The Three Keys

By Don Ackermann

There comes a pivotal moment in everyones life when his mettle is truly tested and he discovers who he really is. The Three Keys tells the inspiring story of a highly principled man torn apart when two irreconcilable worlds collide. Faced with his wifes affair and embroiled in a bitter court battle involving a land dispute with a powerful and unscrupulous builder a dispute fraught with bribes, ominous threats, and mysterious phone calls surveyor James Schroeder suddenly finds himself locked in a desperate fight to save his marriage and his family. And all he has to do to win is compromise his convictions. This puts him in a difficult position as he prepares to testify: Does his honor mean so much to him that he's willing to risk losing all that he holds dear?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781456747213

Book preview

© 2012, 2014 Donald R. Ackermann. All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4720-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4722-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4721-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011902839

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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.

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

This story is dedicated to all who hold steadfast

to their convictions, no matter the burden,

no matter the pain, no matter the cost.

Author’s Note

It should be understood that any resemblance of characters in this story to real people, either living or dead, is purely coincidental. The same holds true for any places or events depicted herein. While the events that do take place in this story are plausible and, no doubt, have happened in various peoples’ lives, herein they are fictitious. The only exceptions to this rule are many of the events surrounding land surveying and the land dispute. Here the author has relied upon real life experiences as a surveyor. But come. Somewhere within the pages of this story you will find yourself. And for those of you who long for the goodness of mankind to prevail in this ever-turbulent world, I will take you on the inspiring journey of one man’s self-discovery and the vindication of all he believes in.

CHAPTER 1

What’s happening to me? What am I doing here? God? I need you. Are you there? Please help me before I go out of my mind!

Jim’s cry floated out across the still pond like an unseen spirit, weakened, and died. There was no answer from God. Jim pounded his head several times with the heel of his hand, trying to dislodge the tormenting image.

I know I did some bad things when I was young and single. Is this my punishment? he asked. But I never hurt anyone, God. And I thought I was a good father, a good husband. Where did I go wrong?

Lost in meditation, as he was prone to be lately, Jim sat on the trunk of a fallen hemlock at the edge of Old Mill Pond not far from his home in Chatham, New Jersey.

How could Leslie betray him and still claim to love him? Damn! He didn’t know if he had it in him to forgive her. The only woman he had ever loved just threw away everything he believed in.

Seized by desperation, Jim fought an overwhelming fear that penetrated him to the bone. Could he still save his marriage, his family—his whole life?

His fishing rod lay unused on the ground, his favorite method of unwinding having failed him. Fed up, he packed his gear and trudged back through the woods to his car, head down, staring at the passing ground. He threw things into the trunk and slammed it shut. He’d like to slam it on that bastard’s head. And how about Leslie? No. He had never hit a woman and wasn’t about to start. He slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and took off.

Halfway home, he passed a familiar strip mall. Why not? Jim thought. He turned the car around, pulled into the mall, and parked so that he could see most of the cars, as well as those entering. He settled down, watching, waiting to catch a couple complete a prearranged, secretive rendezvous from which they would go off in one car to a local motel. Like a spider lying in wait, eying its prey, Jim had become obsessed with this type of surveillance lately. He didn’t like doing it, yet couldn’t help himself and wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because that was how Leslie and her lover used to do it. He found it all so disturbing, so demoralizing. He wanted to stop these couples from hurting their loved ones—the way he had been hurt—but how? Go up and talk with them? Reason with them? Jim was certain that even if he had the nerve to do so, they would just get angry and tell him to mind his own business. And they would be right.

While Jim sat watching, he thought of the happier moments of his life. He found himself longing for the quiet, the stability, the security of Willow Creek, a small village in Pennsylvania Dutch country where he grew up. Life had been so different there, more sensible, more sane. Why did he ever move to New Jersey with its decaying metropolitan morals, which Jim held at least partially responsible for Leslie’s going astray?

His parents, of German stock, God-fearing, steadfast, and uncompromising, always knew exactly where they stood. They knew the right and wrong of things, the purpose of life, exactly where they were going. At one time Jim could have said the same about his own life, but Leslie had undone all that.

