Blood Brothers

By Fred Harvey

Vietnam veteran John Walters is called home to Minnesota to act as executor of his childhood friends estate. This unexpected assignment seems cut and dry, and yet, things are not what they seem. John decides to dig into his friends life and is shocked at what he finds: he believes his friend was murdered.

Through his investigation, John stumbles into the path of a violent white supremacist group. He suspects they are somehow involved, and when they try to kill him, his suspicions are confirmed. When John escapes their clutches, the group decides to frame him for crimes they committed. Now, this ex-hero is on the run.

John must stay one step ahead of the authorities to uncover what really happened to his friend. Meanwhile, John still struggles with his own demons and war flashbacks. With the aid of four other ex-military men, John will attack the lions den of these neo-Nazis. His only chance at life and freedom is to take them down, but will his own ghosts ever let him be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480816565

Fred Harvey

Fred Harvey is a retired electrical engineer in Derby, Kansas. He is a pilot, sailor, and avid shooter. He lives with his wife of forty-two years and has three children and seven grandchildren. This is his first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SUMMER TIME IS WONDERFUL. For a kid it passes beyond wonderful into the sublime. Even at the ripe old age of twelve I realized how great it was to spend long, hot days swimming, playing ball and enjoying the freedom from the tyranny of school. Of all the things I liked to do, sneaking off to The Hideout was right at the top of the list. The Hideout was just a rickety tree house that Joey and I had built in an old Elm tree. It was located just past the crest of the hill behind the housing development that we both called home. The construction was poor and the lumber we used was what we could scrounge or steal, but it was our refuge from the world. The Hideout was the product of almost two years of our effort. It began as just a couple of planks nailed between two branches and slowly grew without any plan or direction, depending upon the materials we could find and the needs of the moment.

Flooring was added first and we soon learned that long, unsupported boards wobbled like a trampoline. None of our fixes to these kinds of problems would ever pass any city building code, but we learned to be imaginative, size up a problem and then repair it. Joey and I made a good team. He could get things done, but he wanted to do everything the easiest, fastest way. He needed me to help him to plan and to hold him back from making mistakes. We would have been horrified to realize that we were actually learning something. No more dismaying thought could ever sneak into the mind of a boy during his vacation from school! Instead we just had fun while we learned teamwork, foresight and an abiding trust in each other.

Sleeping up in that tree, where we could look up through the leaves to the stars before we nodded off, made us feel that we were pioneers exploring a new land. Those nights alone in The Hideout were authorized by the simple expediency of telling our mothers we were going to sleep out in a tent in the other’s back yard. We both lived in fear that one day, one of them would call the other for some reason and discover the truth. Fortunately, that never happened. Mostly because our mothers barely tolerated each other at the best of times. Joey’s dad died when he was eight, the victim of a drunk driver. His Mom took his Dad’s life insurance money, moved to our town and bought a house three blocks from my parents home. She was so angry with the drunk who had killed her man that, in some sort of twisted logic that made sense only to her, she tried to drown her sorrows in cheap gin. Most days she would quietly drink herself into a stupor and let Joey fend for himself. This continued until the money ran out and she took a job hustling drinks at a bar on the far side of town. My mother considered her a lush and a tramp because of the assortment of men she would bring home with her from the bar. She thought my mother was a meddling, do-gooder. The interesting thing was that both women were right! The animosity between the two of them left us a lot of room to maneuver! Because of his Mom, Joey had learned to be self-reliant at an age when I couldn’t decide whether it was cold enough outside for me to need a jacket.

Walls for The Hideout were started after the night that I rolled over in my sleep and off the edge of the platform. Only the thick summer foliage and my desperate grabbing on to the edge of the flooring by one hand had saved me from a twenty foot fall. Joey managed to drag me back up to safety and held me as I sobbed in fear at how close I had come to disaster. We spent the rest of that night down on the ground at the base of the tree. The next morning we started the design for a fence around the edge of the platform. Eventually the fence grew into proper walls as scraps and pieces of lumber came our way. Having walls without a roof was unthinkable, so we swiped two sheets of plywood from a construction site that was conveniently close to the base of the hill. These became our roof only after several days of lugging the wood uphill and numerous attempts to get them up in the tree. Eventually we figured how to sling a load like this and haul it up, but not until after receiving many rope burns, splinters and near misses as the wood came crashing down. Once we had solved the problem, the second sheet was hauled up so easily that we were amazed that we had not figured it out before.

