Blood on the Ballot: A Novel of the Presidency

By William J. Dahms

Forty-four-year-old Colonel Tim Delaney is about to retire from the U.S. Army after five wars and twenty-six years of service. When his niece's boyfriend, journalist Michael Scott, turns up dead after investigating the fatal plane crash of a wealthy and prominent senator-whose widow is now married to the leading candidate for president of the United States-Delaney is suddenly and unexpectedly drawn into a series of deadly events.

Delaney soon discovers a pervasive conspiracy is responsible for multiple murders and the subversion of the U.S. justice system. Rich, powerful, and highly influential individuals are determined to protect a dark secret. Exposure could derail the ambitions of their handpicked presidential candidate and thwart the drive for power and wealth of one of the world's richest men.

The conspirators are willing to use any method to silence Delaney and ensure that he can do them no further harm. But when they start threatening his family, Delaney knows it's time to take a stand to protect the lives of those he loves and start the wheels of justice turning. Packed with thrilling action and deadly secrets, Blood on the Ballot is a tantalizing glimpse into the seedy underworld of American politics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595867639

William J. Dahms

William J. Dahms served as an Army intelligence officer during the Vietnam War. He later pursued a career as an investment banker with assignments in New York and London. A New York City native, Dahms now lives in southwest Florida.

Book preview

1     

The call had come about six weeks ago. As he was drifting off to sleep, the phone rang and jarred him out of his reverie. As he reached for the phone he noted that the green numerals on his Bose Wave radio showed 01:56.

In response to his groggy, Hello a deep, rough and unusually loud male voice came on the line immediately ripping away any of the cobwebs of sleep as it said, Michael Scott. It was more of a statement than a question.

His reply was a sleepy and tentative, Yes … who’s this?

Without introduction the disembodied voice continued, the tone menacing, You’re playing around where you don’t belong. Keep doing it and you’re going to wind up dead. Drop your investigation right now and destroy all your papers and anything else you got. Don’t talk to nobody about it any more or else you’re not going to live to see next week.

There was a pause, but Michael didn’t respond. He pulled himself up in bed and, for reasons he later wondered about, turned on the light.

The caller went on, I guarantee you that if you don’t walk away from what you’re doing you’re going to regret it. So Pal, start shredding all that shit right now or else they’re going to find you floating face down in the Hudson River. You got that?

Then there was only a dial tone. He checked his caller ID but it yielded only Out of Area. He punched in *69 but was unable to raise his caller. He felt violated. It would have been one thing if they called him at work, but no, they had his home number and called him there. Sleep didn’t come for the rest of that night.

He was scared and didn’t mind admitting to himself that he was pretty anxious about it all. A phone call in the middle of the night from some thug who threatened his life certainly worried him but it wasn’t going to stop him. He’d never even been in a fight before and tried to avoid any kind of conflict, especially physical conflict. But this time it was different. He’d have to be a lot more careful from now on, but he was going to finish and report this story, no matter who threatened him because it was more than just a story.

Almost ten years after leaving Duke University, Michael Scott’s dream was about to come true. He had finally made it to the big leagues of journalism. He went to Duke out of a suburban high school, where he was first in his class. He worked pretty hard at Duke, wrote for the school paper and had a good time as well. During his last year he began to think seriously about what he would do once he left Durham. He decided he wanted to be a writer and reporter. He wanted to break the big story and make an impact. The job market for writers was pretty bleak, but after a few months of looking he found a place where he could write for a living. It wasn’t the New York Times, but it was a job in journalism. It was where he started paying his dues.

He spent those first two years after college writing obituaries for the Augusta Journal. Then there were three years as a general assignment reporter at Channel 42 in Lincoln, Nebraska. He spent the last five years at KXRY as an investigative reporter. It was there, only nine months ago, where he got noticed by the network and got his chance.

Jeff Nelson, who was the lead investigative reporter for the Capitol News Network, and his crew from New York had been there doing a special on a series of rapes at the University. They needed a follow up report and Michael got the assignment. Ten years after college he was no longer an inexperienced skinny kid. He had gotten some real experience. He’d filled out and spent some money on a voice coach who made him sound both authoritative and trustworthy. Nelson had him back to New York to do the follow up piece in the ten p.m. slot on a Friday night in late summer. So when Nelson’s co-host left on assignment, Michael got the job alongside Nelson for six weeks. His good looks, six foot frame, lanky blond hair and a friendly but serious manner got him good marks in the ratings. The surveys the network ran showed him as having a high score for trustworthiness and sincerity. But most important he got along well with the normally irascible Executive Producer, David Friedman. Friedman said he had the charisma he liked and made him a regular on the show.