Filled with all the bright-eyed enthusiasm and confidence that came with being young and in his prime, Emmerson James Schroeder Jr. had left his parents’ small farm at age eighteen. He wanted to be where all the action was, find the right woman, raise a family, make a lot of money, and retire early, a dream born twenty-eight years ago in 1970.

Jim checked his watch. A half hour had already passed. The thought of what he was doing weighed so heavily on him he could bear it no longer. Oh, man, there’s something wrong with me. He left.

Jim pulled into the drive of his sprawling, four-bedroom ranch with its stylishly modern roof. The grounds were dotted with formal foundation plantings, gardens, oaks and maples, all planned and planted by Jim, gardening being one of his favorite hobbies. He sat for a moment in his Buick LeSabre, contemplating what it would be like if he were forced to live elsewhere should his marriage end in divorce.

How did it come to this?

Jim shook his head with disgust as he parked in the two-car garage. He entered the house through the kitchen and headed for the master bedroom, where he emptied the pockets of his snug jeans onto his bureau. Samson, his faithful red setter, came running, his long tail swishing about wildly. Jim knelt down and gave the dog’s lustrous coat a good ruffling, then hugged him.

How’re you doing, boy?

You’re home early, he heard Leslie call from the family room.

He joined her. Wayne’s a good surveyor and quite capable of taking care of things. He’d better be if he’s going to succeed me someday. And he will, if he sticks with the company. I’ve trained him well. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and his own license now.

Let’s hope so. Leslie sipped her coffee then puffed on her cigarette while shifting her shapely legs on the cushioned hassock. Sunbeams broke through curtains, swaying in a gentle breeze, accentuating the faint freckles on Leslie’s high cheekbones. Her hazel eyes studied Jim.

How about you? asked Jim, sighing as he plopped down in the armchair opposite the sofa Leslie relaxed in. You’re home early too.

The open house worked. I finally sold that old split-level. I figured that was enough for one day. This puts me in the lead for the most sales in the office, you know. Isn’t that great?

That’s important to you, isn’t it?

Why not? It gets me some recognition, to say nothing about more money.

Yes, of course. And you’ve certainly earned it. You’re very good at your job. Jim caught his wife about to say something more, only to clam up. What?

Look. I might as well tell you that I called the office to see if we were going out to eat tonight. Leslie pursed her lips as she waited for a reaction.

Ye-a-ah? Jim said, his farm boy upbringing spilling over into his speech, as it did at times.

They said you left around eleven and told them you weren’t feeling well and going home. Here it is three o’clock.

I had some thinking to do.

Again?

Yes, again, damn it!

They stared at each other. Then Leslie looked down at her coffee. I know I’ve hurt you terribly. I didn’t mean to. But when are you going to get over it, Jim? she said, her voice plaintive yet demanding. It’s been almost four months now.

How the hell should I know, Leslie? Give me a break, will ya? God, is there some sort of time limit for this kind of thing? You know like … Jim shrugged, "six months for the loss of your mom, one year for losing your son or daughter? Does one ever get over being seriously hurt? He shrugged again. I just don’t know. I certainly want to get over it. You think I enjoy feeling pain like this?"

Don’t be too hard on her, Jim. She’s trying. I know. I don’t want to be, but can’t she be more understanding?

Leslie flinched with guilt at the word pain and sighed. Do you think you could ever love me again? she asked, exasperated.

Who says I’ve stopped loving you? Jim looked off into space, his voice dropping. Maybe it would be a lot easier if I didn’t. He returned his gaze to Leslie. But if I didn’t love you—and the kids—we wouldn’t be sitting here still trying.

But you can’t forgive and forget, can you?

Those are two different things. I think I’m quite capable of forgiving. It’s what God would want me to do, if I expect him to forgive all the lousy things I’ve done. But forgetting is another story. I don’t want to remember—it hurts too much. Maybe you didn’t mean to, but it’s all up here. Jim tapped his temple. I thought you were going to take it easy on her? He sighed heavily. Give me time … please. If not for my sake, for the sake of the kids. You know they wouldn’t want us to break up.

Don’t you think I know that? Leslie snapped. But maybe it would be best if we did get divorced. It’s not too late for you to make a new life for yourself. She brushed her long hair back over her shoulders.

I don’t know if I would want to make a new life, said Jim in a languid monotone, again staring blankly into space. Hell, this is getting us nowhere—as usual.

