450 East

By D. R. VerValin

450 East, a wonderful blend of fictional history and mystery, begins over two hundred years ago in what was then the western territories of the new nation. The events that followed the siege of Fort Wayne, Indiana, in 1812, resulted in far more than the conquest of the Miami Indian nation; it set in motion a chain of events that would result in the near destruction of a present-day Indiana farm family. John Sebrook is caught in the middle of his familys hidden past after suffering personal tragedies that forever change his life.

Discover with John some insight into one of our countrys most secretive societieswhose presence today is still only known to a few individuals who are recapturing a further understanding of their powerful beliefs. What secrets are hidden behind a closed door that released the ghost of his familys past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524550165

D. R. VerValin

About the Author Dave VerValin attended Elmhurst High School in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and graduated from Purdue University in 1972. After a tour of duty in Vietnam from 1967 to 1969, Mr. VerValin continued his military career in the Indiana Air National Guard, retiring at the rank of major. In his civilian life, Mr. VerValin was a construction project engineer, retiring in 2013. Today, Dave lives in Tipp City, Ohio, with his wife, Judy.

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Copyright © 2016 by D. R. Vervalin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 10/26/2016

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Contents

Author’s Reflections

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Part 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part 3

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

References

This book is

dedicated to my father, Robert G. Vervalin, whose love of American history—specifically that of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and its surrounding area—is the inspiration for this story. As I finished this book, I realized that Dad provided more than love, security, and a wonderful childhood. He also provided the path needed to sustain my life and whatever trials and tribulations came my way. Like the blue light spirit you will read about in this story, my father still provides me with direction and purpose. Whenever I’m asked who my hero is, the one person I look up to, I am proud to say, without a shadow of a doubt, I am my father’s son.

Author’s Reflections

Some of my readers may think I’m some kind of a history nut. While it’s true that I do rely on history as a backdrop for all my stories, I wouldn’t dare call myself a historian. I’m just a guy who is intrigued by history and the events that have led us to where we are today. I’m the guy who’s always throwing out those little tidbits of history at family gatherings, only to hear, Oh, that’s nice, before the rest of the family carries on with the conversation at hand. You might say I’m kind of a history bee. I go through history looking for things that interest me and then, after my curiosity has been filled, move on to something else. It’s not necessarily the best way to study history, but over the years, this flower-to-flower flight, choosing tiny bits of nectar from various points on the human timeline, has given me at least some understanding of the world and local history.

I was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana. One can’t be from Fort Wayne or Allen County without knowing at least some of the area’s history. I’m sure every schoolchild in the area knows that Gen. Anthony Wayne drove off the Miami Indians and built a fort in what is now the heart of the city. I suspect, however, that that’s about as far as their local history education goes—or at least it’s all they remember of it. That’s truly a shame, because there is so much more to be learned, not only about the Fort Wayne and Allen County area, but about our neighboring counties and states as well. To understand the history of the area, we can’t focus solely on General Wayne’s campaign; while that seems to be the only visible history in the area, it’s a completely shallow view to merely take a slice of our history, a snapshot of a few military victories, and try to understand what really happened, particularly with the history of the settlement of the Midwest states.

It seems to me that many of our history lessons are tied to the settlement of the Eastern states and the Revolutionary War. Interestingly, though, not much time and education are dedicated or even information is compiled about the next phase of our country’s settlement. Without a doubt, that early beginning is the very basis of our history and should be taught well to every school-age child, but our understanding of American history seems to jump from there to the settlement of the West. I believe this can be contributed a great deal to the dime novels of the early 1900s and, later, TV and Western movies—all of which glorified a rather tragic period in our history. The history of our local Indian tribes, their wars, and the inter-tribal intrigue that happened around what is now Indiana, Ohio, and Kentucky are, for the most part, glossed over.

