The Missing Piece of the Puzzle

By Bruce Weiss

In The Missing Piece of the Puzzle, two men are running out of time to have their dreams come true. Max Duncan hopes to become an accomplished author but he cannot find a good story to write. Sala Walker has a sea trunk filled with historical materials that have never been made public, but he cannot write. Neither man can achieve success on his own until a curious letter brings them together. Each man will learn that he holds the key to ther other's success.

The Missing Piece of the Puzzle is a story of international intrigue, a terrifying skyjacking incident, travel to a forbidden place, a hurricane with disasterous effects, a debilitating disease that affects one of the men, and even a frightening and unexpected encounter with one of the men's wives.

This is a fast paced compelling novel that brings a questionable incident in American history, the explosion and the sinking of the battleship, The Maine in 1898, into the twenty-first century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477276792

Bruce Weiss

Bruce Weiss has published 10 novels, a text book, and short stories. Historical fiction is the genre with surprising and unanticipated twists and turns. Undergraduate degree from BU, graduate degree at Wesleyan, 20 years teaching social studies at the high school level, 3 years after retirement teaching in Cuzco Peru. Married to Ivy, father of daughter Sasha who did not fall far from the tree, and granddaughter Harper, a world class equestrian at Skidmore. My email address is [e-mail]

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Bruce Weiss

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

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© 2012 Bruce Weiss

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 10/12/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7680-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7678-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7679-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918655

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

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For Ivy, Sasha, and Harper

CHAPTER ONE

1998

Max Duncan steered his rental car off to the side of the road and he reached for the neatly folded yellow paper lying on the seat beside him. Although he practically knew the words that were written in the letter by heart, rereading it always gave him a lift. The experience was like a quick jolt of caffeine, and it helped him sustain the faint belief that all was not lost in his life.

Taking a long deep breath and twisting his neck to relieve the tightness from the long drive, he read the note again, quite possibly for the fiftieth time. As always, he read the last words that were written on the very last page aloud, which stated, ‘until we meet, I can tell you no more.’

Max pulled the rear view mirror toward him and he stared at his face. It was long and lean and although he would be thirty years old in a few days, he seemed both a decade older and younger at the same time.

His pale complexion was dotted with the freckles that he had always hated, and there was a dimple in his chin that he used to pray would disappear with age. His eyes were light and sad.

His hair was naturally curly and an inch long when wet, yet when windblown from the open car window it framed his face like a faded old headband. He hadn’t shaved in two days but hardly any stubble showed.

He was in good health in body and he kept in shape by running several times a week. He had a runner’s body and running mile upon mile never seemed to tire him. But…his mind was tangled of late and he seemed helpless and unable to stop his mind from dredging up all of his recent sorrows and failures. It felt as if an ever present weight was pressing against the back of his neck and the tension kept getting heavier.

He had become a teacher after graduate school and he had enjoyed his first years teaching social studies. As much as he enjoyed the classroom his secret love had always been the written word. He had practically grown up in his town’s library, spending most of his free time alone in the stacks. One day when he was surrounded by all those volumes he vowed that he would become an important author. He was never happier than when he had a good book in his hands, while dreaming that he had written those words.

After his first year of teaching, Max made the decision that he would only work in the classroom until he was twenty-five. Then, he would give himself a full five years in which to write, allowing that he would become a published author by the age of thirty.

He left his teaching job to write full time and in those five years he had written several books on maritime history, the subject matter that he loved most. None of the books sold very well though and in time he had run out of both money and ideas. Was he happy he wondered, as he continued to stare at his face in the mirror? By most measurements, he thought that he was not.

Max thought of the day that the letter had arrived at his apartment, although he couldn’t quite remember if it had been three or four months earlier. The return address indicated that it had been forwarded from his publisher’s office and when he got it, he was hopeful that he would find a very badly needed royalty check. His books were not selling very well, but there was always the hope that one day they might.