Well, what do you want me to do, Jim? I said I’m sorry, and I still love you.

"I don’t know, Leslie! Even before him you seemed distant. Now it’s worse. You have to show me. Help me see what was once there. Jim rose. You say you still love me, but I don’t feel your love like I used to … Jim fumbled for the words. Ah-h, I’m so confused. Maybe it’s me. He sighed heavily again. I’m going to take a hot shower—maybe get a little drunk."

I love you … Jim. Her voice faded as he reached the doorway.

Jim stopped and turned. And I love you … hon. I really do.

Leslie sat there, watching Jim walk away, a tear trickling down her cheek.

CHAPTER 2

As Derek seized Joe in a bear hug from behind and threw him in the pool, Jim felt a swell of pride at how good looking his son had become. At twenty years of age, he was nearly six feet tall and well built, with blue eyes and short-cropped, curly, auburn hair, like his father. He was the kind of young man any woman would have difficulty keeping her eyes off.

Smoke rose from the monstrous outdoor grill, tended by Angelo, Jim’s neighbor and friend, as water splashed from the huge pool. Derek made the most of being home from school, doing well over a hundred laps in his neighbor’s pool every day. So did Joseph DeSantis, a trim twenty-year-old and Derek’s best friend, who had become Lisa’s boyfriend after Derek introduced them. Derek hadn’t brought a girl to today’s affair, but that didn’t stop him from doing his best to look sexy. Both he and Joe belonged to the college swim team and wore their thin, tight, brief-type team swim trunks, which left little to the imagination. But this is how it is when you’re young, thought Jim, relaxing on a chaise longue as he watched them clown around. Jim’s daughter, Lisa, was no different, wearing a revealing two-piece bikini that showed off her beautiful body. Joe couldn’t take his eyes off her, nor she her eyes off him. That didn’t bother Jim; it was to be expected. It didn’t even surprise Jim to see Gina, Angelo’s wife, eyeing Joe and Derek in their Speedos. He chuckled lightly.

It was early June and the first of many pool parties—if previous summers were any indication—by Angelo Carlucci. Angelo, at fifty-one, was a little older than Jim and a little more out of shape. He owned a very popular supper club in Chatham. Along with his jet-black hair and eyes, constant five-o’clock shadow, dark suits, and raspy voice, he had about the foulest mouth Jim had ever heard—the word fuck peppered throughout his speech—but not around women, a trait that somewhat redeemed him. In spite of this, Angelo projected the image of a reputable businessman. Jim considered him dependable and honest.

Gina, forty-eight years old and still attractive and provocative in her own right, wandered over to Jim.

That’s a good-looking boy you have there, Jim. And look at Lisa.

Yeah, they’re all grown up now, aren’t they?

Can I get you something?

Nah. I’m okay, Gina. I think I’ll see if Angelo needs help. Beer in hand, Jim rose and strolled over to Angelo, who labored at the grill.

How’s it going, buddy? Jim asked.

Just about ready.

You don’t have much fun at your own parties, do you?

Oh, I will once the cooking’s done.

It’s the same thing every party, Angelo. You should let me help once in a while.

Fuck you. You’re my guest. Get out of here and go drink your fuckin’ beer!

Jim laughed. Where are your kids? Aren’t they coming home from college for the summer?

Who the fuck knows? Angelo stopped flipping hamburgers and looked at Jim. Can I tell you something? he asked in a hushed voice.

Of course. You know I won’t open my mouth.

There’s something going on between them and their mother … h-hem. Angelo cleared his throat, as he had a habit of doing.

What the hell makes you think that?

Just the way they behave around her when they do come home—which is less and less. Angelo pulled his white shorts up around his protruding belly.

Like what?

I don’t know. There seems to be some kind of tension, like they’re on the outs with Gina. They, like, avoid her. Don’t talk to her hardly.

And they’re okay with you?

Hell, yeah! I get along real good with my kids—when I see them. Angelo went back to flipping hamburgers and rolling hotdogs around, the drippings causing a flame to leap off the grill. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do.

Have you talked to Gina about this?

Of course.

And?

She’s noticed it too and doesn’t know what the fuck to make of it … h-hem.

