearby, apparently because there were no lifeboat stations on this part of the deck.

Step over here! he snapped.

His abrupt manner caused Randolph’s concern to deepen. When they were closer to the railing, the man turned and a glimmer of light flicked onto his face. Instantly, Mama gasped in recognition. In the next moment, little Lennie tugged on his mother’s coat tail.

Mama, he asked innocently, What’s Willard doing here?

Mama Roberta’s head was spinning. She couldn’t answer. The last time she had seen their older son was over a year ago, when Papa Randolph had confronted the boy about stealing from the family business. The violent teenager had exploded into an adolescent tantrum, cursing them viciously and storming out of their eastern North Carolina home in a huff. There had been no contact with him since then, and he certainly had not been invited to join them on this family vacation to Europe. But amazingly, here he was, live and in person, standing right in front of them.

Confusion spread across Roberta’s flawless face, her brow wrinkling as a frown of anxiety overtook her kindly features. Her eyes begging for answers, she looked over at her husband of twenty years, who was normally calm and composed, but at this stressful moment, he was speechless, totally dumbfounded.

Finally, however, in a trembling voice, Randolph forced a response. Son, what on earth are you doing here?

Instead of making a reply, Willard glared back hatefully at his family, his eyes beholding them as though they were devils from hell. After a long moment of eerie silence, he stepped back and raised a big square pistol, pointed it unflinchingly at his father and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed, and a bullet exploded into Papa Randolph’s stomach. The impact hurled Papa up and over the ship’s railing, but at the last moment, he managed to grab hold and hang there. Straining to maintain his grip, his bewildered eyes traveled over to his panic-stricken family for one last excruciating look, but there was nothing he could do. With blood pouring from his midsection, his life vest and his overcoat were already soaked in red. Papa Randolph was dying and he knew it.

Papa! his little son screamed, but it was too late for Randolph, his face now contorting into a labyrinth of pained befuddlement. Releasing his grip, he slid off the railing, his arms flailing as his body careened down into the sea.

In the next moment, the big, square pistol was turned on Mama Roberta who by now was sobbing hysterically. Why, son, why? she screamed out to her first-born, but the deranged young man made no verbal response. Instead, he calmly took aim, prompting his mother to cover her face with her hands in a futile attempt to shield herself from the impending bullet. Please, please, don’t shoot! she whimpered, but her pleas were for naught.

His heart as cold as the iceberg that had ripped through the ship, the teenaged miscreant pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed, and forthwith, a .45 caliber projectile penetrated Roberta’s neck. Staggering, she grabbed the railing, then for just an instant dared a pathetic look back into her eldest son’s vacant eyes. Another shot rang out, and she grabbed her stomach as her legs collapsed out from under her. The last thing she saw was the maniacal leer on Willard’s face as he snared her by the armpits and callously rolled her over the railing like a bag of garbage. As she cart-wheeled downward, her beautiful face smashed into the cold steel hull just before her lifeless body careened into the frigid sea, which gulped her down like a thirsty alcoholic. Mama was gone forever.

With the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears, little Lennie was totally traumatized. He stared down into the ruthless sea as he tried to absorb the shocking event that had just destroyed all of the love he had ever known. But before he could dwell further on his misery, another gunshot pierced the night, the bullet whizzing by the child’s ear. Instinctively, the child’s will to survive overtook all else. He screamed shrilly, and his short legs churned, propelling him to run, to hide, and to somehow find a way to escape the wrath of his demented brother.

Big brother knew that he could not let Lennie escape. Otherwise, all that he had thus far accomplished would be wasted. Furthermore, he knew that it was crucial to be as inconspicuous as possible, lest some survivor remember and identify him. Concealing the pistol in his coat, he forced himself to walk rather than run in pursuit of his little brother. Keeping his eyes on the child, he followed the boy through the onboard chaos as he waited for the opportune moment to administer the coup de grace. The chase led aft to the far end of the congested second class promenade deck. Twice, Willard got close enough to put a bullet in the back of the child’s head but refrained from doing so because there were too many witnesses. Then, just as the child turned a corner, Willard lost sight of him. Lennie seemed to have vanished but was actually hiding behind a large electric winch. The child’s respite there would be short lived.

