The Favored: None

By Jan Richmond

Investigative reporter Jason Banning and his fian'ce Carrie James receive a chilly reception when they arrive in the small rural community of Hittleton. They are assigned to get a supplement story on sons of the heartland, the direct decendants of the original settlers. Soon they uncover a number of clues that lead them to evidence of a very cold case murder. The suspense builds when Carrie gets wounded in a suspecious hunting accident. The akward riddles of Ellie, a backward daughter of one of the pillar's of the community are all Jason has to go on until he discovers a mysterious meteorite on Vernon Hittle's property.Thereafter, Jason will stop at nothing until he reveals the ultimate secret about the patriarchs of Hittlton who are it seems miraculously fortunate in their ancestory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450200486

Jan Richmond

Jan Richmond earned a master’s degree in history education from the University of Illinois– Urbana-Champaign. He is a retired history instructor, Vietnam veteran, and pilot. Richmond lives in Florida. This is his sixth book.

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Copyright © 2009 by Jan Richmond

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0047-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0048-6 (ebook)

iUniverse rev. date: 1/06/2010

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Epilogue

Introduction

THE MORNING DAWNED COLD AND raw in the Pottawatomie hunting grounds. Three braves crouched around their campfire chipping arrowheads for the day’s hunt, a prime location at the bottom of a ravine where two creeks joined. They chipped arrowheads for the day’s excursion where a leaden sky would leave no shadows to warn unsuspecting prey.

They spoke quietly, making plans and anticipating a good hunt.

Suddenly, the sky lit up as a meteor shower roared through the atmosphere. In seconds, a fireball the size of a hilltop ripped through the sky brighter than any dawn. Traveling at seven miles per second, gases trapped inside the meteor exploded under the extreme pressure, blasting pieces in every direction. A large chunk struck the woods over a mile away, the tremendous blast felling trees in a blazing circle.

The stunned braves immediately felt intense heat singe their skin. Leaping forward, they instinctively dove into the frigid creek. Trembling as an uncertain future filled their minds, they inched up through the murky water and stared skyward, aware the steep embankment had spared their lives. Shivering in the frigid water that was up to their necks, they watched in awe as the sky above seemed to catch fire.

Unable any longer to take the chilling water, they cautiously emerged from the creek. Deafened by the explosion, bewildered, yet curious, they crawled on their bellies up the steep embankment to gain a look over the land. A hundred feet further, they reached the precipice. Peering out over the top, they saw the flattened, blazing woods with a seething red meteorite in the center, still smoldering. As far as the eye could see, they witnessed nothing but desolation.

A great fire blocked their path homeward. Forced to walk around the burning woods, they would live to tell their tale to the medicine man of their village. All in the village had seen the burning sky and heard the cataclysmic explosion. The medicine man would listen intently as the braves recounted what they had experienced. After hearing the braves’ words, medicine man asked if they would take him to where the meteor had struck. Only one brave agreed to do so the following day.

When the two Indians appeared on the ridge the next day and overlooked the smoldering woods, they smelled death, a final death, something never before seen or even talked about in past history by any in their tribe.

Saddened by the loss of animals in the woods between the creeks, the medicine man fell to his knees. He lifted his face and bison-horned staff to the sky, making incantations and wailing in grief.

Later, he told their chief, evil sky spirits struck the woods, leaving a curse forever on the land.

The wise chief forbade his people ever again to enter the woods in that direction, even the most fearless of the tribe’s braves forbade to ever hunt there again.

.. .Hundreds of years passed and, eventually, settlers appeared on the Illinois prairie. They pushed the proud Pottawatomie further westward, clearing land as they went, forever altering the environment. Claims abounded, and land sold quickly. Eventually, a small band of pioneers found use for the meteorite in the woods. They cleaved it into stones for barn foundations and other uses, unaware of its curse. Instead, they came to look upon themselves as God’s Favored…

Prologue

PREVENTED FROM SCREAMING BY A hard hand suddenly clasping over her mouth, Ellie tried to wiggle free but Jacob held fast, preventing her from running toward the men.

Alec quickly thrust his hand over his head to block John’s attack but the force of the hickory staff slamming hard to his arm broke his wrist.

Job left his staff in the wagon but already had the best of Calvin, who was unarmed and drunk. Falling backwards under Job’s blows, Calvin lay writhing on the ground as Job began kicking him repeatedly in the face. Reaching up blindly, Calvin managed to grab Job’s pant leg hanging on pathetically, but Job continued to finish him off.