The native history of these states and the understanding of the conflicts caused by their settlement, the ebb and flow of their development, and the impact all of that had on the people who lived here first has been all but forgotten. In order to really understand the fascinating history of these states, one must begin with the native cultures that existed long before Anthony Wayne and the United States. We need to teach this history and strive to learn as much of it as we can, to know of the times when the area was first visited by the French trappers and missionaries, our first glimpse at native cultures before they were impacted by the white settlement. We need to know what they were all about and what their conflicts and struggles were.

As a young boy, I was always fascinated by the names of towns, counties, and rivers around where I lived, places like Wells, Whitley, Kosciusko, DeKalb, and Allen. Cities and small towns had names like Defiance, Elkhart, Wabash, Wapakoneta, Fort Laramie, Fort Recovery, Mishawaka, Wakarusa, and Shipshewana, just to name a few. Those strange words just seemed to leap off the map at me, and I knew each one had to have a story behind it. Indeed, they all have a tale to tell, but while these names and their history mean a lot to me personally, I am saddened to see that over the years, their history has become less and less common knowledge. As a society, we have lost interest in our past. We’ve become lazy in understanding it. We’ve focused our attention on everything that happens today, without paying much attention at all to what happened in our past. We’ve allowed Hollywood and TV to dictate to us how the West was won, and we’ve lost sight of the real facts and big picture. The West wasn’t won west of the Mississippi; rather, it was taken, during the western push through the Alleghenies and out onto the great flatlands of the Midwest. Case in point: I’m sure you’ve heard of the Battle of the Little Big Horn and the defeat of General Custer, along with a big portion of the Seventh Calvary. Today, you can visit the 765-acre site. For your ten-dollar admission fee, the area, maintained by the U.S. Park Service, will provide you with trail guides that indicate where the battle took place and the various movements of both Calvary and Indian forces. Teachers will find lecture material available for K-12 students. Thousands visit the site every year, dumping money into the local economy as they go. However, General St. Clair’s defeat at what is now Defiance, Ohio, where 632 were killed and 264 were wounded (a count that does not include the women and children who followed their husbands), has been afforded a shameful one monument on a city block near downtown Defiance. At the time of this writing, I could find only one monument that alludes to Harmer’s defeat, a battle in and around Fort Wayne that accounted for a loss of 188 lives and left 94 wounded. It should be noted, however, that the monument to Major Wyllys, located at the intersection of Edgewood and Dearborn in Fort Wayne, marks only one of the three battles that comprised the defeat of Harmer’s army. The remaining two, Heller’s Corner and Hartshorn’s Defeat, appear to be unmarked.

So the largest and third-largest defeats of the American army by native peoples goes almost unnoticed. I know it’s hard to establish public land status for the places where these battles were won, particularly when they fall in the middle of a modern city or town, and no one has an appetite to spend more money on yesterday’s news, but it seems we have much too easily forsaken our local history for the ten-cent paperbacks penned in the previous century. When it comes to Indian history, the West has nothing on Kentucky, Ohio, or Indiana. In fact, I’d wager that there’s more Indian history within a 100-mile radius of Allen County than you’ll find in an area twice that large out West.

So where am I going with all this? Certainly not that we need more monuments to pay homage to the defeat of our Native Americans. Instead, I’d love to see a little more and greater insight to the time and the development of this area and the impact it had on our country and its native peoples. We must understand this history fully—understand what took place then and the government’s expansion and relocation policies—for they still impact us today. The names of our rivers, counties, cities, and states meant so much to our great-grandfathers, that they left them as trail markers, so to speak, lest we forget the roots of our nation. Perhaps for some of us, it’s time to take a second look.

You say they all have passed away,

that noble race and brave;

that their light canoes have vanished

from off the crested wave;

that ’mid the forest where they roamed,

you hear not their shout;

but their names are on your waters,

and you cannot wash them out.