The new roof blocked our view of the stars, but it also gave us a feeling of permanence and power. When it rained that night, we discovered that a flat roof, without any slope, leaked badly. We huddled in the only dry corner and began planning our modifications to change to an angled roof. Fixing the roof took most of the rest of that first summer. We selected a pleasing angle and made the final product look fairly close to what we originally wanted. We even added shingles, two packages worth, which we also pinched from the construction area. They were so heavy that we loaded them into Joey’s wagon late one night and pulled them to the base of the hill. As always, we liked the excitement of hiding behind bushes every time a car came down the street. The fear of getting caught seemed to heighten our excitement every minute. The next day we had to open the packages and carry them up over the hill a couple of shingles at a time. It was hard work, but it was a labor of love.

Joey wanted to put the shingles on starting from the top of the roof. We argued about that until I convinced him by laying out some of the shingles that doing it his way would let the water run under the shingles instead of over them. Once he was convinced, Joey tore into the job as he did almost everything in his life, like a mad man. We cut, nailed and hauled more shingles up the tree without stop for the rest of that day. Finishing close to supper time, we went inside to rest for a while. That is where we made the painful discovery that we should have used short nails to attach the shingles. The ceiling looked like an inverted Indian fakir’s bed of nails. We spent several hours the next day pounding over the shanks of the nails so that we didn’t puncture our skulls whenever we stood up.

That shaky old tree house was really the glue that bonded the two of us together. We had become fast friends at first sight. As soon as he walked into my third grade class we spied each other and knew that this was a friend for life. Still there was something special that we shared in building our Hideout that made us so much more than mere friends. The times we spent there talking, scheming, laughing or just sitting quietly, wove our lives together tighter than any blood relative could ever hope to achieve. Since each of us was an only child we became brothers in the truest sense of the word.

Over the years we each did things for the other that we would never even consider doing for anyone else. About a year after we first met, we were playing at Joey’s home. His mother snapped at us from the kitchen to go outside and stop making so much noise. Dutifully Joey said, OK Mom! and gestured frantically for me to get out the front door. He knew his mother’s drunken moods better than I did and he wanted to get us out of her way as quickly as possible. I was walking backwards wondering why his mother was still hollering at us to get out. When I turned around, I knocked an old, cracked blue vase off of a table and onto the tile floor. The crash brought Joey’s mother into the room on the run. I had never seen true madness before, but I did when I looked into her face. It was a face contorted in rage and controlled by a brain already badly pickled by the gallons of booze she had consumed.

Who did it! Did you hear me? I said, WHO DID IT? she screamed at us, so angry that her voice was shaking. I had continued to back toward the door, so terribly afraid of the adult towering over us that I was unable to make a sound.

Joey didn’t back down. He said that he had done it and that he was sorry. His Mom grabbed him by his left arm and jerked him up so hard that only one foot was still touching the floor. She snarled at me to Get Out! and I fled outside in a blind panic. Standing there I listened to Joey scream as she beat him with a leather belt. I leaned against the house with tears in my eyes as Joey begged his mother to stop. When he said, Mommy, I love you. Please don’t hit me any more! it was more than I could bear. I ran down the street with my hands over my ears and tears streaming down my cheeks. Without thinking, I ran all the way to the one place that no grownup could ever touch a kid, The Hideout. I stayed there until almost dark ashamed of my own cowardice and crying for my friend. Yet I knew as well as Joey did that if I had confessed to breaking the vase his mother would never have let us be friends again, and he still would have gotten a beating. Neither of us would ever take a chance of doing anything that would tear us apart.

The years that followed that selfless act saw us grow closer and closer together. One Saturday afternoon, after watching a Western movie at the Allison Theater, we sat in the tree house and tried to duplicate a scene where Audie Murphy and the Indian chief had cut their palms and then shook hands. Neither of us had the nerve to actually cut ourselves that badly. Instead, we settled for sticking a pin into our right index finger and then pressing our fingertips together. Joey cried when he punctured his finger. I wanted to cry very badly, but didn’t. After that day, whether it was movies, swimming, school, it didn’t matter, people grew used to never seeing one of us without the other. My mother used to laugh when she said that Joey ate more meals at her house than he did at his own. She didn’t know that if it wasn’t for those meals and my splitting my lunch with him, he would rarely have gotten to eat at all.