Vernon raised his staff against Mather and the pointed end came down with full force, the bison horn on the staff sinking deep into his skull. Jacob held Ellie tighter, muffling her scream then she went limp in his arms.

Mather staggered for a brief moment, eyes wide in shock, and then his legs gave out. Vernon quickly placed his foot on Mather’s neck and pulled the horn free. John quickly finished Alec as he swung the point of his staff into Alec’s left ear.

It was over in seconds.

Vernon and John gasped for breath, propping themselves up with their staffs. Job fell to his knees vomiting. Vernon’s eyes narrowed, watching his brother retching on the ground. The sight filled him with revulsion.

Get up, Job, you sniveling sod! Get up and fetch the wagon! Now!

Job rose, sobbing and wiping blood from his eyes as he stared in horror at the dead men sprawled on the blood soaked grass. Alec, Calvin and Mather Cardwell were no more.

Job cried, My God! What have we done here?

1

PUSHING BACK HIS SANDY BROWN hair, Jason Banning stared at the wall behind his computer screen as he always did when preoccupied with something annoying. Without looking but always cognizant of the exact location on his desk, he reached for his Dunkin Donuts stylized coffee mug. No office brew for this reporter—-just won’t do, he said to himself. Among an assortment of partially consumed gourmet coffee in various mugs littering his desk, he eyed the cream and sugar, items not withstanding his scrutiny. This was his fourth cup before ten that morning.

He was as exasperated as any investigative reporter could be over something so seemingly trivial. Focusing on the screen, he couldn’t seem to make the right words appear. This particular bout with writer’s angst had dogged him since seven. He promised his editor, the venerable Jake Edwards of the Chicago Daily Times, his copy would be on his desk by noon. Fat chance.

Lately, that kind of promise belied more fiction than fact. The Night Beat column he had successfully rendered the past five years was not currently alive and well. Once again, he pushed his hair back thinking to himself, Come on, Jas. This can’t be happening. You’re not drying up already. You’re only thirty-two. You just have to reinvent yourself, that’s all. Hell, Madonna does it all the time. I know there’s no Pulitzer stalking my shelf but, hey, didn’t I win the Best Writer of the Year award back-to-back? This just cant be happening to me.

A feminine hand on his shoulder snapped him out of some well-deserved self-denial. It was Terry the Intern, all around gofer, office supply person and his personal link to Dunkin Donuts. She smiled sweetly as he returned to reality.

Jas, the boss says he’d like to talk with you, she winked, that is, if you can tear yourself away right now.

Jason thought, "Oh great, how good can this be?"

An unscheduled visit to Jake Edward’s office could mean many things, most of them not good. Over the years, Jake had earned a reputation as a hard-boiled editor with a short fuse to match. At times, some regarded him as a father figure, though usually only at the office Christmas party. For the rest of the year, it was open season, for past-deadline reporters. He would just as soon bite their heads off like lil’ yellow peeps in an Easter box. Of course, he did have his better days when he actually approached being normal. Unfortunately, for Jason, this wasn’t one of Edward’s better days.

Jason stepped into the men’s room on the twelfth floor to freshen up before meeting Jake. He regarded himself in the mirror before leaving.

Remember, stay cool, stay cool. You can negotiate anything.

He caught the elevator to the thirteenth floor, prepared to beard the lion in his den.

Mustn’t arrive out of breath, he told himself.

Just outside the door, he took a deep breath and entered briskly. Mr. Edward’s secretary inspected him, and then shared her usual banter, directing him to a chair in the one-size-fits-hell waiting room. Eventually, Jake appeared in the doorway gesturing broadly, cigar in hand.

Do come in, Jason. You are the man I wanted to see. Sit down. This won’t take long. I understand you’re working on a deadline. Of course I’m working on a deadline… I work here don’t I?

Jason winced, settling slowly into a plush leather chair opposite his desk. He tried making his six-foot frame appear inconspicuous.

Jake was an old school newspaperman. He had seen his share of deadlines come and go. Now in his sixties, he was indisputably in charge, with gray hair to prove it and he could still hold that steady gaze as if he had blue steel forged in his eyes. With a look, he could mesmerize a younger man, riveting him to silence if he chose. When he trained those eyes on you, it was as if he could read your thoughts. He wasn’t the oldest newspaperman in the business, though some swore he had a touch of Ben Franklin’s ink running in his veins. He could be both fatherly and tough yet no one ever accused him of being unfair.

Now, Jason, I imagine you’re wondering why I called you in here this morning.

