Lost...And Found

By Joseph Cirillo

After playing in his final game of the season, Mason Johnson, six-time All Pro wide receiver with the Chicago Bears, learns that his wife, daughter, and parents have been killed in a tragic car accident. For sixteen months, Mason takes time to grieve the loss of his family, and liquidate everything he owns, including his parents immense estate. His father had been the owner of a large brokerage company in downtown Chicago, which featured several other branch offices in the Midwest.
While growing up, Mason hardly knew his parents, instead being raised by his nanny, Sylvia, who took on the role of mother, father, teacher, coach, and friend. Masons parents had been more interested in the business and social aspects of their lives, ignoring the son who was, to them, a bother.
During his final week in Chicago, after all business matters had been settled, Mason becomes privy to a letter that his father had written to him right before he died that explained the reason for his parental inadequacies: Mason had been adopted at birth, and instead of being a relished member of the family, he had only been a constant reminder of his dads inability to father children.
The letter is also a complete revelation of all the details of the adoption, giving the names of his biological parents, and relating how they had given their firstborn up when they were in their teens. Five years later, however, the couple reunited, married, and had three more children. So Mason learns not only the whereabouts of his biological parents, but that they had reunited and produced two brothers and a sister. The eldest son, Eric, died tragically in an accident while on duty with the National Guard when he was only twenty-five years old.
This is a story about Mason Johnsons search for his family, and how the revelation of his identity would ensue. But there was one twist . . . His deceased brothers wife, Erica.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467049023

Joseph Cirillo

Joe Cirillo was born in Bremen, Indiana before moving to the Indianapolis area at age five.  He currently resides in Brownsburg, Indiana, a suburb of Indianapolis, with his wife Patty and daughter Carrie.  His daughter Jenny and her husband Mike live in Zionsville, Indiana with their three children: Mikey, Lucy, and Jeb.  His other daughter, Erica, lives and works in Indianapolis. Joe spent the early years of his life pursuing sports, mostly baseball; he played for Cathedral High School and Franklin College.  After college, he began a career in finance and real estate, and currently is a real estate broker and investor.  Joe’s two passions are writing and music.  He has written many songs, specializing in the Contemporary Christian genre.  He has been active in the music ministry at Zionsville Fellowship, his home church, for most of the past eighteen years.  

Book preview

Chapter One

Douglas Mason Johnson had never liked his given name. Not that there was anything wrong with Doug; he had simply always loathed the person who gave it to him: his father, Mr. Douglas Mason Johnson, Sr., founder of Johnson and Associates, a stellar Chicago brokerage firm. As far back as he could remember, Doug, Jr. had always insisted on being called Mason, the name that he would one day make famous as a wide receiver for the Chicago Bears.

Now, Mason’s life seemed like one big blur. His parents, his wife Stephanie, and his precious daughter Melissa had all been dead for almost sixteen months. They had been riding in a car together, coming home from dinner, when the Lexus that his dad was driving was broadsided by a jeep racing northbound on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. The driver of the jeep—apparently a drug dealer being pursued by the police—died as well. Mason, playing in his final game of the season, was in Philadelphia at the time, laboring in what would presumably be his last gridiron excursion. There would be no retirement ceremony; there would be no further contact with the Bears organization. All that was left was the numbing grief that would not go away—and of course the lengthy logistical nightmare of dealing with his parents’ estate.

The name Mason Johnson was well-known in Chicago, especially among sports fans, but primarily because football players wore helmets, he was seldom recognized by the general public. Though Mason had managed to play in six Pro Bowls along the way and perform marvelously in the Bears’ Super Bowl victory three years ago, he had always shunned publicity, leaving the limelight to those who enjoyed it. And even though his father had been wealthy by anyone’s standards, the Johnson and Associates firm was well underneath the radar of entities such as Microsoft, and individuals such as Donald Trump.

For the past year and four months, Mason’s only recollections were eating, sleeping, and going to endless meetings with lawyers, accountants, and other nameless, faceless suits, seemingly to keep the now sole owner of the firm informed. It didn’t take long after the funerals themselves for Mason to confide in the one person in the organization whom he liked and trusted, Mr. Joe Quinn, Chief Financial Officer, and advise him that his desire was to liquidate every single thing that he owned. That included his home, most of his personal belongings, his parents’ Chicago residence, their home in Florida, their penthouse apartment in New York City, and of course the company itself. The few items that he wanted to hold on to, mostly involving his wife and daughter, would be kept safely in storage.