The Hideout was still our favorite spot, but we both noticed that it meant less and less to us as the years went by. By the time we were in High School, dutch elm disease had ravaged the old tree so much that we were very afraid that the whole thing would one day come tumbling down with us in it. When the big storm in 1964 finally blew the tree down, we quietly looked at the wreckage together. Then Joey punched me in the arm and said, It was great while it lasted, wasn’t it? That was just like Joey. He had gone through so much pain in his life that disappointments like this were nothing for him to get excited about.

All of these things were yet to happen as I sat in The Hideout with Joey on that hot August afternoon. We didn’t need to say much. It was enough to just be there with each other. Joey had that crooked, goofy looking grin on his face and a lank of hair that perpetually hung down on his forehead. I wanted to reach out to him, to pat him on the shoulder just to tell him how much I loved him, but I couldn’t. I felt like I was stuck in molasses and the harder I tried to get to him, the more frozen I seemed to be…

CHAPTER 1

APRIL 1987

EXCUSE ME, SIR…SIR?

John Walters opened his eyes and looked up at the flight attendant. She was giving him her very best plastic smile as she recited the litany about how the pilot had turned on the seat belt sign and that he must return his seat back and tray table to an upright and locked position for landing. She turned away after he nodded at her and he paused a moment to watch her continue down the aisle, plastic smile still firmly pasted to her face, as she prodded the reluctant sheep into line.

Gray clouds were swirling past the window as the airliner descended toward Minneapolis. That was to be expected since Spring in this part of the country was sometimes grim looking. John Walters tried to shake off the loneliness and the disappointment left over from no longer being in his dream with his pal. That day at The Hideout had taken place several decades before. A lot of things had taken place for both he and Joey Saunders since then, not the least of which was Joey’s death in an airline accident. Joey had died three months earlier, in an aircraft much like the one Walters was on now, as he flew to Bermuda for a week’s vacation. The National Transportation Safety Board’s investigation concluded that there was a bomb in the luggage bay. The blast blew a gaping hole in the lower right side of the fuselage and fractured the lower spar that was one of the right wing’s main support pieces. The resultant failure of the spar bent the wing and threw the aircraft out of control. The plane crashed at sea and 238 people perished. Most of the bodies were never recovered. Joey was gone, almost as if he never existed. No one had yet claimed responsibility for this disaster although fingers were being pointed at a couple of different dissident groups in the Caribbean.

The plane bumped and swayed as it hit some turbulence at the lower altitude. Walters had a flash of panic at the idea that this plane was going to crash too and that his dream was just a psychic message from Joey telling him that they would be together again soon. As unreasonable as this idea was to him, Walters still grabbed the armrest firmly and held on until the aircraft popped out of the clouds. Toy houses, tiny roads and miniature cars passed underneath him. Each growing bigger as the plane settled toward a runway somewhere up ahead. The striped runway markings finally slid underneath the wing and the nose of the plane rose steeply as the pilot flared the aircraft, slowing both it’s speed and rate of descent, for landing. John Walters didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out with a whoosh as the loud thump-thump noise of the landing gear touching down indicated that he was once again down and safe.

As the aircraft cleared the runway, many of the passengers ignored the statements about remaining seated until the plane came to a full stop at the terminal, as they pulled coats and briefcases out of the overhead bins. Walters was amazed at how many people thought that they would actually get to where they were going faster by doing this. The speed with which all of them were going to get out of the airport was determined by how fast the airline got their baggage to them, and the airlines were notoriously slow.