Just when big brother got close, Lennie darted out into the open and doubled back in the direction of the first class promenade deck toward the area where his parents had been shot. Willard spotted him and gave chase. The child ran fast, but Willard’s legs were much longer, and in a heartbeat, he was again within range, and this time no witnesses were in sight. Frantically, the little boy looked around and saw big brother closing on him, but he had no place to go. He was trapped.

With an arrogant smirk on his face, Willard stopped and pointed the pistol, carefully taking aim as if he were at a shooting gallery. No, no! the little boy shrieked, but the gun fired. The bullet parted the child’s hair, so close that he could feel the heat. Adrenalin-driven, Lennie grabbed onto the railing, which was still sticky with his father’s blood. He pulled himself over the top, straddling the railing. Pausing there, he looked down at the black sea, which was glittering excitedly as though it were anxious to devour its next victim. Another gunshot exploded, the bullet dinging into the railing just below the child’s hand. There was no time for hesitation. Big brother was almost upon him. The terrified little boy closed his eyes and let go, dropping like a rock and splashing into the frigid waters. Like a thief in the Arctic night, the icy brine stole his breath. He coughed and choked as he struggled for air. His gasps were desperate and quick with starbursts of panic enveloping his mind, his heart, and his soul.

Flapping the water with his hands and screaming at the top of his lungs, he just wanted it to be over. But instead, it appeared that he would be compelled to endure the suffering that preceded the body-freeze process, an ending that would not be merciful.

Twenty partially filled lifeboats were scattered about, rising and falling with the swells and drifting in the dark sea. The great ship was rapidly going down by the bow as thousands of desperate souls prayed for deliverance. Some were thrashing frantically in the icy brine, while others were clinging white-knuckled to the ship’s railings, their panicked minds gravely entangled in the throes of their own mortality.

So, when a vaguely discernible light became visible on the southern horizon, an interlude of fleeting hope filled the hearts of the otherwise doomed souls. Everyone, believers and nonbelievers alike, must have felt ecstatically grateful to their creator. Too cold and too weak to cry out, many must have thought that their prayers had been answered. The good Lord had sent them a rescue ship.

In reality, however, the first responder, the Carpathia, was en route but too far away to save those in the water. Another ship, the California, was much closer, but for reasons forever unknown, it never so much as acknowledged the Titanic’s emergency flares. But, the closest ship, this never-to-be-identified ship of false hope, kept its distance without even attempting to provide assistance.

Curiously, however, a short while later, coming from the direction of this mystery ship, an oar-powered skiff that could easily have been mistaken for a life boat emerged into the glow of the Titanic’s fading lights, but strangely, it did not stop to pick up survivors. Instead, the boat cut a course through the watery field, heading straight for the Titanic’s rising stern.

On board the doomed vessel, an aura of fear filled the night as the remaining passengers and crew found themselves on the brink of pandemonium, some jumping, others climbing down ropes, some determined to hang on until the end. In the midst of the chaos, a group of men, all looking very official, some in the uniform of the White Star Line, rushed through the crowds as they made their way to the fantail where they huddled together. Soon, one member of this select group cast a thick hemp line over the aft railing, the hawser plunging downward and dropping into the sea. A boat hook reached out from the strange skiff, quickly snared the line, and brought it aboard.

As the great ship’s bow continued to sink lower, its stern continued to rise higher. The dozen suspect men began taking their turns, one by one, escaping from the dying ship by grabbing onto the rope and hand-over-hand, making their descent off the stern quarter. The first five men down the rope all wore the uniform of the White Star Line. The next three wore soot stained whites of engine room firemen. The next three also wore whites, but clean whites of dining room stewards. The last man down was very distinctive in appearance. He was very large; he had a long black beard; and he wore a black tuxedo.

When all were aboard the mystery skiff, its oars stretched out, and it began making way southward, quickly distancing itself from the sinking ship. As it cut a stream through a checker board of life-vested corpses, just before clearing the floaters, an unexpected bump brought a moment’s concern to the oarsman. Ghostlike, a hand reached up out of the cold, dark sea as trembling fingers crooked around the gunwale. An icy face chiseled in bluish brine glowered up from its watery grave, its eyes beaming out from sunken sockets. This poor soul had been lost, but now he was found, or so the nameless man thought. But in the next moment, an oar raked across the desperate man’s neck, the blunt impact casting him back into the black hole. Like fifteen hundred and sixteen other souls, this poor man would die there in the seemingly Godforsaken North Atlantic for no reason other than to appease the insatiable greed of a few.