Lydia Howard Huntley Sigourney,1791–1865

Prologue

17 September 1812

Indiana Territory, Miami Indian Village of Kekionga

Enkoodabaoo looked up through the tree canopy as he ran west along the north bank of the Kenapocomoco. Since the beginning of time, the river had given his people snake fish. As he made his quick, sure-footed trek, he quickly remembered catching the slippery fish with his grandfather when he was little. The white man had given the river another name, Eel, just as they had granted a new moniker to every landmark that had been there since before they’d ever set foot on the land. The river had long been one of two major tributaries for western passage to the Waapaahsiiki (Wabash), then to the Spelewathiipi (Ohio), and the Misiziibi (Mississippi). Like the other major rivers of the area—namely the Wabash, Mississinewa, and Auglaize—Eel River was home to numerous Indian villages. Even Kekionga, the major Miami village Enkoodabaoo called home, was built at the fork of the St. Joseph and St. Mary rivers. Together, they formed the Hotaawathiipi (Maumee), which led to Great Lake Erie and the waters that ran east and north, to Detroit and Canada. Of course, for Enkoodabaoo that was of little importance; for him nothing mattered more than reaching Turtletown.

The home village of Chief Little Turtle had always been considered a safe haven, but that was soon to change; little did anyone realize it would shortly be attacked by an American colonel, Simrall, who, with 320 dragoons and mounted riflemen, under the command of Colonel Farrow, had been sent by Gen. William Henry Harrison to wipe out all Indian villages along the river, as far as the forks of the Wabash. The campaign was a response to the attack on Fort Wayne by Potawatomi and Miami warriors, under the leadership of Chiefs Winamac and Five Medals, who had supported Shawnee War Chief Tecumseh and the British in their skirmish against the Americans. None of it would have happened if Little Turtle had been alive, but the old chief had passed on just months earlier, so his voice of reason was no longer heard at the council lodge.

Enkoodabaoo adjusted the bow and quiver on his back and gripped his father’s war tomahawk. Even by Miami standards, at seventeen, he was too young to be admitted into the warrior culture, but he knew he was ready. He was certainly not afraid to fight, and he was an excellent shot with his bow. He glanced at the tomahawk, the only thing he had left from his father, who’d been claimed by smallpox a few years earlier. He glanced to the left at the mighty river, trying to recognize his surroundings. The sun had made an appearance, warming the day, and was quickly climbing in the sky. Although it was late summer, some of the trees and foliage along the trail and riverbank were already painted in autumnal hues: oranges, yellows, and the brownish red tones that matched the complexion of his skin.

The young would-be warrior deftly leapt over a small brook, one of many that cut across the trail, and landed on the other side without missing a stride. How has it all come to this? he wondered as he ran. His village had always tried to take the middle ground. After Little Turtle signed the peace treaty at Greenville, the great chief had always honored his vow. Since then, Turtletown had been safe from attack, but now that Little Turtle was gone, he thought perhaps Harrison was trying to break his tribe’s willingness to fight with Tecumseh.

Enkoodabaoo ran for almost eight miles nonstop. His mission was important, absolutely crucial, for his mother had sent him to warn his grandfather and the village that the Americans were on their way. Within a mile or two of the village, he stopped to catch his breath before forging the river to its northern bank. His legs were burning, and his heaving lungs felt as if they were bleeding, crying out for more air. His head throbbed with the rhythm of his thundering heart; so loud was the thumping in his ears that he was unable to hear the soft sounds echoing from the woodlands around him. Nevertheless, he took a cursory look over his shoulder and continued on.

The village would need time to gather their belongings and whatever food they could carry or hide. For his grandfather, the Midewiwin shaman, the tribe’s sacred articles would need to be moved, lest they fall into the hands of the white men, who were already raiding the burial grounds like vultures, pilfering anything of value. The loss of those precious articles would jeopardize the tribe’s ability to communicate with Kitchi Manitou. Now, more than ever, the people needed to know what the Great Spirit had in store for them.