After the aircraft reached the terminal Walters waited until most of the passengers had left the plane before even standing up. Trudging in the short line toward the door he listened to the flight attendant standing near the cockpit as she singsonged Ba-Bye! Have a nice day. Ba-Bye! Have a nice day. to the people who walked by her. Occasionally, she would change it to Bye now! Have a nice day. This was a different person from the one who had awoken him, but she seemed to have checked the same plastic smile out of the airline’s supply room. He was tempted to see if she was wearing a mask and that perhaps there was a real person underneath it. Instead he just nodded at her as he passed. Walking up the incline of the Jet-Way he was feeling a little ashamed of himself for being so cynical lately and also just a little bit claustrophobic. Ever since most airports had done away with rolling stairs at the side of airplanes, he had thought of these extended walkways like big hypodermic needles. They seemed to inject passengers into the airplane at the start of a flight and suck them back out at the destination.

It was a relief to enter the openness of the terminal waiting area. Staying to the side he let all the people in a hurry jostle their way down the center of the concourse as he ducked into the men’s room. A few minutes later most of the rush of people was over and Walters strolled about a quarter of mile down to the Hertz desk and asked to rent a car. The pretty young girl asked if he had a reservation and seemed disappointed that he did not.

All we have left is a Class B, sub-compact. Is that alright? she asked.

I didn’t know there was anything smaller than a compact car.

Oh, yes, there certainly are. she said, nodding solemnly.

That figures. Ok, I’ll take it. he told her as he passed over his Texas driver’s license and credit card before she asked for them.

The paperwork only took a few minutes and the computer soon spit out the appropriate forms in triplicate. He signed and initialed everywhere she indicated and declined her offer of maps explaining that he grew up not far away.

Thank you, Mr. Walters! Have a nice trip. We’ll see you in a week then. she said as she cheerfully waved goodbye.

Luggage was just starting to be ejected from a conveyor belt onto the carousel as he joined the crowd of other passengers from Flight 497. His bag emerged and tumbled rather than slid down the incline. Grabbing it before it got any more abuse, he made his way past a guy tapping his foot and looking at his watch.

A side door labeled Rental Cars, in large red letters, took him out to the communal parking lot for all the rental agencies. A good looking Buick sedan in one of the Budget spaces caught his eye and made him want to go back and cancel his Hertz car. He decided against it because it was probably reserved anyway, and he really wanted to get on with this trip.

The Sub-compact was parked in space number 53. It had an unpronounceable name on the front and was a shiny silver color. Sitting there proudly it looked for all the world like a demented toaster on wheels. Walters opened the hatchback and dumped in his bag. His jacket went into the back seat and he had to jam the driver’s seat as far back as it would go in order to squeeze his 6’ 3" frame behind the wheel. He had been tall for his age all of his life. Joey was always small. Probably because his Mom never worried much about feeding him right. The kids in school used to call them Mutt and Jeff.

The gate guard checked the car’s rental papers and gave him a suspicious look. It was as though he couldn’t decide whether he thought Walters was stealing this excuse for a car or just wondering about why any sane person would rent it. Either way a person would have to be crazy and lately that was the way Walters was beginning to feel most of the time.

Taking the Interstate west out of the airport, the little car accelerated smoothly, but not at all vigorously. Pushing hard on the throttle didn’t seem to make it go any faster, it just made more noise. About ten miles out of town he turned off onto the state highway and headed northwest. Visibility was dropping as the sun began to set. The farther he drove, the more dismal his mood became. There was no pleasure in this trip for him. Joey had made him the executor of his estate about five months ago and he was now on his way to try to settle that estate. Not long after Joey’s wife had been killed in a natural gas explosion at their home, Walters got a call from Joey. His late wife had been his executor, but after her death he made out a new will and wanted to know if Walters would be his executor. Of course John said that he would, but he had no idea that he would actually have to do anything so soon.

It was full dark when he spotted a road sign that said Allison was twenty miles ahead. The last time Walters was here was for Gerry’s funeral. Funny, silly, always happy Geraldine Fitzhugh had become Joey and his constant companion the last two years of high school. They both loved her dearly, but she only truly loved Joey. When Gerry and Joey got married a year after their high school graduation, John Walters was the best man. Walters figured that if he couldn’t have Gerry, at least she was with someone he loved too. The two of them had gone off to live in a little apartment near the University of Wisconsin where Joey had already finished his first year. Joey had a partial scholarship based upon his terrific grades, but he could not spare the time away from his studies to work to support himself. Gerry worked a variety of jobs during the three years they were there to support the both of them.