He’d done a couple of good pieces on a fraud in a big mutual fund and on corruption at a major HMO. But these were stories that others had initiated and he followed up on.

He was concerned about what his next story would be. He wanted it to make a splash. He wanted to be noticed. It was his time, so it had to be good. He toyed with a few story lines but none of them really interested him. None of them really hit home. None of them were really his. And then it dropped in his lap. This new story would be his and his alone.

Early one morning, still sweating from his workout at the network’s gym, he found a short and intriguing message on his office voice mail. As he listened to the message, there was a rush of noise in the background sounding like a large truck passing by. He figured that the caller was at a highway pay phone. His caller said in a nervous, hurried and staccato voice, I seen you on that program on Friday nights. You do a good job. I like the way you do those stories. I want to tell you about an accident that wasn’t no accident. It was a big deal. A rich guy and some other people were killed. It was in all the papers. The papers, they said it was a tragic accident. But I know different. If you want to talk more, call me back at this number. He gave a phone number starting with 859, a Northern Kentucky area code. At exactly seven tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you what I know. Then the message stopped. He took a deep breath, turned up the volume on his phone and played the message again. The caller spoke so quickly that he wanted to be sure he’d gotten it all and be sure he heard it correctly. He played it again. He’d heard it correctly, all right. He played it a third time and thought who was killed? When? Who was this caller and what did he know?

He was excited. This could be the story he was looking for. This could be his story.

It was hard for Scott to discern much about the caller from the message since there was so much background noise. The accent seemed flat and mid-western and the caller’s grammar made him sound like he was working class but all of that was more of a guess than anything else.

He could barely sleep that night in anticipation of the call in the morning. He rehearsed questions he would ask until he finally drifted off to sleep after one thirty.

The next morning he called back at seven a.m. sharp. The phone was answered by the same voice with a quick Yeah. The background noise was as strong as before. It sounded like his caller was at a pay phone standing next to a major highway.

He was nervous but tried to sound calm and friendly, but businesslike, Hi, this is Mike Scott. Are you the one who left the message for me yesterday?

There was a brief pause and then a quick, Yeah, it was me.

Michael asked, What was the accident?

His caller replied, almost defensively, Look, I know some stuff about what the papers and the TV says was an accident that killed a bunch of people. But I know it wasn’t no accident.

What accident are you talking about? Who was killed?

Again a pause, as his caller took a deep breath. A pretty well known guy, a politician, his plane crashed, an accident. Or at least that’s what they said it was.

How do you know that? Asked Scott.

I was there. I do, that’s all.

Scott countered, Then how do I know that?"

The unknown caller replied, Go to the FAA or the NTSB and ask about this wing number and he spelled it out phonetically November nine hundred Hotel Tango. Then call me back here … say … next Wednesday same time. We can talk more then.

Scott tried to keep him talking, Why tell me? Why not tell the police or FBI?

They don’t want to know. I tried before. They wasn’t interested. If I try to tell them again I’m a dead man. Once I tell you, then it’s out in the open and I’m off the hook. This damn thing has been eating at me for too long so I’m telling you. With that the phone went dead.

It took Scott a few minutes to find someone at the National Transportation Safety Board who could shed light on wing number N-900HT. You know you can go to our web site and find out who owned that aircraft. It’s all there in the accident report. replied a bored Mrs. Granby.

Owned? He asked.

N900HT was owned by the Harrison-Thornton Corporation. She said.

Then it struck him. Of course, Senator Drew Harrison, before he was elected to the Senate, had been Chairman of the Board of Harrison-Thornton Corp, a big conglomerate based in Cincinnati. He was killed in a plane crash about four years ago. The plane crashed into the Atlantic about 150 miles offshore and neither it nor the bodies of the passengers were ever recovered.

Mrs. Granby confirmed that and gave him as many of the details as she had available.

Over the rest of the week, between the other story he was working on, he researched Harrison, his company and the crash so that by Wednesday he was able to speak intelligently with his anonymous informant.

On schedule Wednesday his contact answered the pay phone. In the distance he could hear what sounded like a large jet plane taking off overriding the noise of the nearby highway.