Enkoodabaoo looked down the trail that twisted and turned though the woods. His mind raced with thoughts of those who fought with the Shawnee Tecumseh. Have they entered into a fool’s contract? Tecumseh had been successful in his battles at Forts Detroit and Dearborn, but now that Fort Mackinac had fallen into Indian and British hands, many believed the war would be far different than the rest. If the British won the Indian lands of western Ohio, they might be returned to the rightful tribes, but Little Turtle had envisioned it all before. First came the French, then the British, but Little Turtle knew painfully well that none of the white men from across the sea had any intention of releasing the land back to the tribes. Nevertheless, he had warned the tribes against taking up arms against the powerful Americans, who brandished fancy weapons and had little conscience when it came to using them unjustly. The very second the whites set foot on the land, they unfairly claimed it in the name of their king, and the land transferred from king to king, depending on who was winning the white man’s war. Now the Americans were seeking revenge, and wherever Tecumseh and his war party were, it was already too late to save the Miami villages. Even after his death, Little Turtle had been proven right again.

Enkoodabaoo had been running for two hours, as fast as he could. He knew the American army could not be far behind him, and he couldn’t rest until he reached the village; there was far too much at stake. As he rounded the bend, he recognized a split in the trail, a sign that he was near the village. In the distance, he heard the barking of a dog, a warning to the villagers that someone was near their camp. A few seconds later, he broke into a small clearing, the entry to Turtletown. A wood stockade sat in an open field, along the river. A field of corn stood to the north of the village, and he could see the women harvesting some of the crop. He ran through the village gate, to the middle of the camp, then looked for his grandfather as he fell to his knees, utterly exhausted.

Several villagers rushed to his side and lifted him to his feet.

Enkoodabaoo, what’s wrong? his grandfather asked, his dark eyes wide on his leathery face as he pushed his way through the gathered crowd.

It’s the… They are coming, Grandfather, he stammered.

Who? Who is coming? someone in the crowd asked.

The white man, the Americans. They are on their way here to destroy the villages along the river, as far as the Waapaahsiiki, Enkoodabaoo replied. Mother sent me to warn you. The one called Harrison has sent an army to destroy the village, in retaliation for the attack on Fort Wayne.

But we weren’t involved in that.

It matters not to them. They want blood, and Harrison seeks to wipe us out.

How far away are they? a concerned warrior asked.

I am not sure, Enkoodabaoo replied. I ran as fast as I could. They were behind me, but I am sure they will be here soon.

Askuwheteau, take Keseqowaase and see where the army is, then report back here.

Without a word of question or complaint, the two warriors bravely set off down the trail and were soon out of sight.

The rest of you men gather our food and supplies and hide them in the forest. Women, collect your children and everything you can carry and head downriver, to our brother on the Waapaahsiiki. Helushka, head south and warn the other villages. Tell them to send word along the Waapaahsiiki. Tell them the white man is coming and that his heart is full of rage and vengeance.

The brave nodded, then headed west, along the trail that led to the next village. Obediently, the others dispersed and began to pack things up. The women loaded their cookware, food, and other household items onto blankets, then bundled them tightly with twine, so they could be easily carried, even in the little arms of the young ones. They grabbed their children’s hands and quickly headed south, along the river. Several men carried large pots of corn into the woods that surrounded the village, in the hopes that the crop would not be discovered.

Come, Enkoodabaoo. You have done well. You father would be proud of you.

What more can I do to help?

His grandfather looked about the village. With luck, our food will not be found and will be left untouched. After the army leaves, we will return and make our preparations for winter. Come now. I need your help.

Enkoodabaoo followed his grandfather as they quickly crossed the village to his lodge.

Stay here, his grandfather said as he entered his wigwam.

Enkoodabaoo glanced around the village as he waited for his grandfather to reappear. Already, most of the mothers and small children were gone; only the older women and men were left to gather what they could. Soon, they, too, would disappear into the protection of the forest. He smiled, knowing he had done all he could. The village people would be safe, and no matter what destruction the white men caused, the wigwams and village could be rebuilt before the winter set in.