Walters often got letters from her telling him what they were doing and what their plans were. They were always newsy, happy notes and he could visualize her writing them. All through his tours of duty in Vietnam she had been his most faithful pen pal. He looked forward to her letters in a way that he never did from his mother or anyone else. John could tell her about the horrors he saw and know that she would understand. The only unhappy letter he ever got from her was the one when she told him that she had found out that she would never be able to have children. She wanted to adopt a child, but Joey refused to hear of it. Joey had some goofy notion that if it was not his own child then he didn’t want any part of it. Her letters got fewer and much farther apart as the years passed, but she never forgot his birthday or Christmas. Joey only wrote him one letter that he could ever remember. Joey would much rather pick up the telephone and speak directly to him. When he would call it was as though they had never been apart. It was that kind of friendship.

A light rain was falling as the headlights startled a deer by the side of the road. It darted back into the woods as Walters remembered the call when Joey told him that Gerry had died. It took him a long time to get the story out because Joey would start sobbing and it would take him a while to get himself under control again. It had been a freak accident. A natural gas leak in the basement had gone unnoticed. Gerry was home alone and the house they had built outside of Allison had blown up, along with her. It had been a closed casket funeral. Her body had been identified only through her dental records. John had been numb for days after Gerry’s funeral. He had started to think he would not be able to cry for her, but it finally happened, and he did! Then he had been afraid he would never stop.

There had been too much death and destruction in Walters’ life over the years. First there had been the almost two and a half tours of duty in Vietnam, and God knew he had seen and caused enough death there. His parents were in their forties when he was born. The cigarettes they smoked did them both in before they could ever retire. They had died very hard and very slowly within a year of each other. His Dad went first while he was still laid up in the military hospital in San Francisco. The Army doctors wouldn’t let him out to go to the funeral. He was back in Allison when his Mom couldn’t hang on any longer. After her burial he sold the house and cashed in the life insurance policies in order to pay the outstanding medical bills and the funeral expenses. He had been struck by the tragedy that most of a person’s life savings wound up being spent in the last few weeks of their lives. Joey and Gerry had helped him in many ways through those difficult times. His only attachments to the town had been them, and now they were gone too.

Walters thought his morbid spirits had just about bottomed out when the Allison city limits sign slid by on the right. They really did hit bottom then. The town had changed very little in all the years he had been away. It was almost as sad and depressing as he remembered it. The one grocery store was still right where it had always been. A small scattering of fast food franchises had sprung up along the highway and a Motel 6 announced that it had a vacancy. He pulled under the motel canopy, registered and made his way to a motel room that looked like every other motel room in the country. He figured he would be too tired to sleep, but like most things lately, he was wrong.

CHAPTER 2

BRIGHT SUNLIGHT WAS STREAMING into Walter’s room when he managed to drag his eyelids open. It had been just past supper time when he had checked into the room. Stretching out diagonally across the bed he had intended to nap for only a short time before going out to get something to eat. He had woken up about 2 AM and managed to peel off some of his clothes before sliding back into bed. He had been asleep again only moments after his head hit the pillow. Now it was just after nine and his mouth was sticky, his stomach was growling and his back hurt from sleeping curled up on a too short mattress.

The coffee shop in the motel was surprisingly modern and not crowded when Walters climbed onto to a stool at the counter. A shower and a shave had made him feel better, but he had missed his morning run and that always left him feeling logy. He hoped that a couple of cups of coffee would do as well to revive him. The waitress, in a pink apron, hovering somewhere beyond the forty years old mark, took his order, poured him some coffee and gave him a coy smile before she passed his breakfast order to the cook.

Looking out the window toward the highway, Walters realized that he was not feeling a whole lot better than he had the day before. He had not had any more dreams of Joey, but he had not slept well either and his spirits just hobbled along at the thought of trying to dispose of the last parts of Joey’s life.

Here you go! the waitress said startling him a few minutes later. She placed his breakfast plate on the counter and brought him more coffee. As she poured it she asked, You just traveling through or are you staying around for a while?

Well, uh…Janet… he said glancing at her name tag, I am going to stay just long enough to take care of business and then I will be on my way.