Sadly, there was no check in the envelope. He remembered the terrible feeling that day, of near desperation when he realized that without any money coming in he would be nearly broke. Instead, the envelope simply contained another envelope, addressed in a raggedy, smudged scrawl to Mr. Max Duncan, Author…in care of the Nautical Publishing Group…New Haven, Connecticut.

His good for nothing publishers, he rued. The date on the letter indicated that it had probably been sitting in his publisher’s office for some time, and that it was most likely sent on to him much later. Perhaps they couldn’t be bothered by him any longer because his books did not sell, he thought. His publisher would not even return his phone calls anymore.

Max stared into the larger envelope with the publisher’s return address, hoping beyond hope that there just might be a check for him hidden in one of the deep recesses. The feeling of hitting bottom struck him when he was all too certain that there was nothing. The anticipation that he felt when the letter arrived quickly dissolved into another cruel and heartbreaking addition to his recent string of failures.

Max watched the cars soaring past on the highway and he wished that he could trade lives with any of those other drivers, no matter where they might be going.

He turned his thoughts to his life savings, something that could be measured by the few dollars that sat in his wallet. It was all that he had left and he would have to be very careful not to squander a penny on his drive. Many minutes passed as he sat and contemplated his unhappy life, yet he tried to put the past behind him for a few moments so that he could think about where the letter that he held in his hands might take him.

‘Dear Mr. Duncan,' it began, in a handwriting that seemed scribbled, as if a child might have written to him.

‘I hope that this letter find its way to you and I hope that you will take a few minutes to read it.

‘On my last trip to my town library here in Maine, I found out that you had written several books about lost or sunken ships. I have a special interest in this particular sphere but unfortunately, the librarian discovered that there were not enough of your books in print any longer and she could not get any of them for me.’

The last line stung him hard when he had first read it and it continued to wound him each time that he saw those words. Not enough books in print, Max moaned. For nearly five years, he had devoted nearly every waking hour to the tasks of researching and writing maritime histories. Where and what had it gotten him?

He spent several years studying the birth and the death of the Titanic and its disastrous first and final voyage. He had researched the Lusitania, relating the ship’s tragic sinking by a German U-boat prior to America’s entry into World War One. He had used every primary account of that disaster that he could get his hands on, searching everywhere for information that defined that great passenger liner. When he finished his writing, the results were always the same, because his books simply did not sell.

He spent almost six months researching the modern cruise ship the Andrea Doria and her infamous collision with the Stockholm in 1956. Elderly survivors of the ship provided firsthand accounts of the liner’s sinking off the coast of the United States.

Max even researched old wooden sailing ships, including the Atocha and her millions in lost treasure, several slave ships including the Amistad, and even the Mayflower and her Pilgrim passengers. For his section on the Mayflower he spent a great deal of time researching what eventually became of that illustrious vessel, long after its Atlantic voyage.

His passionate interest in marine and maritime disasters had prompted him to give up what he considered a rewarding career in teaching. He came to believe with all his heart that his work as a writer might lead him to a most productive, happy and satisfying life. In five years, three self-published tomes on historic naval disasters had produced very little sales or income. In fact, the expenses involved in the writing and in the cost of traveling to do research exceeded the few dollars that he took in on sales. His new line of work had rather quickly drained his bank account, as if it was water running down an open drain.

He could not remember many days when he had been able to deposit royalty checks from his publisher into his bank account. There were a few that he received from time to time, and yet no matter how small they were, they were always a happy measure of some success. When the checks stopped coming he seemed to be reminded everyday at mail time of his on-going failures.

Nearly broke and becoming a little more destitute every day, the immediate and long term future looked very bleak. Trying to reenter the teaching life after a few years away proved to be an impossible task. The teaching salary at Lincoln High School was adequate and it sustained him, but when those checks stopped, his bank account was not the only thing that became depleted. Looking down at the letter again, he read and then reread each word.

‘I am writing to you because you appear to be well acquainted with the tragedies that befell many historic vessels. Accordingly, I want to tell you that I am searching for a writer who understands naval disasters because I hope to find someone who can help me with some very important work. To do that, I would need to sit down with you for a lengthy period of time so that I can share a story that has been a part of my family for three generations.’