Though Joe Quinn had repeatedly advised him that the somewhat forced liquidation of all of his assets would mean an almost thirty percent reduction in fair market value, Mason couldn’t have cared less. The considerable fortune that he himself had made in football, having invested his money wisely, left little appetite for a few more zeroes on a spreadsheet. The fun of doing business had never appealed to him. What was important now was finally being able to take time to mourn the loss of his wife and daughter, whom he would never see again. As for grieving the loss of his parents? He would do his very best to allow that to happen as well.

Chapter Two

As the alarm went off at seven-thirty on Monday morning, Mason realized that this was the beginning of the last week in his home in affluent Streeterville—one that had once been filled not just with the busyness of a man, woman, and small-but-sweet cyclone, but also with smiles, kisses, and love. Sure, there were times when minds disagreed, and cute little girls had to be corrected, but for the most part, Mason, Stephanie, and Melissa Johnson had been a very real, very loving family. On Thursday, the auction company would be there to stage a liquidation of everything that had not been deemed worthy of storage. Anything remaining unsold would be given away to local charities.

Today, Mason was scheduled to meet Joe Quinn to discuss the proceeds and handling of the final phase of the sale of Johnson and Associates. The homes in Chicago, Florida, and New York had already been sold, all completely furnished, Mason’s preference again being simplicity over profit. He had no emotional connections to any family heirlooms, pictures, jewelry, or other such items that had represented nothing more than empty affluence, as opposed to family treasures. It seemed that his place, even up to the day that he graduated from college, had been to speak only when spoken to and do absolutely nothing to embarrass the family name. He had achieved his parents’ goal of becoming an ornament of success, at least in athletics. Something to talk about. Something to own.

After eating a light breakfast of yogurt, toast, frozen blueberries, and coffee, Mason went upstairs to shower and shave. For the past few months he had allowed his hair to grow beyond the normal crew cut that he had worn most of his life, and now he suddenly decided that perhaps he would allow his beard to grow as well. A new look. At least a different look. A different life.

As he prepared to leave his beautiful-but-now-cold residence, Mason glanced in the full-length mirror in the hallway, just outside the master bedroom. In it he saw a man that he supposed indeed belied his age, just as everyone had told him since the day he turned thirty. And because exercise had provided him with his only outlet and escape from dealing with tragedy, he also supposed that if push came to shove, he could step back onto the often frozen tundra of Soldier Field and do a respectable job of at least acting like a Chicago Bear. On second thought…

Mason was six-foot-three inches tall, and he remained at his playing weight: two hundred and fifteen pounds. He had thick, sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, but facial hair that appeared almost black, though it was, in fact, dark brown, a seemingly perpetual five o’clock shadow. As he remembered from one brief experiment the summer after his freshman year in college, the longer his hair grew, the lighter it appeared. Even now, had he been dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, it would have been difficult to pick him out of a group of college-aged jocks at a fraternity party.

As Mason drove away from home, he realized that he was at least an hour ahead of schedule, so he decided to treat himself to a soy mocha at Starbucks. It was a beautiful May morning in Chicago, with above-normal temperatures, so after pulling away from the drive-through window at the coffee shop, he decided to take his time on his trek to the downtown area. Finally, he pulled up to the front of the building owned by Johnson and Associates and got out of his car.

Good morning, Mr. Johnson! the man in charge of valet parking cried out.

Good morning, Steve, Mason replied.

Another meeting?

Hopefully the last, Mason said, managing a smile, but before I endure the torture, I’m going to walk across the street and enjoy the weather for a few.

Don’t blame you, Mr. Johnson. Holler if you need anything.

As Mason walked across the street, he couldn’t help but notice the evidence of life for the first time in a long while. The sun was shining, some joggers were smiling, though most were grimacing; the breeze was gentle, the air was fresh. Mason chose a bench as close to the shore of Lake Michigan that he could find. As he sipped his mocha, he reflected on his life thus far. There had never been a lack of abundance. Big beautiful homes, fine furniture, private schools, gourmet cooks, up-to-the-minute technology, and of course Sylvia, his nanny, teacher, friend, mother, and father all rolled into one. Sylvia McCormick had been a full-time employee of the Johnson family ever since Mason could remember. She was married but childless, and she remained with the family until Mason left for college. She chose that time to move with her husband to northern Indiana to begin a new career.

