The Decider

By Melvin C. Hathorn

Jason Chase, a man filled with personal demons, only wanted to finish his manuscript. But all his carefully laid plans disappear when a stranger showed up at his front door claiming to be his long-lost father. The stranger claims that Jason must come to Colorado with him to end a great evil that only Jason can stop. Unless Jason stops this evil, the world will change and millions of people around the world will lose everything.

Jason leaves for Colorado with his father. There, Jason finds himself caught in the crossfire between two powerful groups. He uncovers a scheme that reaches into the highest levels of the government and if successful will change the world forever.

Will Jason find the fortitude to expose the plot and overcome his demons?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mel
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201289379

Melvin C. Hathorn

Melvin Hathorn is the author of The Castlereagh Connection, Celts and Kings, and The Prisoner’s Dilemma. He is currently hard at work on his fourth novel, Jason’s Choice. He has published several short stories and essays over his career.  He has taught English literature, political science, and humanities at Albertus Magnus College as well as many great works of literature on the high school and middle school level. He lives in Cromwell, Connecticut and enjoys flying small planes, sailing, and writing. He has traveled to many different areas of the world such as Greece and the former Soviet Union where he talked a cop out of an arrest for jaywalking.  

Book preview

Chapter One

What kind of day was it? A day like all days. Or so I thought. I was wrong. It would be filled with an event that would alter and illuminate my life. This day began when the doorbell rang. Who the hell is it? I wondered. Probably some encyclopedia salesman. I ignored it.

It was the morning of September 4, 2016. It would have been my father’s birthday had he been around. I rarely did anything special for his birthday. Today, I was working on my book discussing my new theory. It was the role that money laundering had played in developing International Finance. I had developed a new theory about shell companies and money laundering, and I was stuck. I berated myself trying to find the documentation to support my new theory. This theory if confirmed would elevate my professional standing.  I returned to the computer to search again.

I taught several courses in leadership and management and sometimes psychology as an instructor on sabbatical at a small college in New Haven, Connecticut, I was also working on the curriculum for a new course I intended to offer next Spring in International Finance.

Although I had published several articles in professional journals, this was my first book. Annoyed, I stood and paced around the room waving my arms in frustration. I returned to the computer and opened the desk drawer. There was a thin gold pocket watch. I palmed it back and forth in my hands as I often did when I was trying to figure out the answer to a problem. Staring at the back of it, I frowned and slammed the desk drawer shut. Every time I saw at the back of the watch I got pissed, not only at myself, but also at the jeweler who had screwed up the inscription on the back of the watch.

It was my father’s pocket watch that he gave me when I was a child. It had a gold chain attached to the clasp with a small two-inch pocket knife at the other end. I had wanted to inscribe the back of it with his initials in the center and to inscribe my initials in a smaller font at the top of the watch. My son would get the watch with his initials on it in a clockwise direction. He would pass it on to his son. I wanted it to become a family heirloom. That was the plan. Man plans; God laughs, as they say.

When I got the watch back from the jewelers, I saw the engraver had screwed up. He had put my initials in the center of the watch instead of my father’s and his initials off the side in the eleven o’clock position and not at the twelve o’clock position. It pissed me that the jeweler had screwed up, and I am embarrassed to say that I said nothing. For a variety of reasons, I didn’t want to create an issue. I kept my mouth shut. I still get pissed when I look at the watch.

Why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I yell at the jeweler? Maybe it was because my first wife was a bad-ass bitch who would yell and lecture me on how to be polite. Her nagging was worse than a nasal drip on a rainy day. She was always into appearances. She even yelled at me once for putting on postage stamps on bills upside down.

I didn’t want the hassle. Her parents always nagged at me for settling for a lowlife job like teaching. They wanted me to get a real job, like with a corporation or something. But I always felt that I was destined for something more than a corporate hack. What can I say? I was a wuss. I settled for becoming someone ordinary. After a few years, she divorced me. Not only did my first wife get involved with someone else, but I lost my job and my house.