What kind of business do you have in this burg, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean…well, this used to be a pretty bustling place a number of years ago, but it has been winding slowly down for some time. I don’t know what would happen to all of us if it weren’t for the tourist trade we get on weekends and in the Summer." she said looking down at the counter as she shook her head.

No, I don’t mind. A buddy of mine, Joey Saunders, died a while ago and I am here to settle his estate.

Oh, wasn’t that awful? All those people dying and poor Joey along with them. she said with a sad shake of her head.

Did you know Joey well? he asked her.

"Not really. He came in here a lot for lunch. Always sat right over there in the corner booth. Nice fellow. Dressed well too, but he never put on airs the way that those other folks at the country club do. Talked real nice to everyone, he did. He never failed to say Please when he wanted something or Thank You when he got it."

Walters didn’t bother to explain that the politeness was probably the result of all those years Joey had lived with his mother. She was always looking for an excuse to rip into him so he never gave her a chance to attack him for his manners

Funny thing about him though… the waitress said drawing Walters back out of his reverie, he would sometimes have lunch with some really scruffy types. You know what I mean? Long greasy hair, dirty blue jeans, rough looking guys. I figure… she said with a conspiratorial look, he was buying lunch for guys who were down on their luck. Sort of his own charity drive, you know what I mean?

Walters assured her that he did even though he could not imagine Joey, who tended to be more than a little snobby, going out of his way to find homeless people in order to feed them. Instead he fished a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and asked, Can you tell me where I can find a lawyer by the name of Charles W. Wetheril?

CW? Sure, everyone knows him, but I can tell you right now that you won’t like him. He thinks he is the most important person in the world. Hoo Wee! Stuck up like you wouldn’t believe! By the way, don’t call him ‘CW’, he hates it.

I really wasn’t planning on liking or disliking him… he said gently. but I would like to find him. Do you know where his office is located?

I’m sorry. Sometimes I just talk on entirely too much. He is in the Fidelity Bank building. Go down to the corner there, hang a left and it is about three blocks up the street.

The half eaten eggs and now cold sausage had lost what little appeal they previously had. Tossing some money on the counter Walters made his way outside and decided the walk would do him good as he headed out.

CHAPTER 3

THE FIDELITY BANK WAS right where it had always been, only now the Woolworth’s next door was closed. He used to come here for many years as he was growing up to visit a dentist who had an office on the second floor. The sign in the lobby indicated that the dentist was no longer there and that the prestigious law firm of ‘Wetheril and Associates’ occupied the whole third floor.

Taking the stairs for the exercise, he found the gold embossed door proclaiming that a certain Charles W. Wetheril, Attorney at Law, resided inside, exactly where the building register indicated he would be.

The secretary in the waiting room behind that door was sixty-something, nicely dressed and looked entirely competent. Exactly the kind of person someone would hire if they really wanted to get work done. She listened to Walters’ request to see her boss, the reason for his visit, nodded thoughtfully and asked him to be seated while she checked to see if he could possibly be squeezed into the schedule.

Left alone in the waiting room Walters couldn’t help, but notice that business must have been good for this guy despite the woes of the local economy. Leather furniture, Louis the XIV tables, bud vases, mahogany paneling, everything reeked of money and good taste. He was in the midst of trying to determine how much the painting on the opposite wall cost, when the secretary came back and announced Mr. Wetheril will see you now, Sir! and stood holding the door to an inner office open for him.

Mr. Walters….please come in….have a seat. This is a sad business, really sad, but I intend to do whatever I can to help you get through this as quickly as possible and with the minimum of pain. Old `CW’ was just about as Walters had imagined him to be. His blonde hair was thinning while his waistline had begun to thicken. Small blue spider veins covered the end of his nose from too many Martinis at the Country Club. A florid complexion caused by high blood pressure brought on by his weight and the drinking didn’t bode well for too many more years for him either. Still he was impeccably dressed in a silk suit, Italian loafers and just enough gold jewelry to show class without being gaudy. It was easy to see that he must have been a handsome man in his youth, but that would be gone in a few more years on his current path.

Thank you. I can use all the help I can get. Your letter said that you had Joey’s will and some other personal papers that you were holding for me.