After a clipped Yeah

Michael began, StarStream III N-900HT was owned by the Harrison-Thornton Corporation. It crashed in the Atlantic with Senator Drew Harrison, his aide and a crew of three. Every one on board was presumed killed. No wreckage was ever found.

That’s it. His informant replied enthusiastically.

Michael replied, You know something about the crash?

You bet your ass I do. I was there. I know it wasn’t no accident.

Michael followed, I want to know more. When can we meet?

You can come out here. But you can’t tell nobody about this. You do and everything’s off. I’m not going to talk to nobody else about it.

Michael agreed, OK, I agree. I won’t tell anyone. But I have to tell my executive producer something; at least that I’m meeting with a confidential source. Is that OK?

He thought for a few seconds, Yeah, I guess so.

Now, where and when do I meet you?"

Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky airport, next Tuesday at seven p.m …

OK, but where and how will I know you?

His informant had thought this out and had probably seen some spy movies. He replied, I’ll know you. Wait out in front of Terminal B, Departures. Wait at the far end of the terminal. Hold a Cincinnati Reds baseball hat in your left hand. You can buy one in the shop inside the airport. I’ll be in a White GMC pick-up. Be there right at seven, OK.

Michael agreed and his informant rang off.

The next day he met Friedman for an early breakfast. They found a table in a quiet corner of the network’s cafeteria at seven a.m. He wanted to tell him as little as possible but as much as he needed to in order to get the go ahead. He took a deep breath and started. David I got a call a week or so ago. The caller tells me he knows about the death of a major figure, supposedly an accident, but in reality a murder. He seems genuine and this appears to be the real deal. I’ve scheduled a meeting with him next week. If this is genuine, and I believe it is, we have a blockbuster. I want your OK to go ahead and meet with this guy and follow up to completion.

Give me the details. Demanded Friedman, as he spread cream cheese on a bagel.

Michael paused, swallowed, and then said, That’s all I can tell you for now. I need your approval based only on that. I believe it’s for real and I believe it’s pretty big.

The hyperactive Friedman rapidly tapped his knife on the table and finally said, Michael you’re new here. You’ve got no track record yet. How do I know you’re not wasting a lot of your time and this networks money?

Michael leaned forward across the table and did his impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger saying, in his best Austrian accent, Trust me.

Friedman’s reply, as always, was direct, Fuck that.

Michael was determined. Look David, I spent a lot of time with this guy. I asked him all the right questions and he gave me the right answers. He’s afraid for his life so I’ve got to generate some trust with him or else I lose this one and so do you. He said tell no one. Actually he said don’t tell nobody. I promised that no one, not even my boss would know who he was until we had this all worked out. David, this’ll be big, I promise you.

This sounds more like something for the FBI or the police. They investigate murders. Give them the leads and you and Jeff Nelson can follow up on the story. Get an exclusive from them.

Michael leaned across the table and replied excitedly and enthusiastically, David, that’s just it, my informant went there. He told the FBI all about it. They shut him down. They wouldn’t even listen to him.

Friedman listened impassively and then said, OK go ahead but I want Jeff involved on this with you. It’ll be his deal. He’ll be the lead, you’ll back up. He’s got the necessary experience for this kind of story.

Mike thought for a second, bit his lip, shook his head and then replied, No David, this is my story and I want to see it through to completion. I know I can do it.

Friedman shook his head, No way, I want an experienced player on this. If it’s as big as you say you’ll need him on it.

Michael had thought about this eventuality and was ready. He took a deep breath and said, No David, if I can’t do this under the auspices of the network then I’ll go freelance and give you an exclusive once I’ve finished the story. Don’t pay me a thing until the story is done. Then you can put me back on the payroll if you like it. Then he paused for a second and said, Otherwise fire me.

Friedman leaned back on the wicker cafeteria chair, looked up, thought for a few seconds, shook his head partially in disgust and partially in resignation and said with a sigh, All right go ahead, do it as part of the network. But don’t be afraid to talk to Jeff for help and Michael, be careful.

After over two months of research, seemingly endless travel and a multitude of interviews and meetings he had the story outlined and he was feeling pretty good. A little more and then he’d do the on location shots and, hopefully, the on air interviews and have the story ready for prime time. He would involve the FBI as well, just not right now.

That was when it happened. That was when he got the call.