I filled the time between my divorce and when I met and married Megan with activities that I always wanted to do. I knew what I didn’t want; a corner corporate cubicle somewhere where I had to play corporate games.

I wanted my life to be filled with meaningful experiences like travel, not a life filled with what Thoreau called a life of quiet desperation. I was fond of telling myself his famous quote, The masses of men lead lives of quiet desperation. No! Not for me!

This period of my life was my restless period. I got my pilot’s license and certification in small vessel sailing. I traveled to unusual places like Russia where I once talked myself out of an arrest by a police officer in St. Petersburg. In short, I lived a life full of creative and fulfilling experiences.

I had, after much time, remarried a wonderful woman, Megan, who somehow put up with my many foibles. She told me on more than once that she saw something special in me.

Although now, I sensed a sort of restlessness in Megan. She had spoken to me a couple of times about being more assertive. About standing up for myself more. Not letting people walk over me so much.

I hated conflict. I preferred getting along with people. It all seemed so unjust, so unfair! I loved Megan, and I wanted things to be good between us.

Once for kicks, I went to an astrologer to get my chart done. Let me first say that I do not believe the planets control our lives. As Shakespeare once said, The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in the stars but in ourselves that we are underlings.

Anyway, I learned I was a Leo with both a moon in Libra and in my rising sign was. I read Libras like balance and harmony. They get incensed at injustice. That was me. When I see an injustice, I get furious and want to correct the situation. Libras can also be indecisive.

The bell rang again, twice. God! This person is persistent! Who the hell is it? I’m right in the middle of something! Damn it! Maybe if I ignore it, they’ll go away! They didn’t. Irritated, I put my textbook down and stalked to the door. A tall, distinguished-looking man stood there. He seemed familiar, someone from years ago. His clothes looked like something out of the 1950s, Post-World War II, maybe. He wore a fedora hat with a felt band above a hat rim that covered gold-rimmed glasses. A ribbed and cable-trimmed vest covered a tanned cotton-canvased work shirt with worn-looking olive-colored work pants.

Jason...Jason Chase? he asked, twisting his hands together.

Look, I said. I don’t know what you’re selling but I’m not interested.

Jason, the last time I saw you, you were in fourth grade. Do you recognize me?

Look, if I’d throw a stick you’d leave, right?

Do you remember when you were a child how you would ask me if you were my favorite among your two sisters. You were the middle child. I always had the same answer, You are all my favorites."

I remembered that when we were going on a vacation, I would sit in the back seat of the car between my sisters and would ask my dad that question. Not once, but many times. It seemed like I wanted acceptance for who I was. Who would know such a thing?

Look! I don’t know who you are, but I’m busy. If this is some kind of scam or a joke, get lost! You’re like a cloud. If you would disappear everything would be beautiful. I tried to slam the door in his face as I turned. I loved being a wiseass when I ran into annoying people.

When we went on vacation, he spoke holding open the door, we would spend one week in a rustic cabin on Johnson’s Pond in North Hudson, New York and I would take you fishing.

I stopped. I turned back.

Memories of hours on the lake in a creaky rowboat flooded my mind, and to this day I still remember the rustic smells of the log cabin lit by kerosene lamps. I still love the morning crisp air, the damp smell of pine trees, and the rising fog and dampness over a lake.

The second week we spent at Aunt Gladys’ farm near Springfield, Vermont. We would take a day to visit where I grew up, the old farm in Barnard. This was an old deteriorating farm building in a wide, sunlit field. To get to his house, you had to drive up an old logging road and if it had rained, the car would get stuck in the mud. My father would hike up to the farm of George and Alice Chamberlin, who were his neighbors when he was growing up. George would bring his oxen down the logging road and pull the car out of the mud.

My sister, your Aunt Gladys, was a wonderful woman who loved everybody. Although she never went beyond the eighth grade, she was the smartest and most loving woman I knew. She judged no one, always accepting people for who they were. Her cooking was simple, farm-raised fresh food. She would make the most delicious Blackberry pies from blackberries you and I had picked that morning.