The words were challenging and enticing, but could what the letter writer referred to as ‘the important work’ really do something for him? That was the burning question on his mind.

‘Again, I am sorry to tell you that even in our state library lending system that your other books could not be located. I also tried to contact your publisher in New Haven to see where I might find your books but after writing them several letters of inquiry, I finally received word that your books were no longer in print. Therefore, I am writing in the hope that this letter might find you.’

The letter had indeed reached him but it had come possibly a bit too late to save his writing career. Still, it was one of the very few things in his life lately that allowed even a modicum of hope to exist, that there might be a future as a writer. There were no other offers coming in and there was no money left to self publish anything again.

It was the next section of the letter that had fully piqued his curiosity. He was definitely hungry and the words teased his appetite.

‘If you are interested in exploring one more great naval disaster, then I believe that I can be of help to you. Since you appear to be knowledgeable in this field I have no doubt that you know the story of the United States Warship, The Maine, so please bear with me. I will simply say that I too know some things about this ship, things that perhaps I have an exclusive insight. Of course I am talking about the ship that was destroyed by an explosion in the harbor of Havana, Cuba in the year 1898.’

Max did know many things about The Maine disaster and in all reality, so did most United States high school history students. The Maine was a new US warship and on a mission to Havana, it mysteriously exploded and sank, taking the lives of two hundred and sixty eight sailors.

He had almost included a major section on The Maine in one of his naval disaster anthologies, Great US Naval Disasters of the Nineteenth Century. But after much reading he sensed that there was very little new material to work with.

Max remembered reading a 1976 study about The Maine’s explosion that was conducted by Admiral Hyman Rickover, the great American Naval officer and historian. The Admiral undertook a new scientific investigation into the cause of the explosion and the eventual sinking of the warship. After his report became public that year there seemed little else that could be written about the ship.

Rickover was a celebrated World War Two admiral although in his elder years, many people considered him a bit of an eccentric. He came up with what he called the most logical reason for the disaster; that being an internal explosion and not an enemy act as previously thought. He came to the conclusion that the explosion was most likely caused by spontaneous combustion somewhere in the ship’s coal bin. That new study was generally accepted by historians and military officials as fact, so for all practical purposes the story of the USS Maine was concluded and there would be no more chapters written. With that thought in mind, Max moved on to do some research on other notable vessels.

Max’s next work involved researching and writing about the passenger liner the SS Normandie. The ship was seized by United States authorities in 1942 and it was to be converted into a troop transport. With its name changed to the USS Layfayette, it caught fire and the ship rolled onto her port side, sinking into the mud of the Hudson River in New York City. That bit of writing by Max had gone poorly.

‘Mr. Duncan, I am in possession of certain information that might bring an entirely new perspective to the how and why The Maine exploded and sank. I can’t go into a lot of the details in this letter because I’m not entirely sure that these words will ever find their way to you. Your publisher has been most unhelpful, but I will say…’

The lingering resentment against his publisher had originally kept Max from reading the rest of the letter for several days after its unexpected arrival. His mind continued to churn as he thought of all of his writing efforts and the endless hours that he had put into his new craft. There were untold promises made to him, promises that his publisher could help him become a successful writer. He was to be ‘swept along into a new and monetarily successful career’ he had been told.

‘We guarantee monthly residuals based upon the sales of your book. We will work with you to get your book airplay on the radio and we can arrange to have your book publicized on certain television interest and news shows. We can even help you organize promotional tours to enhance your book sales.’

Sadly, there were no promotional tours, no media events and perhaps most hurtful, fewer and fewer sales. After nearly a year of phone calls and letters to his publisher to find out why things were not moving along, he was rudely informed that his books simply did not sell and that nothing further could be done for him.

‘I want to say that I possess certain journals and letters that were written by a relative of mine, a gentleman who was very closely connected to the business of The Maine. If you are starting to suspect that one of my relatives was a crew member on The Maine, let me clarify that right now and say that was simply not so.