They had warned him and he took it seriously. But the story was too important to drop. He couldn’t help but think about Watergate and Woodward and Bernstein. If they’d backed down Nixon would have served out his full term. No, he wasn’t going to back down. Until he finished the story and it aired he decided to move out of his office as well as his apartment. He found a small relatively inexpensive rental near his fiance’s place and moved his files and computer there. He left his car parked in the garage in his New York City office building and rented a second hand Ford Escort. His mail went to a box at a post office box thirty miles away and was picked up by a friend. He used a throw away cell phone exclusively. He stopped going to the station. He thought that would be enough to protect him until the story broke. He figured that then they would be so busy covering their butts that they would forget about Michael Scott.

Unfortunately, he figured incorrectly.

2     

It was unusually warm that day in mid March and Tim Delaney could feel himself sweating in his new winter wool suit as he hurried down Broad Street, just south of Wall Street, in lower Manhattan. The stiff collar on his well starched white shirt chafed his neck and he still felt a bit odd in this new outfit. This was not the uniform he was used to wearing. He had gotten this new suit a size larger, since everyone had told him that him that, no matter how hard he would try, he would gain weight once he left the military.

Back at Fort Bragg, he wouldn’t stand out. There, fit men with short, close cropped hair were the norm. Here though, his six foot two inch frame, tightly mown black hair and lean body said he was different. It said he wasn’t from here. It said maybe he was an athlete or a cop or maybe he was in the military, but in any event he was different from most of the people he passed on the street.

Six years earlier his look was entirely different. It would have told any number of people in New York that he could be a cab driver, a construction worker or just someone of undetermined Middle East or Mediterranean origin. Then he had long hair and a scraggly salt and pepper beard and was commanding a Special Forces unit working along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border hunting down insurgents. His look helped him blend in. Blending in was important there. Blending in meant staying alive. But now he was back in the states and was spending too much time with politicians and generals and as a senior military officer he had to have the look of one with short hair and no facial hair.

The train he took into Manhattan from the Amtrak station across the river in New Jersey had been delayed and he was running late for his meeting with the Chairman of Mason, Stevens and Gross. MSG, as the irreverent referred to it, was the largest investment banking and brokerage firm in the city. Leonard Gross, its’ Chairman was both revered and feared for his power, skill and ruth-lessness. Concerned about being late Delaney had called Gross’s office on his mobile phone to tell him that he was unavoidably running late. Gross’s response, through an assistant, was characteristic for him, "Then tell him he’d better hurry up.

He’d been invited to apply for the job as Director of Security at MSG by his former Commanding Officer who, on retirement from the Army, had gone on the Board of Directors of MSG as well as three other companies. Tim Delaney had first met General Eric Curtis in 1991. Delaney was a newly assigned Captain, commanding the Ranger Company that would recon and mark the routes of attack for the tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles of Curtis’s Fifth Armored Cavalry during Operation Desert Storm. After the war Curtis made sure that Delaney found his way into whatever command he had.

Curtis had a headhunter contact him and arrange a series of meetings with the key people at MSG. Jeb Bergeron, MSG’s Chief Operating Officer, to whom he would report, had made him a tentative offer which was subject to having Leonard Gross give his final approval.

Mason, Stevens and Gross occupied the majority of a glass and steel structure that took up an entire city block in lower Manhattan. Leonard Gross had two offices, one on the main trading floor where he spent most afternoons when he was in the city. His formal office was on the so called executive floor, the third floor. That was where Delaney was going to meet him. One of Gross’s three executive assistants was waiting for him at the security desk when he arrived in the building. Diane Scolnick, the youngest of Gross’s assistants at forty nine, was a plump, chatty and nervously engaging woman. As they ascended the elevator to the third floor she told Delaney,

Mr. Gross is a bit unusual. He’s something of a germophobe and doesn’t like to shake hands, so don’t offer to, and if you feel you have to sneeze or cough, then … well … don’t. She said in a somewhat embarrassed way.

Delaney nodded, I understand.

She went on: You’ll notice that his office is a bit unusual as well. His desk is in the corner. There are no chairs by it so if he doesn’t get up and move to the sofa in the corner or to the conference table he means for you to stand in front of his desk and you can expect the meeting to be brief, less than five minutes, probably less than two minutes.

OK, Delaney replied slowly. He began to wonder even more about what kind of a person Gross was and what he was getting into. But he wouldn’t jump to conclusions.