Here, Enkoodabaoo, his grandfather said when he returned.

Enkoodabaoo looked down at the steel box. What is it, Grandfather?

You must hide it, in a place where only you can find it again. It contains our tribe’s most valued items. Without these treasures, we will be lost to Gichi Manidoo. The mighty chief gave them to me for safekeeping, and I now entrust them to you.

But where should I go, Grandfather?

Head north, through the corn. After a while, you will come to a small river. Look there for a place to hide the box.

But it is such a big river, Grandfather? Where should I place it?

I do not know, my son… and perhaps it is best that I do not. Let the Great Spirit guide you. Once it is hidden, return to your mother and tell only her of its whereabouts.

What about you?

Do not worry about me. I’ll be gone long before the army arrives. I will take your father’s war weapon as a promise, for I will give it back to you when we meet again.

Enkoodabaoo smiled and handed the tomahawk to the old man.

Now go, while you have time.

Enkoodabaoo took one last look around the village, then ran out into the corn, heading north.

His grandfather watched him disappear from the village gate, then returned to his wigwam and hurriedly gathered his personal effects before heading to the river with his people.

Enkoodabaoo ran out of the cornfield, into the forest. His mind raced even faster than his feet, swarming with worries about the safety of his grandfather and the village. He looked down at the steel box clutched tightly in both of his hands. It was far too heavy for him to carry very far, especially at a full run, and already, his young, strong arms were straining under the weight of the artifacts. He didn’t want to stop, but his body demanded rest, so he stopped and set the heavy parcel on the ground. He glanced around the woods and listened to the sounds of the wild, a few bird calls and the pitter-patter of squirrels frolicking in the tree branches. After he caught his breath and his arms stopped tingling, he picked the box up again and started north. He wondered how far he should go, and he still wasn’t sure how to hide such a big box, but he knew he had to get far enough away from the village that the army would give up their search before they found it; the white men did seem to have little patience when it came to their pillaging, but he would now use that to his advantage. Please guide me, Great Spirit, he prayed. Show me where to keep my people’s treasures safe.

He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, till his arms began to burn and demanded that he stop again. He set the box on the ground and stared at it. The sound of the forest rang in his ears. After several quick gulps of air and rubbing some of the tension out of his aching biceps, he stood again and continued his trek. A short time later, he came across a small clearing, where the river flowed west, a place where some of the clan set up temporary villages in the summer months. Without questioning why, he turned west and followed the river, then stopped at a large white rock that stood in the middle of the stream. As soon as his eyes fell on it, he knew the Great Spirit had answered his prayer.

Enkoodabaoo crossed the shallow river and entered the forest. In damp moccasins, he trudged a short distance into the woods, then stopped and looked around. He was sure he was in the right place, but he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. The boulder in the river is your marker, Great Spirit. I know this… but what am I to see here, in the forest? He darted his eyes around, scanning the trees and underbrush for any sort of landmark that would stand out to him alone, a place he would distinctly remember. There, just above his head, he spotted a fork in a large oak tree. It was unique, because the mighty oaks usually grew strong and straight. Something had intervened and changed the growth of that particular tree, but all that mattered to Enkoodabaoo was that the Great Spirit had shown it to him.

He approached the odd arbor and was reminded of the rivers around his village of Kekionga, two rivers forming one. He smiled at the brilliance of the Great Spirit. Why did I waste any time worrying? he silently scolded himself. The Great Spirit saw all of this long ago, before my father or his father’s father had breath. He knows it is the best place to hide the box, a place I will remember but no one will look.

After he secured his precious cargo in the perfect hiding place, he made his way back. His return journey to Turtletown was much quicker than the trip there; perhaps it was because he knew the route back, or maybe it was because his mind was distracted, full of images of what he might find once he arrived. He was far too concerned for the old man’s welfare to obey his grandfather’s wishes to return immediately to his mother, and he knew she would want him to first make sure all the villagers were safe.