Through Sylvia, Mason learned about love, responsibility, hard work, compassion for others, and even sports, as she had been an accomplished softball and volleyball player in college. Sylvia majored in child psychology and had planned to pursue a career in that field, but midway through graduate school, with her new husband recently laid off, she was forced to drop out and look for work. At the time, Douglas Johnson, Sr. and his wife Sharon, newly blessed with a son, were in search of a person in Sylvia’s exact circumstances. When Sylvia first saw the ad for the job in the newspaper, she felt that it sounded somewhat demeaning, but after learning about the lucrative pay and benefit package, she investigated the opportunity, applied for the job, and was chosen first out of hundreds of applicants. One of the reasons Sylvia decided to take the job was that she herself would never be able to have children due to a skiing accident she had when she was in high school. She looked at the job with the Johnsons as the perfect means of fulfilling her own desire to nurture a child.

Parent-teacher conferences were attended by Sylvia. Baseball, football, and basketball games were attended by Sylvia. Going to the movies, doing homework, playing, doing chores—it was all Sylvia. Memories of parents were mostly of formal discussions at dinner tables, a few quick questions supposedly monitoring what had been done on a particular day, but more often of Mason looking at their backs as they strode off on another trip, another meeting, or whatever. It wasn’t that they were mean. They weren’t anything. Indifferent. Formal. Cold. Empty.

Graduation from middle school meant the prospect of four years in a private high school for the rich, where Mason’s football ability was suspect because of the lack of tested competition. The school was located in northern Wisconsin, far enough away that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson would not be disturbed by a growing teenager. Living away from Chicago during those formative years was bittersweet. The comforts of home and contact with Sylvia were gone, but new friends and a mode of privacy made life bearable.

Mason’s athletic ability began to flourish during his high school years. He was All State in football, basketball, and baseball his senior year, but because of the size of his school and the relative obscurity in which he played, colleges had not paid much attention. Not needing financial aid or a scholarship to attend college, Mason chose Michigan, where he intended to try out for the football team as a walk-on. Four years later, with two national championship rings to his credit, the tall skinny kid with the not-so-great foot speed, but the one who possessed those incredible hands, found himself on national television accepting his induction as an All-American. Several months later the Chicago Bears took a chance on the lack of speed, and chose Mason in the first round of the NFL draft. Time would prove it a wise decision.

During his successful NFL career, Mason had no further use for his mother and father. He sometimes visited during holidays, but that was mostly because Sylvia and some of his friends had been invited. It was odd not visiting his parents, even though they lived only a few miles away—but he reasoned that if he needed a stranger to talk to, he could find one on the street.

It was the summer after his seventh year in the league that Mason met Stephanie Kramer, a graduate student finishing up her master’s degree in nursing at Depaul University. He happened to be driving through Lincoln Park on a Saturday morning when he decided to stop at the Barnes and Noble bookstore on Diversey Street. He was just killing time before he had to attend a photo shoot in association with a local charity event.

Mason entered the bookstore and decided to get some coffee and read the paper for a few minutes. While in line, he couldn’t help but notice the person in front of him, an attractive girl who appeared to be in her early twenties. She had on shorts and a T-shirt, and she had sunglasses sitting on top of her head, held in place by her beautiful long brown hair. Her order was a large one, as she had apparently been elected gopher for a group of some sort. When she turned around, she lost her balance and spilled six cups of coffee all over Mason. Though she was mortified, Mason could only laugh and assure her that there was no need to fret. He followed that up by reordering what she had dropped, continuing to put her at ease with his warm smile and easygoing demeanor. Apparently her first impression of him was good, because exactly one year later to the day, they were married.

Originally, Mason did not want to tell his parents that he was getting married, but it was Stephanie and her parents who insisted that the Johnsons attend the wedding. In fact three years later, when Melissa was born, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson began to show at least a mild interest in their son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. Mason supposed that perhaps some sort of guilt was at play, but he really didn’t care. Stephanie and Melissa continued to carry on a formal-but-pleasant relationship with Mason’s parents, even all the way up until…

Chapter Three

As Mason rode the elevator to the top floor of the building, where the executive offices were located, he was actually able to feel relief, knowing that all of these business dealings would soon be over. When the elevator door opened, he could immediately sense the stares, mostly from young women, that followed his every move. Tall, handsome, single, wealthy, and perhaps nearing the end of what would be considered an acceptable time of mourning created quite a stir among the hopefuls. Selfish ambition certainly ruled most of their hearts, but there was also an element of true compassion in some of the others who wanted to comfort him from his loss. Being somewhat shy, Mason was grateful to finally reach Joe Quinn’s office at the end of the long hallway.