They arrived on the third floor and Diane Scolnick led him down the long corridor to Gross’s office. The surroundings and the furnishings were, at best, unprepossessing. He noted that the carpet was well worn and some of the furniture didn’t match. Curtis had told him not to expect too much since Gross and the other two managing partners were, in his words, cheap. Money spent on furniture meant less money for the firm or for them. Gross occupied a corner office that Delaney assumed overlooked New York harbor, although he couldn’t be sure since heavy maroon drapes covered all the windows. She had him wait at the door as she looked into the office to make sure that Gross was ready to receive him. After almost five minutes of waiting she said: You can go in now.

Gross was sitting at his desk perusing a single piece of paper. As Delaney walked in Gross looked up and with neither a smile nor a word waved him towards the sofa in the far corner. It was in Delaney’s nature to take in the surroundings and understand his environment. It was one of the things that had kept him alive. Gross sat at a large black granite topped table desk flanked by six large computer monitors which were stacked two high and three abreast. The flickering screens kept him in touch with everything going on in the financial markets in the U.S. as well as in London, Hong Kong and Tokyo. Despite the fact that Gross was off the trading floor he could never remove himself from the markets and needed to be constantly aware of any significant move in the Dow, the dollar or the DAX. As his assistant said, there were no other chairs at his desk other than his. In the far corner was a granite topped conference table covered with papers and briefing books surrounded by eight chairs. In the near right corner was a leather sofa with two Queen Anne leather chairs and a small coffee table.

Gross got up from his desk and walked over to a chair next to the sofa. Delaney noticed that the chairs were much higher than the sofa so Gross sat, essentially, looking down at him. His feet barely touched the floor. Gross was in his late fifties, about five foot seven, thinly built with slicked back dark hair and a small mustache. He was impeccably groomed and wore a dark gray chalk stripe suit with a solid maroon tie and a stiffly starched white shirt with his initials LGG peaking out from under the left cuff. Delaney, who towered over him by over half a foot noted that his nails were polished.

As he settled into the chair he tapped the page and without preamble said: Curtis thinks pretty highly of you.

Delaney nodded saying Thank you. He’s a good man. I think pretty highly of him as well.

Gross went on Twenty or so years in the Army, rising from Private to Colonel, a whole bunch of medals and now you want to get out and make some real money in the private sector, right?

Delaney wasn’t expecting a warm and charming person in Gross since he’d done his homework with Curtis and others. He felt the beginnings of an antipathy to Gross but decided not to jump to conclusions. He calmly but forcefully replied Actually it’s been almost 26 years in total. The medals are the military’s way of giving recognition, sort of like your employee of the month or the big bonuses you get, except for a lot of them you have to get shot at. And it was Mason, Stevens and Gross who came to me, not the other way around. I’ve had enough experience that I think I can handle the job as Director of Security for your firm and I’ll do it well. Understanding your firm, I know that the money you’ll pay me I’ll earn and it will be at the market rate for the job. So if it’s a lot, it will more than be covered by what I’ll do for you or what I save you.

When he finished he thought that he had probably killed his chances for the job but figured that if obsequience was one part of the job description then he didn’t want the job.

Gross was mildly taken aback. Not too many people ever challenged him, certainly not prospective hires. He mustered a forced smile, leaned back in his chair and said, No, no I’m impressed with your background. We need somebody who’s tough and direct. And you’re right, I guarantee that whatever you make here you’ll earn. Then he added, somewhat surprisingly, I never served in the military. The Viet Nam war was winding down when I was in college and I never got drafted. I’m glad of that. You’ve served in a number of wars. You’ve got my respect.

Delaney nodded and said Thank you.

Gross went on Now Bergeron’s gone over everything else with you, right?

We’ve gone over pretty much everything but he was a little vague on the exact compensation package.

Gross looked annoyed. He should have nailed that down too. He looked down at the briefing paper. You’ll be Senior Vice President and Director of Security reporting to Bergeron. Your first year’s salary will be $350,000 with a guaranteed bonus of $350,000 and unless you screw up it’ll be a lot more than that. Plus you’ll get a signing bonus; you know to get you settled here, of $100,000. You’ll get stock grants of 100,000 shares of our stock that will vest over the next four years along with stock options as well. Today, they’re all worth about four million dollars. You OK with all that?

Delaney had little time to reflect on an offer that was about six times what he made as an Army officer, but said coolly I’ll let you know.