He stopped just inside the woods and listened. There was no noise coming from the village, but the smoke from the burning wigwams told him the army had already been there and gone, eager to move on to the next village on their path of meaningless, greedy destruction. He listened again, then quietly withdrew his bow and an arrow from his pack and slowly entered the cornfield. He walked cautiously through the stalks and stopped at the edge of the labyrinth. He listened again and heard nothing but the sizzling and hissing of burning wigwams, leather, and wood dissolving to ash and embers. He stepped gingerly into the clearing and found the village empty. He sighed in relief, glad that the people had escaped to the north bank of the river. He knew they would head south and cross the river, then continue traveling that direction, along the riverbank, in the direction of the Waapaahsiiki, the Wabash, to the safe haven of the villages that lined its banks.

Enkoodabaoo followed the villagers’ tracks to the bank of the Eel, where they were met with boot and hoof prints of the pursuing army. He followed the river southwest for several miles, hoping to catch up with his people. An hour later, as he neared the crossing, he was stopped dead on the pathway by the sound of gunshots. He knew the horrible popping noise could mean only one thing: Either the army had caught up with the slow-moving women and children or the braves had stopped to take a stand. Either way, Enkoodabaoo had to help.

He quickly nocked an arrow against the sinewy string of his bow, then listened intently for more gunshots, trying to determine the location and distance of the enemy. Several more shots echoed through the air as he slowly crept forward, into the river. Realizing he was out in the open and very vulnerable, he made quick work of forging the river, knowing he would find solace and safety in the cover of the trees and the brush that lined the banks. After a few more steps, he was out of the water and quickly took cover and listened. When another shot rang out directly in front of him, he glanced at his arrow, still nocked to the string, and rose up.

As alert as he was, Enkoodabaoo never heard the shot or felt the ball of lead enter his chest, nor did he hear anything more of the forest—no more chattering of squirrels or happy chirping of birds or the wind whispering through the trees. His dark eyes would never look upon his mother or his wise grandfather or his people again, and his lips could not whisper the location of the secret box in the twisted tree. There he fell, with his bow in hand. In that one swift instant in time, the blur of a gunshot, the clan lost its very soul.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Friday, 17 June

Montana Avenue, Santa Monica, California, The Sebrook Home

Mark Sebrook tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of the Cadillac Escalade and looked at the front door of the house. C’mon, Carol. What the hell’s taking so long anyway?

He looked in his rearview mirror and watched his son John texting on his cell phone. At seventeen, John was big for his age, six-two and 185 pounds. Still, he was a teen at heart. His headphones covered his long, curly hair, the music blaring loudly enough from them that Mark could hear it in the front seat.

John, turn that damn garbage down. John? Can you hear me? John!

Huh?

I said turn that music down. It’s way too loud if I can hear it clear up here.

With a disgruntled groan, John picked up his iPod and lowered the sound, but it was still loud enough for Mark to hear.

John… John!

What?

Didn’t you hear me? Look, just turn it off. You’ve been blasting that noise into all of our ears all morning. It’s time for a break.

This time with an eye-roll and a sigh, John picked up his iPod and turned it off, then tossed it onto the seat next to him. His cell phone buzzed with an incoming message, and he quickly responded, his thumbs flying across the screen.

Mark looked at the front door of the home, then at his watch. Goddamn it! Where is she? John!

What now?

Go see what’s keeping your mother.

Damn it, Dad! John opened the door of the SUV and stepped out, his fingers still typing out a message. He looked up and walked around the vehicle, then down the sidewalk, toward the front door. His phone buzzed again, and he stopped just long enough to read the message. He stepped onto the front porch, opened the front door, and stepped inside. Mom! Mom?

What, honey?

Dad’s goin’ ballistic. What’s taking so long?

His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, with her purse hanging from her elbow. I’m almost done. You know, you two could help out a little. You left the back door unlocked, and the lights were on in your bedroom. Do you have your school books for Monday?

Yeah.

What about your skateboard?

It’s already in the SUV, Mom.