Come in, Mace! Joe said as Mason walked through the door. I bet you’re going to miss these meetings, huh?

Joe, after all this is over, I really don’t think I’ll know how to act. What else will there be to do?

I imagine you’ll think of something, Joe said with a smile. Have a seat.

Mason sat down opposite Joe Quinn, as he had so many times during the past sixteen months. Talk of venture capitalists, highest and best usage, corporate mergers, and offer contingencies had gone in one ear and out the other. Mason had continually insisted that he trusted Joe’s judgment implicitly and that he had no desire to get bogged down in the process of liquidating all of the assets.

Mace, I’m sure you want to go over all of the spreadsheets and details of how everything worked out, am I right? Joe said, laughing. Where do you want to start?

How about we start with the end, Mason said, laughing but actually serious.

I knew you’d say that. Bottom line, huh? Are you sure?

Mason was definitely sure. He had known Joe for many years and had found him to be a man of integrity and honor. He was the one beacon of light in this otherwise cutthroat organization. How Joe had managed to hang on for so long was a mystery yet unsolved.

As you know, Mace, Joe said, I have advised you consistently over the past year or so that you could have held out for more money—for this company, especially.

Joe, we’ve been over this. Even without my dad I have a net worth of over fifty million dollars now. How much does a person need, anyway?

Well, I don’t know how much you need, but I’ll tell you what you’re about to get. We got six million for the real estate, there was three hundred million and some change in liquid stocks, bonds, and money market accounts, another twenty-five million in life insurance, and of course the sale of this building, the company, and the ten other branches we have throughout the Midwest.

Yawn, yawn, yawn.

Maybe this will wake you up. The value of this company and the real estate was probably pretty close to four hundred million, but due to your desire to sell quickly, we’re going to go with three hundred and ten.

So, the bottom line is that I’m going to walk out of this building, including my own funds, with close to seven hundred million, give or take a few pennies.

Precisely. How do you feel about all of this?

I’m sure that at some point in time I will begin putting this money to good use, but for now I’d like you to put all but about ninety-five percent of it in tax free bonds and the rest in a money market fund. I want you to be my only point of contact in anything I do along the way. Is that all right with you? You can reinvest the interest in more bonds.

Of course, Mace. Anything you want. So what exactly are your plans, anyway?

I don’t really have any other than to get in my SUV and drive. I’m going to take a road trip to allow all of what has happened to sink in. It’s been a bit overwhelming.

Joe suddenly appeared serious and hesitant. What’s wrong, Joe? Mason asked, sensing an abrupt change in Joe’s demeanor.

Mace, there’s something that I haven’t told you about. I’m not sure it’s important, but there’s a letter here addressed to you—from your dad.

What? Why didn’t I see it sooner?

Well, I got a call yesterday from the law firm that handled the estate, and they informed me that this letter had simply fallen through the cracks. It should have been given to you right after the funeral, but it wasn’t. I think it was simply mishandled. They send their deepest apologies.

Mason appeared taken aback for a moment; he shook his head and said, Joe, I wonder if I really want to read it. Why should I? What good would it do?

I knew your dad for over thirty years, Joe said. He was a complicated man, to say the least. I know he could be hard to deal with, but over the years I actually thought I sensed a softening in his personality. Did you notice that at all?

Only a little, I guess. I think that Stephanie and Melissa got along with him okay, but I was way past that by the time they got to know him.

Understood. I do think you should read this, though.

Joe, you’ve been so good to me. I trust you completely and I consider you a friend. If I’m going to read it, how about you read it with me. Right here. Right now.

You sure?

Why not?

Okay, let me get it for you. It’s right here in my desk.

Mason and Joe got up from their chairs and walked over to a small round mini-conference table in the corner of the office. They sat down and prepared themselves as best they could. Joe looked at Mason somewhat ominously and opened the envelope.

Chapter Four

Douglas:

If you are reading this letter, it means that your mother and I have both left this world. Each year, on your birthday, I take a few moments to update the facts concerning what I am about to tell you. I have done this every year since you were born. At the time of this writing, you have just celebrated your thirty-fourth birthday. I’m somewhat sorry to say that I did not see you or join in the celebration, but that has been the norm, hasn’t it?