Gross gave him a wry smile and said You’re a good negotiator. That’s a pretty good deal. Talk to Bergeron, work it out with him. I’m OK with whatever you and he agree on. Let us know when you can start.

With that he got up, smoothed his suit, extended his hand toward the door and said Diane will show you out.

Tim walked out onto Broad Street feeling a sense of both exultation and doubt. The job sounded pretty good, the pay was outstanding and after seeing

Gross show some humanity he felt that he could work with him. However, he had spent more than half his life in the army and he would miss it a great deal. The military was more than a job, it was a calling. But he also knew it was time to move on. He realized that it would be at least six weeks, maybe more, before he could start at MSG, given the time it would take to finish up his job and take his daughter on the trip he had promised her. This was going to be the next chapter in his life.

He walked north toward where the World Trade Center had once stood. He’d never seen the remains of it despite the fact that he’d fought a war to punish those who had destroyed the twin towers and took almost three thousand lives along with the steel, concrete and glass.

He slowly made his way back up the Broad Street, cutting in and around the earnest people who made their living on the Street. At a stop light he switched his cell phone on and noted that he had a message from Carey Keating, who was the daughter of his oldest sister Mary Grace. Mary Grace Keating was eleven years older than Tim and in many ways had been a second mother to him. Her husband, Charlie, had died almost twenty years ago and had left her a widow with two young children, the oldest of whom was Carey. The message from Carey had the suffix 911 indicating it was an emergency or at least very urgent.

3     

Carey Keating, her real name was Clare, was now 30 years old and a real estate lawyer in a large New Jersey law firm. She had lived at home through college and law school and had gotten her own apartment once she started with Gilbeau and Reynolds but elected to stay in her home town of Belleview.

He found a relatively quiet spot to call her, amid the construction just East of where Five World Trade Center once stood, and got her on the second ring on her mobile phone. Thanks for calling back Uncle Tim. The reason I called is that I’m really concerned about Michael. We were supposed to go out for dinner the other night and he didn’t show up, He didn’t call either. Now I can’t get him on his phone at home or on his mobile. I’m really worried. This is not like him. I’m afraid something is wrong or maybe something has happened to him.

Delaney had met Michael Scott about six months ago at a party in New York City when he and Carey had announced their engagement. Michael had impressed him as a very likable but pretty serious and responsible young man and was pleased that Carey, who he thought of privately as his favorite among his siblings twelve children, had met someone as nice and with as bright a future as Michael.

Where are you now Carey?

She told him she was at her mother’s house since that was where she knew he was planning to go after the meeting with Leonard Gross.

OK, I’ll be there in about half an hour. Don’t worry he’s probably been sent somewhere on an assignment. He said it to reassure her but somewhere deep inside he began to share her concern. Michael Scott was pretty stable and didn’t strike him as the kind of person who would just drop out of sight.

Rather than waste time waiting for a train he decided to take a taxi. In a few minutes he was in the Holland Tunnel and on his way back to the hometown he’d left twenty six years ago.

Tim Delaney was born on January 1, 1964 in Newark, New Jersey the last of six children. His five siblings all tended to resemble their father with fair complexions, round faces and light brown or reddish blond hair. Tim, on the other hand, was the only one who took after his mother with black hair, a saturnine complexion and a long oval face with sharply defined features. His mother, whose maiden name was Costello, told him that she was descended from a Spanish sailor who was shipwrecked in Ireland after the English navy destroyed the Spanish Armada.

Not too long after he was born his parents realized the two family house they rented in Newark from Tim’s’ great-uncle was too small for their family and they bought a house in the suburbs.

Belleview, at the time, was a working class town bounded by two highways and the West Mountain Preserve. Growing up Tim thought that Belleview had more statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary per capita than any other city in the country. But it was a good place to grow up especially when you have three sisters and two brothers to pave the way for you. His father worked for the State Highway Department and his mother was the secretary for their church. His father also worked nights and weekends as a bartender so that they could afford to move up to a house with five bedrooms. His oldest sister inherited the house from their parents when they died. So it still remained the family homestead, at least for the five oldest children all of whom lived within a five mile radius. Ironic, he thought since once he left high school he had never lived closer than 230 miles from his former home.

Tim had the taxi driver take the north route into town so he could pass by the parts of town where he had grown up. Houses and stores he remembered as being big and sprawling seemed now to be small and close together.