Carol Sebrook looked around the kitchen. Okay, I think we’re ready. She quickly walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway that led to the front of the home. Do you have everything? she asked.

Yeah, Mom. Can we go please? I mean, Dad’s about to blow a fuse.

I know, I know, she said.

John opened the front door and quickly stepped outside.

Carol took one last look around the home, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything. By the time she stepped onto the porch and locked the door behind her, John was already in the back seat of the SUV. She put a smile on her face and quickly walked to the car.

Jesus, Carol, what took so long? You know I wanted to be out of here at nine, and it’s a quarter past.

Honest to God, Mark. You act as if we’re about to miss the last spaceship from Earth. You left the back door open, and John left his bedroom light on. And did you bring the latest critique on the Weston property?

I, uh… , Mark said, darting his eyes around the SUV and patting his pockets.

No, you most certainly didn’t, mister. You were in such a damn hurry that you left it in the office! It’s a good thing I saw it, or we’d just have to waste time to turn around and come back for it. Now just settle down. We’ve got plenty of time to get to the airport. Is the plane ready?

Yeah. I called the field and had them fill up the tank.

Good. Then all we have to do is drop John off at the Mitchells’, and we’ll be off.

Mark pulled the SUV out of the driveway and onto Twelfth Street, then turned left and drove to Montana Avenue. A minute later, he pulled into the Mitchells’ driveway.

John opened the door.

Wait a minute, John, his mother yelled.

He signed and settled down into his seat. Yeah, Mom? What is it now?

Carol lowered her makeup mirror and looked at her son. Do you have any money?

No. I don’t need any.

She shook her head, reached down to the floor below her, opened her purse, and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill. Here, she said as she turned around in her seat to hand it to him.

John grabbed the money and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. Thanks. He pushed the door open with his foot.

Wait, John! his mother yelled again.

What else?

What’s the plan?

The boy sighed, then recited the story that had been drummed into his head a hundred times: You and dad are flying up to Reno for a meeting on some property. You’ll be back Monday afternoon and meet me at the house. If you’re gonna be late, you’ll call me.

And do you have your key to the house?

Of course I do.

Let’s see it.

C’mon, Mom! You act like I’m three or something. John dug through his left front pocket and produced the key. I’m not completely helpless, you know. I’ve been out of diapers for a long freaking time now.

Hey! Young man, you’d better watch that mouth of yours, or—

Before Mark could finish his threat, John kicked the rear door open and jumped out of the vehicle, then slammed it shut and quickly walked to the back to the SUV.

You hear me, John? Mark continued as John opened the hatch, pulled out his overnight bag and skateboard, and then slammed the hatch shut without saying a word.

Jesus, Mark, sometimes I wonder about that kid, Carol said as she opened the door. I’ll be right back. She stepped out of the car and quickly walked to the Mitchells’ front door. As she stepped up on the porch, with John in tow, the front door opened.

Hi! Do come in.

Hi, Todd, Carol said to the young man standing behind their greeter. How are you?

Fine, he said shyly, looking at the floor.

They followed Ronda Mitchell into the foyer.

Hey, John, c’mon. I’ve got something to show you, Todd said, and the two boys bounded up the stairway.

Wait a minute, John! his mother yelled, but neither stopped, and within a second, both had disappeared from view. Carol shook her head.

Ronda smiled. I know. For a couple high school kids, they sure act like nine-year-olds sometimes. They’re both good boys though.

Carol nodded in agreement. Yeah, we’re lucky we’ve never had any trouble with them.

Thank God for that.

Mark and I should be back by noon on Monday, and John knows he’s to meet us at home. He has a house key, and I left a snack for him there. He’s also got some money, in case he needs a bite while he and Todd are out running around.

I’m sure he’ll be all right, Carol. He and Todd will be out skateboarding all day. Can you believe it? In another month, our babies are gonna be seniors.