‘No sir, my relative was perhaps the last person to ever see the wreckage that was once the pride of the late nineteenth century American sailing fleet. Imagine being one of the last people to ever see this mighty warship before it slipped beneath the waves forever. Curious?’

Until Max read the notation ‘curious’, nothing had really stirred inside of him except the continual resentment and anger he held against the publisher for not aggressively promoting his books. Whatever had gone wrong in his life the last years, he could usually lay the blame at the doorstep of those publishing people. But the extraordinary words, ‘imagine being one of the last people to ever see this mighty warship’ had quickly snapped him out of his funk. The word ‘curious’ was the fuel that ignited a tiny flame of hope that his writing career was not prematurely over.

For a brief moment he pictured the great ship, imagining that magnificent and massive vessel of iron and steel slowly disappearing beneath the gray seas, never to be seen again. What did this man know about that ship?

He had read and reread the letter scores of times, written by a stranger who had obviously done some detective work to find him. He must have read the letter at least ten times before he actually looked to see who the letter writer was. When at last he turned to the bottom of the third handwritten page, he saw that it was signed, ‘Yours very sincerely, Sala C. Walker.’ The name meant absolutely nothing to him.

Despite not recognizing the name, he still searched his memory to see if there might be any Walkers that he once knew or even that he might have met in the pursuit of his writing. He came to the conclusion that the man was simply someone like him, someone who most likely shared a common interest in naval disasters. If there were thousands more just like him, perhaps his books might have sold better, that was, if they were still in print, he sadly thought.

‘If you are interested in hearing something very extraordinary yet not very well known about the USS Maine, information that no other person has, then you would do well to contact me.

‘I might add that you are not the only person that I am attempting to contact with this matter. You see, I am an old man and if nothing is done with this information soon, then ultimately what I possess will pass with me into oblivion. If you have a sincere interest in this story and if you would like to know what I have, you may go ahead and contact me at the return address on this envelope. Yours very sincerely, Sala C. Walker.’

In the weeks before the curious letter arrived, Max did his best to prepare another batch of resumes with the hope that a permanent social studies position might be found. He had never expected to have to return to teaching but he held on to the idea just in case his writing career failed.

Times were bad, school enrollments were down, and few if any school boards were hiring teachers at his salary level. His last best hope had been a small rural regional high school some ninety miles from his home. He would have gladly made the long round trip everyday but his hopes were dashed when he was informed that nearly one hundred and fifty resumes were received in response to the one, not quite full time teaching position.

His life was spiraling downhill with the force and speed of an avalanche. He was months behind in his rent payments for the apartment and he expected an eviction notice to be delivered any day. When that finally happened he worried, where would he go and how would he manage? With that letter in his hand, he suspected that it would be a good time to get out of town.

The rent-a-car that he was driving, paid for with a credit card that was maxed out, had put him on the roadway to the mystery letter writer’s home. The return address indicated a town that he had never heard of, somewhere in the state of Maine, a place where he had never been. The car was a sporty yellow Mustang convertible with a full tank of gas, and Max knew that it could take him far from his Baltimore home. If he was very careful he thought that he could make it to the letter writer’s home on only a few more dollars of gas.

With feelings of desperation and despair and knowing that the letter represented his last best hope to pull himself out of the hole that he found himself in, his destination was Maine. He had a small bag with some spare clothing and a few of his favorite writing tools. Before he left his place in Baltimore he took one more look about and sensing that he would never see the inside of his home again, he drove off with much trepidation.

Max put the mirror back so that he could check the traffic and then he pulled out onto the roadway, steering his car toward the sign that said the Maine Turnpike. Rickover and Maine were on his mind as he sped up and in a wishful thought, he hoped that one day he would have as much notoriety as the great Rickover. The Admiral could sell any maritime theory, he suspected, and he would always be newsworthy. Thinking about him made Max sense that there was always an audience for new information about long forgotten maritime incidents.