Minutes later, the bow of the Titanic dove straight down into the sea, but the stern ripped away and floated. Some overly optimistic passengers sought to scramble to high ground, up to the tip of the fantail, where they hoped to hang on until the last minute, and maybe somehow, miraculously survive. But their efforts proved futile when the separated stern also began to sink. Shortly, it too, dropped beneath the surface and crash dived down to the bottom of the sea. Now, the great ship Titanic, all of it, was gone forever.

CHAPTER TWO

May 1st, 1912

It was a hard blow as the gaff-rigged skiff beat a run, heading for the popular Bay View Hotel that blinked at them through the mist from the far shore of the Pamlico River. At the helm was the nineteen year old boy-genius who had masterminded the most notorious sea crime in history. Other than his skiff mate, he had left no witnesses, having dynamited the Kurtiss Eugene, killing every last soul on board. Now, in the skiff, they had just passed through the sometimes treacherous Ocracoke Inlet and traversed the shallows of the sound. At this point, they were on the final leg of this diabolical journey of self-absorbed greed that would shape the demented boy’s financial future for the rest of his life, everyone else be damned!

He gripped the tiller tightly, his forehead furrowing as he focused on the buoys that marked the channel westward up the Pamlico River. The only other person on board was Elder Greene, an older, much larger man with a long, bushy black beard. Both attired in dark trousers and white shirts, the two men could have been anybody, coming from anywhere.

With the boat nearing the hotel’s pier, the hulking man, his mane of black hair and long beard blowing wildly in the wind, made his way to the foredeck where he readied the bowline. With the main sail luffing, the skiff pulled close enough alongside the pier for Elder to take a giant step onto the dock and secure the line to a cleat. The partners in crime gathered their valuables and marched off the dock, heading up to the hotel. As they entered the brand-new hotel, sometimes referred to as the pride of the Pamlico, they were greeted warmly by an elderly man in a tuxedo, the maître d’. They followed him through the hallway and into an ornate dining room where they were directed to a table.

Shortly, a waiter appeared. Would you gentlemen care for some refreshment?

Whiskey! the boy demanded as he sat down across the table from Elder. Immediately, without extraneous conversation, the two men delved into a vigorous bargaining session. The young man was focused. Elder was demanding. Their voices just above a whisper, they hissed viciously at each other and took turns pounding their fists on the table. Ranting softly and raving quietly, they were both adamant and unbending.

After a full hour of strong words and stronger whiskey, Elder stood up as their verbal bout headed for a final showdown. He glared down unmercifully at the boy, the old pirate’s eyes as intense as slow-burning phosphorus. For what seemed like an eternity, his threatening leer held fast, but the boy did not blink. Finally, Elder succumbed as the crease of a smile slipped onto his beard-shrouded face.

Okay, I will meet you in one year! he growled, his voice gruff, his tone self-assured. Then, with his eye lids narrowing, he made a stinging pronouncement. If you fail me, I will kill you. You know I can! You know I will!

Still, the boy did not flinch. Totally unfettered, his façade remained arrogant as he looked up into the dark eyes of his giant partner. Without so much as a blink, the boy calmly took another sip of whiskey. Don’t fret, old pirate, he said nonchalantly, I’ll be there.

With each of the next three hundred and sixty five days passing like the slow drip of molasses, Elder Greene was living like a river rat. Although he yearned for the luxurious retirement that he had been promised, for now, all he could do to survive was hunt, fish, and steal.

Impatiently counting the days until his scheduled rendezvous, he managed to endure the hardships of low country life, but much worse were the qualms of conscience that gnawed at his inner being, reminding him of the reprehensible deed that he had committed. No matter where he went, no matter what he was doing, a never-ending nightmare constantly played inside his head. He would see vivid visions of the desperate souls, who had struggled for dear life in their final moments. He would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, obsessing over those fifteen hundred horrible deaths. He could see their agonizing expressions, these human beings, these regular people, who had just wanted to live their lives in peace. All of them had souls, and all were crying out from their watery graves in endless wails of terror. He feared that his evil deed would haunt him throughout all eternity.