I know. God, am I looking forward to that. Carol looked back over her shoulder, toward the front door, then glanced at the large clock hanging on the foyer wall. Well, I’d better get going before Mark loses it. He’s so looking forward to Reno.

Sounds like it’s gonna be a nice trip.

It will be. Okay then…

The women embraced, then pulled away and smiled.

If we run late getting back, I’ll give you a call. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.

It’s my pleasure, and the boys will have fun. John can stay here as long as he needs to. Todd will love it.

Well, I don’t expect us to be late. Mark’s kind of a stickler for schedules, always unfashionably early to everything, Carol said with a grin, imagining the temper tantrum her impatient husband was throwing in the SUV right that moment. He’s probably already punched a hole in the dashboard.

I know you’re always on time, but I also know how business goes. I’m just saying don’t worry about John. We’ll watch out for him till you get back.

Thanks, Ronda.

After another hug, Ronda opened the door.

Thanks again, Ronda. Tell Jack we said hi.

I will, Ronda said as she stepped on to the porch and waved to Mark.

A few seconds later, Carol slid into the Escalade and shut the door.

Well? How’d it go? Mark asked.

Fine, she said as she waved goodbye to Mrs. Mitchell.

Mark backed the SUV out onto Fourteenth Street, turned left, and headed to the Santa Monica airport.

It was a short drive. The airport was actually surrounded by residential properties, and there had been some civil unrest about it, a movement to close the airfield down. As far as Mark was concerned, that would have been a major nuisance, because it would mean having to find an airport farther away, adding at least an hour to his already annoying commute. Not only that, but there would be much more air traffic to contend with. He was entirely happy with the current arrangement, and although the field had some flight pattern restrictions, they were better than the alternative.

The SUV pulled through the private gate and out onto the tarmac, then stopped alongside the family’s Piper Malibu. It was Mark’s pride and joy, and when they weren’t using it for business, he and Carol took pleasure flights and frequent family vacations out West with John. This time, however, it was all business, though there would be an informal get-together Sunday on the golf course, with the owner of a large property their client was interested in developing. If all went well on the course, another meeting would be held Monday morning, and, hopefully, the parties would close the deal on an 800-million-dollar investment. It was a tall order but nothing the Sebrooks weren’t accustomed to.

Both Carol and Mark had graduated college with degrees in business law, and over the last ten years, they had developed a very successful company that interceded for clients who wished to remain nameless when large sums of money were involved. It was a common practice often used to conceal the buying parties’ overall wealth, in the hopes of reaching a favorable price. The Sebrooks’ commission was not based on the sale of the property; rather, it was determined by how low they could convince the seller to go on the property. In this case, their minimum fee was $250,000, or 10 percent of the savings, whichever was largest. Carol was sure they could pocket $800,000, but to do that, she’d have to be the perfect hostess and wow the seller on the golf course as Mark discussed business. To help Mark along, she brought her white short-shorts, something right out of an old Nair commercial, and a white blouse with a sinfully low-cut V-neck. It was a bit on the risqué side, particularly for the married mother of a high school student, but business was business, and that outfit had closed a lot of deals. That, besides the fact that he didn’t mind seeing her in it, was why Mark didn’t have a problem with it.

Mark opened the back door of the plane, then returned to the SUV and opened the tailgate to withdraw their luggage. Hey, hon, open the cockpit windows and air out the plane while I get this stuff loaded, would ya?

Now, it was Carol’s turn to roll her eyes, a gesture John had obviously inherited from her. She certainly didn’t need to be told what to do; she knew the drill, as she’d gone through it a hundred times before. She walked up the ladder, entered the cabin, then sauntered up the narrow aisle between the passenger seats. When she reached across the pilot seat to open the window, a breeze of cooling fresh air swept across the cabin.

Honey, I’m taking the car over to operations and filing our flight plan. I should be back in twenty minutes.

Sure, go ahead. I’ll get the cabin ready.

She watched Mark drive off toward the small operations terminal, then shuffled through the aviation maps