Who the hell are you? How do you know all this? What do you want? I was seriously getting creeped out. A stranger shows up at my door with all this information.

You said Aunt Gladys was your sister, I continued. You talked about blackberry pies. No! It’s impossible! You can’t be...

Why not?

Tell me something only you or I would know.

I used to tell you the story of the time I went deer hunting in Vermont and got lost in the woods overnight. I found my way back the next morning.

Look! I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to pull here, but it’s not gonna work.

Do you remember the year I told you that Santa was going to bring you something special for Christmas? How I would tease you by telling you I knew what you were getting for Christmas?

Ok, what was it? Disbelief flooded my mind. No way! But he looked like him. Yet how could it be?

Remember the Lionel Train? It had a boxcar, a gondola car, and a caboose with a smoking locomotive. It ran around the tree. By the way, how do you like your gold pocket watch?

At last, after all these memories, I wondered if this could be my dad. No, this is impossible. You can’t be ...

Chapter Two

My father left home when I was in fourth grade. I remember how I grieved the day he left. The memories of that day were so close, so vivid. Even now, when I remember that day, those memories are as clear as a film rolling on.

I was sitting in my fourth-grade class and across the room from me was my cousin, Joanne. It was about 1 or 2 on a sunny afternoon when the door to the classroom opened and my Uncle Bill walked in. Joanne and I stared at each other. He whispered something to the teacher, and she told Joanne and me to leave with Uncle Bill. I began gathering my books and I remember I had a hard arithmetic assignment that night. She said not to worry about the homework.

We went downstairs and Uncle Bill told Joanne to come with him to his car, and that I was to go to our car. My sister Lois was in the back seat. Mom was driving, and she told me in a cracked, but disciplined voice that my father was in Heaven. He died of died heart attack. The shock hit me like a sledgehammer cracking concrete. I wailed. Tears rolled down my face like a roaring waterfall. I stared out the front seat passenger window, and remembered seeing a driver in another car staring at me. I didn’t care. Riding home was a nightmare.

Mom drove to Uncle Earl and Aunt Jo’s house. I ran upstairs my face streaked with tears. All that evening, there was a devouring gulf of despair like a cannon ball in my stomach; it was that sinking feeling you get when you know someone is missing and your life will never be the same.

Over the next few years, I often needed Dad’s advice, and there was no one to turn to. How to stand up for myself, how to relate to women were some issues I faced. Since I was the middle child with an older and younger sister and the only male in my family, I struggled to find out who I was and how to relate to others as a man. I needed a role model. Although I tried connecting with other men and friends of my family, there was always something missing. In short, I didn’t know who I was. I ended up shutting myself down. Living in my world. Figuring things out on my own. Nineteen years later, Mom died.

I remember my school years. In Middle School, I hung out with the nerds. There was Doug Felton. Doug was into computers and through his influence, I joined the after-school computer club. There was Ernie Dameron. Ernie and I shared a love of science fiction novels.

But my closest friend was Billy Strauss. Of the three of them, I remember Billy the best. Billy had a strange sense of humor. He was one of the most creative kids I know. Always up to something. When we were in the same class, he would get so bored with the subject that he would hold his class textbook upright with a book in behind it. One time in an eighth grade Social Studies class, Mrs. Truax was lecturing when she picked up a chalkboard eraser and threw it across the room at Billy. Billy put his book away and pretended to be listening.

There was the time in early spring that our English teacher gave us an assignment to write a poem about spring. Most of the kids wrote poems about flowers and birds. When it came Billy’s turn he got up in front of the class and read:

Spring is here, the snow has drifted,

I wonder where the birdies have wifted.

Spring is here, the grass is rized,

I wonder where the birdies is,

I look above and cry an ow, oh bunk

For into my eyes, something goes per plunk.

The class roared. Miss Middleton yelled at Billy and gave him detention; He was always in trouble.