Jason started to speak then noticed Jake was just getting started.

I asked you here to take on an assignment for me. It should only take you a few weeks.

Jason’s mind went racing ahead as he thought to himself, Am I being replaced that fast? It’s always an assignment first. Then when you get back, wham! You’re canned.

Jake noted a look of apprehension on Jason’s face and instinctively began clarifying his point. You see, Jas, I’ve noticed changes in your column lately, and I think what might be needed is a change of scenery for you, to rejuvenate things sort of.

What sort of change did you have in mind, Jake?

"Well, I’ll get right to the point, Jason. Your work has been slipping a bit lately. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Hell, it’s my job to notice. Some of the stuff you’re coming up with lately. Well, to be perfectly frank, it’s stale, maybe a bit less than stale.

Before Jason could respond, Jake continued.

I’ve seen this happen a lot of times, you know. I just think you’re getting a bit jaded, that’s all. How long have you been on this Chicago night beat now, five years? All I’m saying is maybe you need a change of pace. Perhaps you’ve seen too much. I don’t know. I just hate to see your work suffer. So I’m thinking a change of scenery might be the best thing for you.

Jason thought to himself, Oh, no, now it’s the change of scenery speech.

Don’t look so worried, Jason. I have something in mind that should get you back on track. Then when you return, who knows? Maybe you’ll have a look about yourself, that all was for the best, and see you won’t mind a few changes after all.

Never at a loss for words, Jake pressed on, pacing the floor as he spoke, waving his cigar in the air for emphasis.

Now here’s what I want you to do. I want you to write me a few Sunday supplement layouts on people of the Midwest heartland. You can start right here in good ol’ Illinois. I want you to do some background stories on ancestors of the pioneers that settled this great state. You see, Jason, Chicago may be the big city. But hell, Illinois is a big state. I want you to get into the hinterlands and find me some of that ‘Americana stuff.’ You know, yeoman of the heartland, rugged individuals with that old pioneering spirit, that sort of thing.

Jason questioned, Does that ‘sort of thing’ really exist anymore?

Jake retorted confidently, Sure, and take a photographer; get lots of pictures of the countryside, barns, fields too, get it?

Jason’s countenance brightened somewhat. Realizing even a poor negotiator comes away with something, so he countered. I know just the photographer. I’m pretty sure I can get her for the right price too.

Jake spun in his tracks with that look in his eye.

Now, Jason, that photographer wouldn’t just happen to be a free lancer by the name of Carrie James would it?

Jake you know you’d be getting your money’s worth, even if she is my fiancée. If you let me take her on this assignment, I’ll even use my own car.

Jake stood motionless, his back toward Jason, thinking things through as he surveyed the hazy Chicago skyline.

Alright, Jason, I might regret this, but go ahead. Just remember, you’ll get expenses paid for three weeks to start. If I like what I’m seeing, anything beyond that will require my personal approval. I want the entire layout wrapped up, and on my desk before the forth of July weekend, understand? Now get going before I change my mind about Carrie.

Jason got back just in time to see Terry cleaning up around his desk. He knew she had a crush on him ever since she came to work for the paper. He tried discouraging it, but she was one energetic college kid, bent on landing a staff position someday. She envisioned working with a certain, blue-eyed investigative reporter. Of course, Jason had other plans. He scarcely thought of her as more than a source of fresh coffee.

"Don’t bother cleaning up. I’m leaving my stuff for the next great reporter that occupies this desk. Terry held her hand to her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief.

You didn’t get…oh, my gosh, did Mr. Edwards fire you?

No, nothing that drastic, I’m just being banished to the hinterlands for three weeks.

Terry’s confused look begged an explanation. When he gave her the scoop, she felt let down.

Then I guess you won’t be needing coffee anymore.

That’s right, Terry. I’m afraid I’ll have to get by without you for awhile.

I hope I’ll still be here when you get back. Maybe you can show me your story?

Sure, no problem kid, you stay outta traffic now. I’ll see you in a few weeks.

Terry’s eyes followed his lanky frame out the door with a forlorn look. Jason bolted down the stairs to the parking lot, as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.

He thought, Hell it could be a lot worse. I’m not fired yet. Maybe I really could use a change of scenery after all. I could turn this thing around and make it my second chance. Besides, with Carrie along, it might even be fun.