Yes indeed. he said as he pulled a manila envelope out of a bottom drawer on his desk and passed it across to Walters. Did Joey discuss the contents of his will with you?

No, he just said that I was the executor. Is there something special in it that I should know about?

There certainly is! he said with a surprised expression. You are Joey’s sole beneficiary. He left everything to you. I thought you knew.

Me? Why did he leave everything to me? I mean…I was Joey’s close pal when we were kids, but…but this seems excessive. What about his wife’s family? There must have been some of them that he was closer to than me.

There is no telling about why someone makes these sort of decisions. Sometimes it is spur of the moment thing, sometimes it is driven by remorse over some past misdeed, but mostly it is just what the person wants to do. CW beamed at Walters as though he had just revealed one of the great secrets of the universe.

What about Gerry’s family? Won’t they object to Joey leaving them out of everything?

Not to worry. They have no claim here. Joey’s wife predeceased him. She left all her assets and her share of joint property to Joey. That will was never contested. They can object all they like now, but they no longer have any say about what Joey did with his property.

Tell me, did you handle all of Joey’s legal affairs for him? Walters asked.

Not everything, but I did a lot for him. I drew up both of their wills for them. That is why I know so much about that aspect of their lives. Joey came to me about three weeks after his wife’s death and we drew up this latest will. He didn’t like loose ends, nope, not a bit.

So how do I find out about what is now mine and what is still owed?

I hope that you will find it’s all there in the envelope; a copy of the will, deeds, titles, a list of assets, some keys, a death certificate, insurance policies, probate papers….I think you will find that it is complete.

Just like that? I figured I would have to chase problems all over town.

Well, John….I can call you John, can’t I? he inquired.

When Walters nodded at him, C. W. Wetheril settled back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his stomach. There will be more than a few things for you to do, but it will be mostly painless. First off we have to get the will through the Probate Court. That should be just a formality. Just sign those papers you have in your hand where I have marked an X and I will see that the probate process gets started.

When Walters had signed where indicated, Wetheril took the papers and checked them before slipping them into a file folder. I have already spoken to Judge Franklin in Probate and sent him copies of the will for his review, he is an old drinking buddy of mine. He will expedite the paperwork. It should be approved in just a few of days. Then you need to find and locate all of Joey’s major assets. I think what you have in your hand is a complete list, but sometimes things get lost in the shuffle. You should also compile a list of smaller things like furniture, home appliances, electronics and stuff like that. Those must be included when placing a total value on the estate. Uncle Sam’s tax guys will want to know that you gave them an accurate accounting so that they can get their cut. Of course you don’t have to list every little thing, but the list should look like the kind of things an average person would own. If it is too short those IRS sharks will think you are gypping them and they can get really mean.

CW poured some water into a cut glass tumbler and took a long swig before continuing. After that you must make an effort to find all of his debts. Those debts are to be paid out of the estate funds. That’s the bad news. The good news is that you can deduct those amounts from the estate’s value so you won’t have to pay taxes on those debts. Most people don’t bother with anything, but the big things like mortgages and car loans. Usually the small store owners get shafted if the deceased owed them any money. I would recommend that you put an ad in the local paper asking for Joey’s creditors to come forward…maybe make some calls to see if Joey shuffled off this mortal coil owing them anything.

Have you got any idea of how long all this will take?

Oh it varies….a week….maybe ten days if things go slowly. Of course later you might have to come back if you want to sell any of the real estate, but most things can usually be handled by mail or FAX. By the way, be sure to keep a record of all your expenses, even on this trip. As his executor you are entitle to recoup all of your out of pocket expenses from the estate…and those expenses won’t be taxed either.

I understand, Charlie. I can call you Charlie, can’t I? Walters said trying not to sound too sarcastic. The waitress at the Coffee Shop had been right, he didn’t like this guy. Sure he was apparently competent and smooth, but there was something about him that left a bad taste in the back of Walters’ mouth.

I never liked that nickname. Call me Charles, will you?

Sure, Charles, whatever you say. You seem to have things pretty well organized for me. I’ll look all this over today and get back with you if I think I need help. You will send me a bill for your services, won’t you?