As you have heard stated a few times over the years, your mother and I took a long sabbatical prior to your birth. I was in town most every week to oversee business concerns, but your mother remained in Sarasota for the entire time, which was about seven months as I recall. Of course, everyone was thrilled when we finally arrived back in Chicago with our brand new baby boy.

Two years after your mother and I were married, it was determined that I was unable to father children. It was a great blow to my pride and ego because I had always had visions of keeping our family name going, as well as our business that I labored so hard to establish. We thought about artificial insemination, but I was not interested in that, nor was your mother, actually. Adoption ended up being the most logical choice.

Because of our financial resources, we were able to do extensive research and planning regarding our search for the right couple and subsequent child. We looked at health issues, breeding issues, and even physical characteristics that would match our own. It is no coincidence that you are tall and blond, as I am myself. It is no coincidence that you are a good athlete, as I once was. It is no coincidence that you have always excelled in your studies, your mother and I both having been high achievers in the classroom.

Perhaps the most glaring difference between us and you, which may have caused you some suspicion along the way, is what I am calling outlook on life. From the very beginning, your mother and I could see that you had a pleasant disposition and a mindset that seemed to put warmth and fair play above all else. Although I didn’t indicate it in earlier annual unread letters to you, this is the first time that I am acknowledging and admitting things that, quite frankly, I am at least beginning to regret. Every time I saw you, even when you were a small child, what I felt was resentment instead of love. You were and have been a constant reminder of my own inadequacies. At first your mother, in her own odd manner, tried to bond with you, but it simply wasn’t in her nature. Not so much in the beginning, but her resentment grew even more extreme than mine because she saw how fatherhood was affecting our marriage.

I suppose that most parents would have felt somewhat jealous of a person such as Sylvia, who obviously meant so much to you (and you to her). But we did not. In fact we were grateful that she was, in some twisted manner, appeasing our guilt and doing what we should have been doing ourselves along the way. Again, I am just beginning to see and understand your innocence in all of this, and I admit that my (our) behavior was wrong. There, I said it. Wrong.

As the years passed, we were pleased with your athletic and academic success, but for the wrong reasons. You were more of a conversation piece in our social world, someone to put on display. As I write this, I am fairly certain that it may take years to undo what has happened, and realistically and honestly, I don’t really feel like trying. Although you are not aware of it (but now you are, presumably), I was trying to take an interest in Melissa. Perhaps we should have adopted a little girl. Perhaps I would have come to my senses much sooner. But it was the family name and the continuing of legacies that I was most interested in. I suppose it’s been a bit of a waste.

Although you have made a lot of money playing football and investing wisely (at least I can take credit for that), as you may know by now, we have left everything we own to you. You are already a wealthy man, but now you are in an upper echelon of society that few enter. Knowing you, this position, which meant so much to me, means little to you. But it doesn’t matter. Call it a further appeasement of guilt or whatever you want. The bottom line is that everything we had is now yours to do with as you please. I suppose that I would never have looked at it this way, but I’m fairly certain that a real relationship with family would have meant far more to you than this fortune you now possess. Perhaps I will someday understand and even agree with what I am sure is your perspective concerning matters such as these.

In any event, such is the way things have been and the way things are, I suppose. Perhaps another way of appeasing our history with you, along with the money that we have given to you, is us giving you the opportunity to pursue (or not, it’s up to you), a relationship with your biological family. In many cases, adoptive parents are kept from knowing a lot of this information, but as you might imagine, large sums of money seem to somehow accomplish things that are otherwise left unknown or undone. The fact is we know everything about them. It was a precondition of our adopting you. Oddly, the arrangement called for us to know everything about them, but for them to know nothing about us. The families were simply assured by the hospital that the adoptive parents were well-off and able to provide for the baby. The arrangement, of course, was agreed to because of the larger-than-normal fee paid to the hospital, the agency, and the young couple as well, although they, along with their families refused anything beyond the medical expenses. Our insisting on remaining anonymous was our way (believe it or not) of thinking of your future. You now obviously have the opportunity to either pursue this information or not. There are no strings if you don’t want them.