The one year passed, but to Elder’s dismay, the long-anticipated April 1913 rendezvous date came and went uneventfully. So did five other rescheduled dates during the next ten months. Just before each rescheduled date, a courier, a tall ruddy-faced man, would arrive on horseback at Elder’s hideout and tell Elder that the meeting would have to be postponed. The boy, he claimed, was having problems in closing his father’s estate. Each time the bad news arrived, Elder would erupt into a tirade of anger. Finally, in the late winter of 1914, the next postponement came, this one nearly pushing Elder over the brink. If there is another delay, that’s it! I’ll kill the little bastard!

As though the boy had long-reaching ears, the very next week the mounted courier arrived at Elder’s hideout and handed him a note, which specified that the meeting would occur in two weeks, March 17th, on nearby Bath Creek. The rendezvous would coincide with the debut of the brand new James Adams Floating Theater, which was scheduled to take place in Bathtowne. There’s safety in numbers, the letter stated.

March 17th, 1914

Almost two years had elapsed since the Titanic had sunk, but now, finally, it looked like the day of reckoning had arrived. Attired in a fresh white shirt and black wool trousers held up by red suspenders, Elder made his way along the bank of Bath Creek. Were it not for his great size, he might have blended with the hundreds of other people who dotted the creek bank, waiting for the big show. As he approached, Elder noticed that most of the people were eagerly peering southward down the expansive, quarter-mile-wide creek. Far off in the distance, smoke was visible, steaming up from a barely identifiable tug, which was pushing the 436 ton, 128. 3 foot floating theater toward them.

Shortly, the bright red letters emblazoned on its sidewalls became readable, announcing the arrival of the James Adams Floating Theater. Although showboats were common place on the Mississippi River, the James Adams was the first and only showboat on the waters of North Carolina. This was a big day for the little town of Bath.

The James Adams got closer, and the waiting crowd grew larger. Cognizant that he was wanted by the law, Elder stood next to a tree on the creek bank and tried to look inconspicuous, but like a mighty oak in a pine thicket, he could not really hide. Regardless, the risk was worth it. Not only had he already gone through too much agony to let this opportunity pass, but also, there was a million-fold profit involved. This was his moment, he rationalized.

Finally within earshot, the James Adam’s brass band began to play. A master of ceremonies, wearing a top hat and a red cutaway jacket appeared on the cabin rooftop, a megaphone pressed to his lips.

Come one, come all, he bellowed, "for the first time ever, the James Adams Floating Theater is at your service for quality entertainment!"

While the James Adams’ band played ragtime, the tug repositioned itself and began pushing the floating playhouse closer to the shore. Watching from the bank, Elder observed the crowd as they laughed and applauded the acrobatic clowns on deck doing flips and simultaneously juggling bowling pins. The show had everyone’s attention. No one seemed to even notice Elder. Next, the swooping crescendo of the slide trombones was the encore for a quartet of costumed couples, performing a soft shoe glide across the front deck. The ladies carried parasols, their dresses adorned with ruffles and ribbons. The men, ear-to-ear grins on their faces, were attired in white tuxedoes with tails. When the brass section paused, banjos took over, filling the air with the sound of string frivolity. Smiles lighted up on every face around—except for one.

By the time the marquee was put in place, announcing the three o’clock debut of the play, Under Western Skies, a long line had already formed at a hastily erected ticket table near the gangplank. Through the hubbub, Elder Green was still standing on the creek bank, biding his time as the crowd grew larger and larger. Picnic blankets were now checkering the grassy river bank. Baskets of food, particularly fried chicken, and an assortment of desserts were abundant on every blanket. The chicken smelled so good that Elder was tempted to reach down and snatch a drumstick from one of these church-going, do-gooders, but he forced himself to refrain. Instead, wistfully, he pretended to be invisible.

After an uncomfortably long wait, contact finally came. Elder spotted a man at the top of the knoll, gazing down at him. The man raised his hand and made a waving motion, beckoning Elder to come his way. Elder responded by nodding his head and walking up the hill toward the man.

With the crowd now enjoying the outrageous troupers, which were performing a comedy routine on the bow of the showboat, Elder climbed the hill, stepping over picnic baskets and around the groups of jovial spectators. As he walked, he kept a wary eye on the man, ready if necessary to draw his revolver, which he had secreted just inside his shirt. Getting closer, he soon recognized the man as the tall, ruddy-faced courier who had brought messages to him from the boy over the past years. Finally, when they were in voice range, the man spoke. Mr. Greene, he said firmly, follow me!