A bill! Oh no! No, I wouldn’t think of it. Joey and I had some very profitable business dealing together and we were…well…sort of lodge brothers together. This is the least I can do for him. With that Wetheril rose to his feet and began shepherding Walters toward the door with practiced ease. Just before they reached the door the lawyer stopped and his manner seemed to change abruptly.

If you should run across any paperwork concerning me and any of my dealings with Joey I would consider it a personal favor if you would see that they are returned to me promptly.

Walters noted the urgency in the lawyer’s otherwise slick demeanor, but had no way of guessing what caused it and he had no interest in finding out. Since he needed Wetheril and his free help, he replied, Why of course. You can count on me Mr. Wetheril, ah…sorry…Charles. and then stuck out his hand.

Once again the mantle of good humor slid back in place on the lawyer’s face and he firmly shock hands with Walters as he escorted him into the waiting room.

I’ll send those final probate papers over to you as soon as I get them. Elaine… he said turning to his secretary, you be sure to take the paperwork on the Saunders estate to the Courthouse today and when we get them back you take them to Mr. Walters yourself. We want to get this messy business over with as soon as possible. Elaine just looked up from whatever papers she was handling, nodded and went back to work. With that the lawyer gave him one of his business cards and disappeared back into his office leaving Walters to find his own way out.

When the outer door closed behind him Walters muttered Shysters! to himself and wandered off down the hall.

CHAPTER 4

THE BUSTLING MAIN STREET of Allison could boast only eight stores that were open at 10:15 that morning: two clothing stores, a pharmacy, a diner, an antique store, a savings & loan, a Radio Shack and a hardware store. All of the others were either closed permanently or had signs boasting that they were open only Friday and Saturdays during the winter months. Those that were open only part time appeared to specialize in selling souvenirs and other useless junk to tourists.

John Walters headed down the street toward the hardware store since it was the only one that he remembered from his youth. He and Joey used to frequent this store looking for bargains on things they needed for The Hideout that could not be found just lying around loose. Old Man Jenkins and his wife used to own it back then. Kids used to always referred to anyone over fifty as old because that is how these folks appeared to them. Mr. Jenkins was a wealth of knowledge about tools and construction. He was always impressed when they would ask him how a particular portion of a building was physically put together. There used to be a lot of new home construction back then so the boys never let on what they were building. Instead they would imply that they had been watching a house being built and wondered how to do something.

The store was almost exactly the way Walters’ remembered it had been thirty years before. The building was long and narrow with three very old ceiling fans slowly stirring the air. Such exciting items as canning pots, glass pitchers and a few old fashioned toasters were on the shelves. A thin layer of dust coated most everything. He spied a true scrub board and a galvanized wash tub in the corner and he could not help, but wonder how many years they had stood there.

Walters was surprised to see that Mrs. Jenkins was still there, sitting at her desk at the back of the store writing in her ledger book. She jumped as Walters spoke to her. Hi Mrs. Jenkins. Do you remember me?

Mrs. Jenkins had always been a small frail looking woman, but she had added considerable girth over the last quarter of a century or so. She got slowly to her feet and frowned as she peered over the tops of her glasses at him. Suddenly her face brightened as she said, Johnny Walters! How good to see you again. How many years has it been?

More than either of us would care to count. How have you been, Mrs. Jenkins?

Been getting real old, but that is still better than the alternative. How about you? You sure look good. Are you going to move back here again? she asked with each word seeming to bubble over the one before.

No. I am the executor for the Saunders estate. I will be here only as long as it takes to handle his affairs. I just stopped in to see if you and your husband were still here.

The mister died three years ago come June. We never did have any kids of our own. I probably should have closed this store, but it gives me something to do. Otherwise I suppose I would have little reason to even get out of bed in the morning. I remember how you and Joey Saunders used to come in here and hang around when you were little. she said.

Do you remember this? she asked picking up a glass candy jar from her desk half filled with sugar candy sticks and holding it out to him.

When Walters helped himself to a piece of the old fashioned candy, she said, I always suspected you boys didn’t care beans about hardware or construction. I figured you just came for the candy I always gave you, isn’t that right? she said cackling softly at her own perception.

We never could fool you, Mrs. Jenkins. Walters told her just to be kind.

You moved away and little Joey stayed around here. It was such a shame about his death.