It is a bit funny, I suppose, that the qualities that we were looking for in a prospective couple (beyond physical and mental health) were things that your mother and I lacked. I’m not sure we did so consciously, but that is definitely the way it all worked out. Both your mother and father were quite young when you were conceived—she sixteen and he seventeen. Both came from respectable families, though not at all wealthy. For some twisted reason, we wanted there to be religious roots in both families. Isn’t that a hoot? I have (now had, I suppose) no interest in such things, but something in the back of our minds made that a factor in our decision. Don’t ask me (well you can’t, can you?) to explain any further.

Your father’s name is David Gentry. He would be approximately fifty-one years old at this time. Your mother’s name was Ruth Aimes. Both families lived in a small town in Indiana called Jamestown, and for the most part they still do. They were well-acquainted with one another, first of all because everyone knows everyone in a small town, and especially because David and Ruth had been friends since kindergarten and had begun a dating relationship on perhaps the day Ruth turned fifteen. I suppose those were the family rules.

Both families attended church regularly at the Jamestown Christian Church, and a teenage pregnancy was quite an issue for members of the congregation, and especially the families to cope with. Abortion was never even a consideration, not by either family, and apparently the thought never entered the minds of the young couple either. Ruth would carry the child to term and give him or her up for adoption. The rest is history, so to speak.

Here’s where the story becomes somewhat more intriguing as far as you are concerned. Ruth and David broke up after all of the stress of this incident, and Ruth’s family even began attending the Methodist Church, just to stay somewhat at arm’s length from the unpleasant reminders. It’s not that there was a feud or any hard feelings. It just seemed that to some degree, out of sight may have meant at least slightly out of mind. After graduating from high school, David went to Indiana State University, and Ruth stayed at home and attended business college in Indianapolis. She commuted and lived at home with her parents.

David graduated from Indiana State with a degree in accounting, and then he came back home to find work. He was hired on by Steel Supply Corporation, located sort of out in the middle of nowhere, about ten minutes north of Jamestown. As far as I know he is still working there as some sort of administrator. The company has been huffing and puffing and sputtering during most of its thirty-year history, and the over one hundred families in Jamestown that have depended on Steel Supply for jobs have remained in perpetual anxiety as a result of the lack of stability and job security in the company.

After David had been home for six months, he began making plans to move out on his own. He chose a little apartment in town because he enjoyed his family ties and the proximity to his job. He could always venture to the big city of Indianapolis any time he wanted; it was only a thirty-minute drive up highway 74. Somehow, along the way he met up with Ruth again (it wasn’t hard to do in such a small place), and they began talking. Old flames were apparently reignited and old wounds were talked about and healed. They discovered the reason for the problem to begin with: they had fallen in love before, and the feeling had only been buried, not destroyed.

I believe that David was twenty-three and Ruth twenty-two when they were married. Two years later they had another child: Eric. He would be around twenty-seven years old now, but he was killed in a freak accident while he was on a weekend drill with the National Guard. He was only twenty-five years old, and he has a surviving wife and son. David and Ruth had two more children, a daughter named Beth and a son, Jim. Your younger brother is in high school, but I’m not sure of his exact age. Beth is twenty-four and she is the only family member that flew the coop. She is married and lives in Fort Meyers, Florida. Her husband was transferred there shortly after they were married; I’m not sure if they have children.

That is as much as I know. I’m certain you are surprised if not in shock at what you have read herein. You have an entire one hundred percent biological family out there—and they are only three hours away. I’ll leave you (well, I’ve already done that, haven’t I?) to handle this as you see fit. You have been a good son and a good man. I know I failed you miserably, and for that reason I can only sign this letter:

Douglas Mason Johnson, Sr.

P.S. Your parents’ address has been the same for twenty years now: 211 S. High Street, Jamestown, Indiana 46147.

Chapter Five

Early Saturday morning, as Mason drove south on Highway 90 out of Chicago, he saw the top of the Sears building in his rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure when he would see it again, but he wasn’t concerned. Life seemed surreal at the moment, all duties and responsibilities in the Windy City having come to an end. It was hard to believe that the sum total of his existence was in the back of his Ford Explorer, and of course in a very large brokerage account at Johnson and Associates. A trunk full of clothes, his golf clubs, and a Taylor acoustic guitar seemed even less than a fraction of what was supposed to make up a person’s history, his life.

After their meeting, Mason and Joe Quinn had simply sat there staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. There hadn’t been a lot to say to his friend and advisor after learning the shocking news of his origins.