Several floors down, he reached the highlight of his day as he entered the parking level where his pride and joy waited. The space marked, Jason Banning—Journalist, bordered one beautiful Mustang muscle car. Everything about it was special. Back in the day, some called it a funny car. There was nothing funny about its appearance though. It was hot, from the twelve coats of dark metallic green, to the American Racing Equipment magnesium alloy wheels. The hood pins kept the lid on 429 CIs, deep cylinder head, blue printed, ported and relieved V-8, with Holly Duo-Flow carburetion, and full race cam. Its black leather interior complimented fully chromed racing instrumentation. A competition chromed four-speed push-button gear-shaft, hooked up to a Plymouth torque-flight 318 police transmission with no clutches or governors, which made it a so-called funny car. At the top of the gear-shaft, four, square buttons were marked, one, two, three, and DR. Another button marked R, was inside a red guard, which prevented an accidental engagement of reverse. Everything about this car screamed power and speed.

He called it his, green bear. It was a gift on his twenty-first birthday from his Dad. His father originally owned the ‘67 Shelby GT 500 fastback Mustang and after returning from his second tour in Viet Nam had lost interest in the car. So it remained locked in a shed for years. Sometimes his father would look in on it, starting the engine and checking the tires. On those occasions, he would allow young Jason to sit in it. Sometimes he would reverently clean the upholstery dreaming of the day when ownership would arrive.

Jason loved hearing the throaty reverberation of the powerful engine echoing off the parking lot walls as he guided the beast to street level. Clearing his way at the lot exit, he gunned the powerful car, choosing his spot in traffic effortlessly.

Picking up his cell phone, he speed-dialed Carrie’s number. She answered on the first ring. Carrie James was a thirty-year-old petite package of perkiness. Jason took great pride in the fact that she was on her way to becoming an award winning free-lance photojournalist. An older journalist Jason knew once described her as a real live crackerjack, and pretty, as hell would have it. Her five-four frame topped out with long Strawberry blonde hair. At times when Jason felt she was being difficult, he would jokingly call her his Strawberry bitch. In reality, her disposition was sweet, and she possessed boundless energy. She had just returned from a grueling junket in Tanzania, where she captured the best and worst of a failed revolution on film. She held the phone closer realizing it was Jason.

She answered excitedly, Hi, mister reporter man, how are you? And where are you?

I’m just turning off Rush Street, near The Burghoff. I thought I might drop by this evening. I have a surprise for you

Is that surprise with a big S, or a small one?

Oh, I don’t know. I’ll let you decide. How would you like me to grill some steaks by the pool?

Sounds great only how come you’re off? I thought you had to work tonight?

Normally, yes, but that’s part of my surprise.

Jason had met Carrie three years earlier. She asked to come along on his Chicago night beat to photograph the drug scene in a rough part of town. Jason insisted on bringing his car. She was impressed with the ride. She was even more impressed when its speed got them out of trouble. They got a little too close to some hophead crack dealers in the midst of a turf dispute. That night Jason’s quick car spared them from a hail of bullets. Since that, harrowing night, they saw each other more often. An engagement soon followed, though no date was set. They mutually agreed they would know when the time was right.

How ‘bout I get some nice steaks at Smitty’s and meet you there around seven? Does that sound about right?

Sure, sounds good to me, Jas. I’ll chill some Merlot.

Great, see you then—bye. Jason redialed his phone. Robert Evans picked up.

Hello, sports desk—

Robert, Jas here… How’s it going with you?

Pretty good, ol’ buddy, I’m just trying to keep the fans happy.

Robert wrote for Chicago Sports Scene, magazine for the past five years. He and Jason had attended the University of Illinois, Chicago together, majoring in journalism. Now with a wife and two kids, he lived the life of a suburban Philistine in Schaumberg. There he spent Saturday’s chasing the little white ball. Otherwise, his life revolved around family, fans, and Chicago sports—Cubs, Bears and Bulls in that order. Thus his life and profession meshed perfectly between practice and passion.

What can I do for you on this fine spring day, Jas?

Was wonderin’, would you like to join me for lunch? I want to get your opinion on something.

If it’s about marriage, you’re too late. I’m told I already have an opinion on that.

Very funny wise guy. Actually, I was going to ask you about an assignment I agreed to take for the paper.

If it’s legal, pays well, and if you don’t mind the work, take it, Jas. What more can I say?

No, really, Robert, I would appreciate your input on this one. Don’t worry, I’ll buy.

"Now we’re getting somewhere! Are you picking the place too?

"Why not meet me at Donatello’s so you won’t have to find a parking spot?"

Sure, what time’s good for you?

Let’s say…twelve thirty, alright?

See you there buddy, bye.