I guessed I believed that nobody could or would stick around. Then I met Megan. There was something different about her. At least I felt that there was something constant in my life. Even today, Megan teases me about my childhood friends. We both laughed when I told her about the antics we pulled off.

Why not? The stranger repeated. It was total incredulity. It was the shock of my life as memories flooded my mind.

Do you know what today is? he asked

September 4.

It’s my birthday. I got special permission to visit you. Jason, the last time I saw you, you were in fourth grade. Do you recognize me? Years of cynicism got in the way. I couldn’t...Yet I wanted it to be true.

Jason, do you remember when you were a little boy, I was talking to someone on the sidewalk and you ran out between two parked cars and got hit?

I remembered that incident. It knocked me unconscious and remembered waking up and sitting on dad’s lap in the car going to the hospital. When I woke again, a bunch of doctors and nurses were standing around as I lay on a table in the hospital room.

I was so scared, dad said. I saw you lying on the street and I freaked out. But you turned out OK.

Look! I don’t know who you are or what you are trying to pull, but I don’t believe you. Please leave now. It pissed me that someone would try to impersonate my deceased Father. My hand gripped the doorknob and my knuckles turned white at the thought that somebody would think I was stupid enough to believe this bullshit.

Look, he said. Here is where I’m staying. He handed me a card from a local motel. I’ll be here the next few days and if you decide to contact me, call the motel and ask for room 217. He turned and left.

Chapter Three

Later that afternoon, Megan came home from work. Megan was a therapist. Of all the therapeutic modalities she used, she favored a Jungian approach.

Megan was a beautiful woman. She wore her auburn hair in a French twist and had shining deep blue eyes. Jason, you should have seen this obstinate client I had today, so obstinate. She walked into the living room and saw me pacing back and forth from one room to another.

Jason, what’s wrong?

Megan, I had the weirdest thing happen this afternoon. This stranger showed up at the door and claimed to be my dad.

Wait! He claimed to be your father? Didn’t he know your dad was dead? What did he want? What did he hope to accomplish?

He said he wanted to visit from the other side. Said it was his birthday and he got special permission to visit me. He gave me this card from the motel down the street and said if I wanted to contact him, ask for room 217.

I think we should call the cops. He might be some scam artist.

Megan, he told me a lot of stuff the I told nobody, even you. Told me about Johnson’s Pond and Aunt Gladys’s blackberry pies. Stuff that I had forgotten about. He even talked about the accident I had as a kid when a car hit me and me knocked unconscious. Before we call the cops, let’s drive by and check out the motel.

Good idea. Maybe we can find out if he’s still there. I hate to call the cops and find out he left town.

We drove to the motel and parked in the end space where we could see room 217, but he couldn’t see us unless he stood on the outside balcony. I walked to the motel office and asked the clerk if a Mr. Chase had registered there.

Why yes, he’s here, he said checking his records. Said his son might come, and asked if I could call his room when you arrived. Should I call him?

No, don’t bother. I’ll come back with my wife.

I walked back to the car and told Megan what had happened. We have a couple of options, I said. We can go home and forget the whole thing and wait to see if he contacts us again; or we can call the cops or we can go to his room and confront him.

I don’t think he’s a scam artist, Megan said. He wouldn’t have given us his room number. I think we should confront him. I have a good feel for people.

We walked to his door and knocked. The door opened. Jason, come in. He turned toward Megan, You must be Megan.

Yes, I am, she said.

Who are you? What do you want? I yelled. You show up at my front door; you claim to be my dad. How can I be sure you are who you say you are? Maybe this is all an illusion. That’s it! It’s all an illusion...OK. You’re not here and this is some kind of weird alternative reality.

Why don’t you both sit down and I can explain what is going on. He sat on the end of the bed and we sat on chairs scattered around the room.

I am your father. They asked me to come here to visit you. You can either believe it or you don’t.

Who asked you? Why are you here? How long are you here for? What do you want from me? I shot a series of question at him.

"Just for a short time. Maybe ten-fifteen days. Look, I came back because I want to spend them doing something special with