Elder obliged, following the man down the road, across a ditch, and onto a narrow path. After trudging through a corn field, they headed past a log cabin to a barn in the back yard.

Upon entering the barn through a side door, Elder immediately saw the boy, who was waiting there in the shadows, standing erect to his full five and a half foot height, his face tense, his jaw set. As Elder adjusted to the dim light, he could see the same weasel eyes and arrogant smirk on the boy-genius’s face.

Okay, now, leave us! the boy ordered, his voice much deeper than Elder had remembered. Like an obedient servant, the ruddy-faced bodyguard turned around and made his exit.

Reminiscent of their previous bout at the Bay View Hotel nearly two years earlier, the two men again squared off. As Elder looked down at the boy, he had to restrain himself from laughing when he saw the upstart’s brand new, red goatee, a pitiful patch of hair on his chin. Instead, Elder snarled in feigned anger and began shouting out his list of demands.

Despite being at least a foot shorter and probably 200 pounds lighter, and despite Elder’s fierce rant, the boy remained arrogant. He stared up at the hayloft, acting as though he were not interested. When Elder stopped his harangue, the boy shook his head in adamant denial. No, hell, no! he exclaimed, then, he began to scream out like a junkyard dog, yapping and shouting that he couldn’t afford Elder’s demands. Elder stood there, staring in silent amazement at the mouthy puppy, until he could endure no more, then he restarted his rant and the dueling tirade began anew.

Over and over, they gave, they took, and they haggled, until at long last, a time came when the boy passed some papers over to Elder who studied them carefully.

The numbers had more zeros than Elder had ever seen. He paused, wondering if this were really believable. If it were, it would be his dream-come-true. His pulse pounding with excitement, he looked the boy in the eye. Okay, you’ve got a deal!

Snidely, the boy stroked the red hairs on his chin. Of course, he added, you are banished from this country forever. You must live the rest of your life in Venice, Italy. You understand that?

Elder nodded. How do I get my money?

It will be deposited into a bank of your choice in Venice.

It better be! Elder snapped. And let me tell you this! If you renege, I will find you and cut your throat! Do you understand?

Without replying, a wide grin came onto the upstart boy’s face as his tiny mitt shot out and grabbed Elder’s massive hand. In a flash, they were pumping hands and promising eternal loyalty.

Obviously, the devil’s way had prevailed.

PART TWO

Exile

DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT AN EQUALIZER.

CHAPTER THREE

May 1, 1932

For eighteen years, Elder lived the high life of an affluent expatriate. Nevertheless, despite the sumptuous lifestyle, there was neither enough opium nor enough alcohol in all of Venice to mask the guilt that had been eating away at his very soul since that fateful night in mid-April 1912. Now, at fifty years old, he was beginning to feel the tremors of age, a feeling that left him vulnerable to the reality that his lifespan had limits, yet there were things undone that needed doing.

He longed to see his sister, Grace, who lived in the thriving tobacco town of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Also, he had not seen his only child, Elder, Jr., since just after the child was born back in 1911.

All too aware that his pact with the devil forbade his leaving Venice, still, he found himself wrestling with destiny. No doubt, the boy’s henchmen would kill him if he were caught in violation of that damnable exile agreement, but, he mulled, there are things worse than death.

Finally, in the spring of 1932, under the ruse that he was going on an Austrian Alps vacation, Elder traveled by rail, secretly diverting to Genoa from where he hopped a tramp freighter to America. Two weeks later, he landed in Norfolk, Virginia, then, traveled by train to Winston-Salem to see sister Grace.

His lovely, gray-haired sister was medium in height and slight of build, but nevertheless, the hulking Elder laughingly called her his big sister since she was five years older than he. Back when he was just a tot, she had married the circuit minister and moved to the newly consolidated North Carolina towns of Winston and Salem where she had a happy life until 1923 when her husband passed away. Several years later, Grace remarried, but her second husband died in 1931, just the year before. Now, again a widow and without children, she lived alone in a small frame house in the northeastern section of Winston-Salem.

Beaming boyishly with a hopeful smile on his face and holding his suitcase in his hand, Elder walked up onto the front porch of Grace’s one-story, two bedroom bungalow on Eighteenth Street and rang the doorbell. Initially, when she opened the door, she was startled at the sight of this wild-eyed, six and a half foot man with a long black beard.