Doesn’t make sense, Jim said. If something’s going on between her and the kids, she’d have to know something.

Like I said, I’ll find out or I’m gonna start kickin’ ass. Angelo leaned closer to Jim’s ear. Please. Don’t say anything to Leslie. You know they talk.

Come on, Angelo. You ought to know me by now. I won’t say a word.

Thanks. Now enough of this shit. Let’s eat.

CHAPTER 3

Have Ed set up on Traverse Point Number 17, Wayne, and backsight Traverse Point Number 16. If my calculations are right, when we crank the angle and lay out 153.16 feet, we should be right on the sandstone monument marking the boundary.

Okay, Jim. Wayne Furguson, Jim’s protégé and successor to be, motioned for the instrument man, Edmond Logan, to set up the theodolite, used for measuring angles to determine a particular direction. When set up, it would be centered exactly over the designated oak stake bearing the surveyor’s tack. You know, Jim, I thought I could just walk to that damn monument, but that son-of-a-gun must be hiding in these woods, said Wayne irritably with his usual Texas twang. An overhead branch suddenly hooked his cowboy hat from his head. The thirty-five-year-old snatched it, brushed it off, and plopped it back down on his dirty blond hair.

I don’t quite understand that, said Jim, eyeing Ed, a young black man from Newark, to see when he would be finished setting up the instrument. It’s only a little more than a year since you first found it and tied down its location. Damn! All I want to do is double-check its position, since this dispute is probably headed for court, and we’ve got to have all this trouble finding it again. It was a hot, humid June afternoon, causing sweat to bead on Jim’s thin moustache. He brushed it off and said, No doubt they’ll want me to testify as expert witness, and I’d better be able to say that I saw the sandstone for myself. You know, an ounce of prevention’s worth a pound of cure.

You and your sayings.

Hey! They’re all true.

What’s Ed’s problem? Wayne asked. All you hear over there is all kinds of moaning and groaning and cursing.

I think he’s having trouble setting up the instrument. Maybe he’s run into some rocks. He sure does have a bad mouth. You know I’m no prude, Wayne. I curse myself if I get pissed enough. But I don’t like that ‘mother-fucker’ he uses so much. Never did. There’s something rotten about that expression that rubs me the wrong way. Is he always like that?

Pretty much. What do you expect? It’s that gang he grew up with in Newark. Wayne looked down the line they had cut through the woods. Ed! You ready?

Yeah, I’m mu-fuckin’ ready.

Turn 110 degrees, 23 minutes, 30 seconds clockwise, yelled Wayne.

What you yellin’ for? I ain’t that far away, man.

Just do it, Ed, said Wayne softly.

Jim and Wayne picked up their machetes and began trimming the line-of-sight through the woods to the sandstone monument, as determined by the angle Ed had laid out with the theodolite. No trees of any consequence would be cut down.

Twenty minutes later, the two of them stood around where the sandstone monument was supposed to be.

What the hell? said Wayne. I should have known something was wrong when I couldn’t walk right to it before. I had a couple of four-foot lath markers around it. They’re gone.

But the blazes you marked on the trees are still there, Wayne. No nails?

Come on, Jim. You know me better than that. I set PK nails in the blazes. Wayne walked up to an oak. Look, here’s the hole in the tree. And I measured all three tie-distances so we could always find the sandstone. Look in the field notes.

Hell, Wayne, I don’t have to. The day I have to start doubting your work is the day I chuck it all. Let’s use the holes in the trees and see how close the tie-distances fit the point where I calculated the sandstone should be, coming from the other direction.

It didn’t take long to verify the accuracy of Wayne’s previous fieldwork and Jim’s latest office computations, prompting them to scratch around some more in the forest floor.

Wasn’t buried, Wayne, was it?

No way. Had some humus and decaying leaves covering it, but it was practically level with the surrounding ground. I don’t understand it. What in hell is going on here?

I’ll tell you what’s going on, said Jim. Someone’s screwing around with us—that’s what’s going on. He glanced in Ed’s direction. Ed! Pack up! We’re going back to the office.

CHAPTER 4

Late afternoon, a few days after the pool party, there was a knock on Gina’s door. She opened it and there stood Leslie, looking distraught, still in the navy blue business suit she had worn to the office.