Later that afternoon, Jason sat at the bar in Donatello’s, down the block from Robert’s office. He ordered a beer then studied the lunch traffic streaming past the large plate glass window. Donatello’s, true to its name, offered excellent Italian food. More importantly, they provided booths where one could dine in relative privacy. Today, Jason preferred privacy. Robert made it on time joining him at the bar. There were already several of Robert’s colleagues seated there since this was the main watering hole of his magazine’s staff.

I took the liberty of ordering your drink, a double Dewar’s and ice, right?

You got it, buddy, thanks. Robert started to sit down.

If you don’t mind why don’t we take our drinks to that booth over there?

Robert raised his eyebrows anticipating a serious discussion was about to ensue. Taking his drink from the bar, he raised his glass acknowledging his co-workers then retired toward the booth.

Now, what’s this all about? Are you in some sort of a quandary?

No, nothing like that. I was just wondering what you would say if your boss told you that you needed a change of scenery.

Is that what this assignment is about? He thinks you need a change of scenery?

Jason looked a bit glum, "He also said he thought my column was getting stale, that maybe I was getting jaded."

Wow, sounds pretty serious. So what’s this assignment all about?

He wants me to go into the countryside, and interview people about their pioneer roots. He also wants a Sunday supplement photo layout. It’s supposed to be a story about, people of the heartland, and how their ancestors settled the Prairie. You know, sort of a human interest story with pictures.

This is worse than I thought. How long do you have to finish it?

Jason looked down absent-mindedly peeling the label from his beer bottle.

He’s given me until the fourth of July weekend.

That’s a bit tough, buddy. Robert took a long sympathetic sip from his drink.

Yeah, well, at least I got him to agree to let me take Carrie along to do the photo layout.

That’s not so bad. Maybe you two can make sort of vacation out of it before you come back to… Robert stopped short.

It’s okay. I know what you’re thinking. This is the kiss of death, right? The last story before I get the axe? Well, you know what; if that’s the case, then I’m not going without a fight. If he wants Americana and apple pie, I’ll give it to him alamode! He’ll get the best damn Uncle Sam ‘all the doo-da-day’ article he’s ever seen. When I’m through with this story he’ll be begging me to do another series.

That’s the spirit ol’ buddy, I’ll drink to that. The server appeared on cue.

I’ll have another double Dewar’s on ice, and my friend will have a Bud Lite, please. I’m also thinking I’ll have a pepperoni calzone. What are you having, Jas?

I’ll have the ante pasta salad please.

Robert sought to ease the pain suggesting perhaps his boss was only getting him ready to shift gears into another area of writing when he got back.

Jason replied, Sure and this is the year the Cubs are supposed to win the series too.

Look, Jas, why don’t you play golf with me tomorrow? It’ll take your mind off your troubles. I guarantee it. I have a tee time for eight-thirty.

Alright, I guess so. I might as well get used to vacationing. Lifting his beer, he managed a weak smile. Robert hurried through the rest of the meal, leaving Jason with the bill and condolences.

Jason took the long way home, preferring to listen to his Mustang purr down the interstate. In the spring, the green bear was his first choice. He kept another car for snow days. However, on a clear day, you’d find him behind the wheel of his green bear. He headed for the meat market on the side of town where he grew up. It was in an old part of town. Driving along, he lamented the steady passing of other family businesses like Smitty’s Meat Market. For as long as he could remember, he and his father would go there together to pick out the finest cuts of Black Angus tenderloin for special holidays like the fourth of July.

Now, it was just he, since his father passed. His mother moved away to live with his sister in Seattle. Carrie was alone in the big city too, except for him. They had each other and their ambitions. That was enough for now.

Pulling in front of Smitty’s, he saw a familiar site up the street. Kids still played ball across the street in the old park. Watching for a moment, he reminisced about the thrill of hitting the ball over the fence of the little park that seemed so big at the time. He shook his head slowly whispering to himself, Holy cow, there it goes!

As he walked into the market, the scent of moist sawdust on the floor brought back a flood of memories. There in the immaculate white and black enamel cooler all the prime cuts waited on their trays. Laid out on their individual green waxed paper, each bright red cut held the promise of a succulent sizzling savor in them. Suddenly he felt a slight twinge of excitement, like when he was a kid. His dad would always let him pick out his own steak. Ol’ Smitty was gone now, but his son had taken his place behind the counter. He stood there patiently in his blood-smeared apron. Despite his garb, his hands were always clean, his apron, standing out like a badge of an honorable