Max wondered if others who did not share his love of maritime dramas would think the story of The Maine worth retelling. He thought that if Rickover’s radical findings almost ninety years after the ships destruction could make such a splash news wise, then there had to be other maritime disasters left for him to research. He began to wonder if there might possibly be something in Mr. Walker’s life that he could exploit. And, if the information was really, really good he thought, could he not use it to create the same type of interest in himself that Rickover had created?

If there truly was something special about Sala Walker, might there not be a future book that he could write and would that book finally prove that Max Duncan was an important writer and one of the foremost documenters of great naval disasters in American military history? If Walker really had something he thought, the road trip to Maine could turn out to be the pivotal moment of his life. But then again, suppose Walker was irrational or crazy, or just delusional, he worried.

As he sped through the twisty back roads and woods of central Maine, Max kept a wary eye on the gas gage. He only had a few dollars left and he thought it would be a shame to have to waste it on a car that was not his. If he ran out of gas though before he reached Sala Walker’s home, he suspected that coasting to a stop could be the start of the final chapter of his unhappy life. He sensed that he would certainly be stranded in many more ways than he cared to think about.

For Max, central Maine was both literally and figuratively going to be the end of the road for him. He knew that he would travel as far as the rent-a-car could take him, and if it sputtered and if the engine finally quit, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what would happen next.

Max slowed the car and he pulled to the side of the narrow, wooded roadway once he saw the sign that told him he was near. Only minutes earlier he had nearly crashed the car when several sad thoughts distracted his attention from the road. He was also feeling the onset of another sudden and ferocious headache, something that had been happening with more frequency in recent weeks.

Once the bad thoughts began to stir inside his head there was no stopping them. He thought about the first third or more of his life passing and having nothing to show for it. Thirty seemed ancient and it seemed that everyone he knew who was his age had wondrous things to show for it.

His mind dredged up something that had happened months earlier when he had convinced his wife to accompany him on a long weekend to New Orleans. He told her that he wanted to use some of their meager savings to attend a convention devoted to the sinking of the Titanic, and she had said, yes.

Important and world class speakers were on the program, as well as divers who had visited the undersea site. There was even a session scheduled with historians who would let the participants handle real artifacts that were taken from the sea. And of course, there would be many tales of the ship’s epic and fatal voyage.

He had almost finished a section on the Titanic for one of the books that he had been working on and he hoped that he might find new information to enhance his own story telling. There were always new slants when one talked about the Titanic, he suspected.

His wife Evie had agreed to travel with him and that surprised him greatly. Like his life, his marriage was unraveling quickly but he held onto a tiny threat of hope that it could be saved. A weekend in one of her favorite cities could turn the trick, he hoped. The previous months were hard because Evie had gone beyond being uncivil to him to being totally indifferent. There were still plenty of loud arguments and harsh words but it was the silence that had been so hurting. When she said yes to the trip, he briefly wondered, why?

Evie came from a wealthy family and living on Max’s salary had not been very easy for her. She became a little more disheartened with each passing paycheck so much so, that Max began to fret those terrible Fridays when he got paid. When their bank account dwindled as a result of Max quitting his teaching position, the financial strain became just one more division between them. Tiny arguments managed to explode into full scale battles, and full scale battles turned into door slamming and running out.

Five months earlier Evie had packed a bag after one particularly bad encounter with Max, and her last words were that she was leaving him. When she returned a week later he discovered a used airplane ticket on the floor of their closet. Why had she flown to Memphis when she stormed out, he wondered? Max had no clue and Evie would not discuss her travels with him.

When he and Evie arrived in New Orleans, Max left her at the hotel and he walked to the convention center near the river. The words from the presenters stirred something in him as he had hoped, and it made him want to start writing again. But when the day’s events ended and he returned to his hotel room, he knew immediately that something was not right.

In the open lighted closet he saw that all of her clothing was gone, as was her suitcase that had been sitting near the door. On the bed there was a long note and although he suspected what it might say, he was truly not prepared for the wounding.