Hello, Sis, Elder said as he leaned down and looked into her eyes.

The expression on Grace’s face quickly transformed from surprise to curiosity and finally to recognition. Elder! she exclaimed, her voice ringing with excitement, Is that really you?

It is, Big Sister, he replied exuberantly as he embraced her in a warm bear hug. They held each other for a full minute as unabashedly, they both let tears of joy flow like rain, both ecstatic that this fortuitous moment had come to them.

Oh, Elder, Grace said softly, I thought you were dead. Nobody’s heard from you in years.

Well, I’ve been at sea all of my life, he lied. But since I was starting to get old, I thought it was high time that I should come see you.

Grace invited her long lost brother into her modest bungalow, and they took seats in the living room on the settee. I thought I might stay a few weeks with you, if you would let me?

Grace was overjoyed. Oh, yes, please stay with me as long as you would like, she said, bubbling over with excitement. She shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. Seeing you has been my greatest wish for many years!

Grace ushered her brother back to the guest bedroom. Please, Elder, make yourself at home, she offered graciously. Then, after a pause, she added, But I must tell you, dear brother, I don’t allow alcohol in the house. You know what it has done to our family.

Oh, sure, no problem.

For weeks to come, brother and sister sought to catch up on their lost years, which required Elder to continue his fabrications. Neither the Titanic, nor his life in Italy was ever mentioned. I’ve sailed the seven seas, I’ve seen China, Japan, India and Africa, he embellished.

Their time together was harmonious. Grace cooked fantastic meals. Elder did odd jobs around the house. They spent their evenings on the front porch talking about their childhood, their sweet mother, and their ne’er-do-well father. But as the weeks passed, Elder began getting bored. Actually, he longed for his alcohol and drugs. Slowly, gradually, he was becoming more irritable and increasingly edgy. He was a slow burning fuse.

July 6th, 1932

As Elder sat in the rocker on the front porch, silently yearning for a night out on the town and the taste of Jamaican rum, the screen door opened, and Grace stepped out onto the porch with a glass of lemonade in hand. Would you like some refreshments?

Uh, thanks, Elder replied as he reached for the lemonade and took a sip, actually wishing it were something much stronger. Grace sat down in the porch swing, and for the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. Finally, Grace broke the silence. Little brother, I want you to go to church with me on Sunday. The church is just around the corner on Liberty Street. The people there are very nice. Would you go with me, please?

Elder had an immediate knee-jerk reaction. The guilt that he had carried for two decades made him thin skinned, and the thought of walking into a house of God made him tense. His eyes rolled and his head shook.

I don’t do church! he replied curtly, the very question exacerbating his yearn for a stiff drink.

I’m sorry, little brother, I didn’t mean to upset you.

Elder shook his head. No, no, that’s okay, uh, I just need to go for a walk. I may be a little late. Go on to bed if you want. Don’t wait up for me.

Elder walked down Liberty Street toward town. Although the prohibition laws were still in effect, he managed to locate a speakeasy on Trade Street just north of the courthouse. There, he sat at the bar and imbibed in bootleg liquor, soon feeling lightheaded and carefree. After a while, he struck up a conversation with an odd looking stranger sitting on the bar stool next to him. Slender in build with a pie-shaped face and a round bald head, the man was boisterously loud, telling wild stories.

As the two men drank, the stranger finally introduced himself. I—I’m Baxter Byrd, he said, his words mushy. Let me buy you another round.

Elder accepted, and they slugged those drinks down. After Elder bought the next round, they then went back and forth in a reciprocal boozy sequence until they had lost count of even whose turn it was to buy.

H—e—y, you know, Byrd drawled boastfully, I ought to show you my boss’s place. It’s the fanciest place you’ve ever seen!

And who’s your boss? Elder asked as he took the hook.

R. J. Reynolds! You know, the tobacco tycoon.

Are you saying that you know R. J. Reynolds personally? Elder asked.

Well, uh, actually, Byrd conceded, R. J. Reynolds has been dead fourteen or fifteen years, and for that matter, so has Katherine, his wife. She died six or seven years ago.

So, what’s your connection?