Gina, you busy?

I’m always busy, honey. What’s the problem?

I need to talk to you.

Sure, come on in.

Thank you.

Gina led Leslie to the kitchen. Have a seat. Gina pulled out a chair and motioned for Leslie to sit. Want some coffee—or maybe something a little stronger?

Coffee’s fine. What time does Angelo usually get home?

That could be any time, if he has Al close up. Tuesday nights are usually on the slow side. She placed a cup of coffee along with sugar and cream on the table in front of Leslie. Then she sat down opposite Leslie, her body-hugging dress pushing her ample breasts upward. So what’s going on? You look so serious.

I’ve been wanting to ask you this for some time. Has Jim ever talked to Angelo about … you know?

About your affair?

Not just about Ray. More so about us. Maybe about getting a divorce?

A divorce, huh? So that’s what it’s come to. I’m sorry to hear that.

Oh, I’m not saying we’re there yet. Who knows? Jim can be so difficult to talk to at times. With that rigid code of honor of his, he leaves little room for being human. And he tries to impose those high moral standards on others without even realizing it. Knowing him, if he ever thought for one minute that he was even partly the cause of me going for a guy like Ray, I don’t think he could ever forgive himself.

I know what you mean. I have to admit, I avoid having any serious discussions with Jim. He’s a good man, but sometimes makes me feel, I don’t know, a little uncomfortable.

So you see it too. I think it must go back to his mom and dad. They’re very traditional and religious. On the farm, I guess he was sort of insulated from the bigger world, the real world. They didn’t mean to, but I think they made him unable to adjust to any world outside their own.

You mean they were such good people and set such high standards that—

He grew up believing that everyone was like his parents. They taught him to be so honest and fair that they left him defenseless in a world that is anything but. He must feel so lost, confused. I feel sorry for him. Leslie sipped her coffee.

You’ve told him all this?

"How could I? It would be like attacking his parents, which I wouldn’t want to do. He loves them so much.

He’s certainly different from Angelo. Makes me wonder how they could be such good friends. Angelo is pretty much the opposite. He sees the world the way it is, like I do. And that ain’t pretty. But he makes the best of it—like he makes the best of me, Gina said pensively, looking away.

What do you mean?

"I don’t think Angelo loves me. I mean, really loves me. He just goes through the motions because this is where life has taken him—you know, marriage, the kids, everything. Just like he goes through the motions when making love."

You mean he’s not too good at it?

Right. It’s not that he isn’t interested. But it’s more like he’s taking care of business, the way he takes care of the restaurant. No foreplay. Just on and off, leaving me all worked up and frustrated. Gina flipped her hand over and back to demonstrate. But I try to keep him happy even if I’m not. She rose and stuck her coffee in the microwave for a minute to warm it up.

Well, I can’t say that about Jim. He always satisfies me, which is more than I could say for Ray.

For God’s sake, said Gina, sitting back down at the table. Why would you want to fool around with Ray then?

I don’t know. He gave me something Jim didn’t give me.

Like what?

It’s hard to explain. Leslie’s eyes watched her hands revolve her cup in its saucer. Ray was so attracted to me. He made me feel good, desired, needed, and intelligent even. And, yes, he treated me more like an equal. He didn’t always have to be the aggressor, you know, in charge.

And you liked that, even if he didn’t give you an orgasm.

Yes. Jim always has to be the one in control. For example, he always has to be on top, as if that’s the way it should always be with a man and woman. With Ray, I didn’t have to be so passive.

I understand, Leslie. Gina stretched a hand out to pat Leslie’s. Believe me, I understand.

Thank you. Leslie brushed her long brunette hair back from her face. And I think I understand better now why you play around, from what you’ve told me about Angelo, but I’m afraid your luck is going to run out someday, Gina.

"What’s that supposed to mean?

"Sooner or later Angelo’s going to find out, and when he does, you’ll be in the same boat I’m in. I know what I’m talking about. I wish I could take it all back, because I truly love Jim. And I truly believe in being loyal, honest, and fair—all the same things Jim believes in. I feel absolutely rotten about what I did. Jim thinks he’s never going to get over what I did, and to tell you the truth, neither am I. I’ll never forgive myself. It wasn’t worth it." Leslie’s voice