‘Max, this is never going to work out and I’m not just referring to your writing. I am truly sorry but our marriage is really over and I do not believe there is anything left for either of us but to go our own separate ways. This won’t be easy for me to say but you need to know some truths.

‘I have been seeing another man now for several months. I’m quite surprised that you never suspected anything, but then again, I suppose the husband or the wife is always the last to know.’

Max tried to think if there were any clues but he swore that there were none. Then he remembered his wife’s mysterious trip to Memphis some months earlier and he wondered if that was why she had gone there. In truth, the idea that she might be seeing someone else had never entered his mind.

‘He’s a blues musician (you might have heard of him) and when you said that you were interested in a trip to New Orleans, well, I knew that he was going to be in the city that weekend. Honestly, that’s the only reason that I said that I’d go with you and I am sorry about that.

‘I saw him this afternoon and we started talking. Don’t ask me why, but everything that’s been bothering me that I couldn’t talk to you about, well, I could say it to him because he’s a very good listener.

‘When I was done talking I was very surprised at how much better I felt, as if a heavy weight had been taken off my shoulders. I’m sorry but…He’s playing tonight in a small club and then he’s going on the road with a new band.

‘I wanted to come back here to the hotel to think over what was best for us and for me. By the time I got back here I really knew what I wanted and more importantly, what I needed. He had no idea that I was going to bring my suitcase to the club when I returned.

‘I had originally intended to just go back to the club and listen to the music one more time. I wasn’t sure at first why I brought the bag with me, but in a way, maybe I did. When he saw the suitcase he joked about me going on the road with him. It wasn’t supposed to turn out that way but it did, and it’s OK if you don’t understand.

‘In any event I need to get away, possibly for a very long time. You know that I have been very unhappy this past year and maybe this will all work out for the best for us.

‘So take care of yourself. I hope this weekend program will help you with your work. This wasn’t entirely planned to go this way but one thing was for certain, our marriage was long over. Evie’

Max returned home alone after the convention, feeling as lost and as lonely as he had ever felt in his life. One month later a postcard arrived from Memphis, telling him that she had never known such happiness and that she hoped that he would find the same thing one day.

He heard nothing for another two weeks until another card arrived, that one from Austin. Her message told him of how the music was bringing her back to life again after so many bad years. There was no telling him that she hoped he was well in the card.

And then another postcard arrived weeks later from Denver, and after that one, another from El Paso. The one from El Paso concluded with the words, ‘I hope that you’ll look forward to our divorce as a good thing.’

Then the cards stopped arriving. A month later a note was taped on his door that stated that there was a package at the post office and his signature was needed before it would be delivered. Inside there was a CD with the names of ten songs, but he decided that he would not play it.

There was also a letter from Evie inside. The letter was ten hand written pages long, explaining in painful detail how it would be a good life for both of them if they never saw each other again.

Max tried to shake the entire scenario from his head as he drove on but the story never quite went away. Each page told of her unhappiness with him and with their marriage.

It seemed that when what happened in New Orleans began playing in his head, it seemed to always have to play out in its entirety. He felt like a prisoner at those times, or as if he had been forced to see the same bad movie over and over again.

The package that he received was the last time that he heard from Evie. To make matters worse, he noticed with sad resignation that the tiny yellow light near the gas gage was on and his heart sank when he realized that it meant that the car was nearly out of fuel.

He began to sense that his life was about to be measured in miles, perhaps only yards and he wondered what would happen to him when the engine finally died. The thought frightened him terribly, as if his own heart would mirror the car and at first slow, and then sputter, and then stop entirely.

The GPS in the car that was directing him to Sala Walker’s address went dark and he suspected that there was not much satellite coverage of the back roads of central Maine. There were even fewer street signs, he sighed. He eased off the gas, hoping to coax just a few more precious miles out of the car. Max had just enough money to buy a few more gallons of gas but he suspected there were no gas stations where he was.

The car was a rental and he began to think that he’d just have to abandon it and pray that some kind stranger gave him a ride. But even that led to more sad thoughts, as in where to get a ride to. He had no