You see, I work for the family, Byrd said with a ring of pride in his voice. They have a large dairy farm and a mansion just outside of town. I work for the assistant maintenance supervisor. They couldn’t run the place without me, the drunken stranger crowed as a cocksure sneer formed on his face. If you like hobnobbing with the rich and famous, you’d love this place!

Despite his advanced stage of inebriation, Elder managed to keep his lips tightly shut, but he could not help think: You imbecile! If you knew the crowd I hobnobbed with back in April of 1912, you wouldn’t be quite so boastful.

After two more rounds, Byrd grew bolder. Would you like to see Reynolda? he offered.

Sure, why not? Elder replied, eager for an opportunity to call this braggart’s bluff.

Unconcerned about their extreme drunkenness, the two unstable men climbed into Byrd’s green and black A Model Ford deluxe coupe. As Byrd attempted to insert the ignition key, he fumbled it, dropping it on the floorboard. Cursing, finally, he managed to recover the elusive key, insert it into the ignition, and push the starter pedal with his foot. After a long, straining crank and after adjusting the choke, finally the engine sputtered to a start.

Just as the coupe pulled off, Elder began having misgivings about this weird man. Are you sure it’s not too late to visit this place?

A stupid grin came onto Byrd’s face as he made a show of turning slightly in his seat toward Elder and opening his coat just wide enough to expose a shoulder-holstered pistol. Don’t worry, he drawled. I’ve got an equalizer.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Model A coupe weaved its way to nearby Sixth Street, turned onto Broad, then went down a steep hill past a park. Soon, the urban landscape became countryside, prompting Elder to wonder where this weird egghead was actually taking him. Say, mister, how much farther?

We’re almost there. About a mile to go.

Heading into this unfamiliar part of the county, Elder continued to have second thoughts about this questionable character that had befriended him. Silently, he decided that he might need an exit plan. By the way, what road are we on, anyway?

Reynolda, of course, Byrd replied snootily, a what-else-would-you-expect inflection to his cocky tone.

Just after they passed highly manicured pasturelands that ran along both sides of the road, Byrd began pointing off to the right. This is it! That’s Reynolda Estates!

The little Ford coupe turned right into Reynolda’s gated entrance, immediately passing a massive stone water trough. Directly ahead was a small post office building, and to the right was a large, glass greenhouse. Nearby, acres of gardens were interspersed with pergolas, lattice work and teahouses. Down the hill to the left was a row of neat looking, well-kept cottages.

Putt-putting along, the Ford coupe turned right and headed up a winding macadam lane that led to a four-story, sixty four room mansion with a long, low roofline and tapered columns.

This is the R. J. Reynolds home, the Byrd announced, a pompous twang to his voice. Byrd wheeled into the Reynolds private driveway and cruised through the porte-cochere like he was R.J.’s favorite cousin. As they passed, the headlights from the Model A illuminated the white columns and the silver moon roses that climbed halfway up to the roof. After circling the driveway and exiting back onto the macadam lane, Byrd parked his vehicle in the shadows and turned off the engine.

Ooo-kay, my friend, let me take you into the house for a tour, Byrd offered, his drunken voice inappropriately loud.

Elder was hesitant. Uh, is it okay to park here?

Oooh sure, no problem, Byrd said as he opened the car door. Like I told you, I work for the assistant maintenance supervisor. I’m constantly in and out making repairs. They think I’m one of the family.

A frown of disbelief furrowed across Elder’s forehead. "Yeah, sure they do," he whispered under his breath.

With Byrd in the lead, the uninvited visitors headed down the driveway, then through the side yard to the rear of the mansion. After stepping up on a semicircular porch, they entered the house through the unlocked double French back door, which opened into a stately reception hall. Looking toward the ceiling, they saw an upper tier balcony, which stretched all the way around the entire room.

The bedrooms are upstairs, Byrd said.

Elder was immediately impressed. I’ve seen some fancy homes in my day, even some palaces in Venice, but this house stands out in a much different, a much better way. Not only is it very beautiful, but it’s livable, even homey.

Didn’t I tell you? he exclaimed, a silly flair to this tone. Byrd was all smiles.

By the way, Elder asked, looking around, where is everybody?

Oh, they’re all down the hill at Lake Katherine.

What if someone catches us in here?

Byrd smirked stupidly as he pulled the Mauser semi-automatic pistol from under his coat and