Wolf's Head Bay: Journey of the Courageous Eleven

By Jeffery Allen Boyd

Every victim of human trafficking needs a courageous hero.

Wolf's Head Bay-Journey of the Courageous Eleven is set against the backdrop of a documented true crime conspiracy involving missing money, missing children, and an alleged coordinated cover-up by U. S. authorities.

THE GLOBAL CRIMINAL NETWORK . . .
THE GROWING GOVERNMENT SCANDAL . . .
THE ENSUING WHITE HOUSE COVER-UP . . .

When Lynn is abducted with the help of a charismatic boy, a camping trip into northern Michigan becomes a chilling and suspenseful race of survival for a group of frightened teens, plunging Jeremy Hodak, his younger twin brothers, and their friends into the terrifying world of human trafficking.

In a bold rescue attempt the fearful group are caught and held captive at a covert underground missile silo by the Colonel, a powerful and dangerous man intent on controlling the world's human trafficking Network. About to be taken out of the country and sold as slaves into the global Network, only the boy who lured the young girl can help them—and he has his own price!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350914221

Jeffery Allen Boyd

Jeffery Boyd, sun-loving beach boy & wine enthusiast, was born in Homestead, Florida. After growing up in Traverse City, northern Michigan—"picturesque, with a lotta cool hiking trails, dunes and lakes"—the inspiration or his action/adventure books, he headed to Miami, Florida. He eventually made his way farther south down U.S. 1 to Islamorada in the tropical Florida Keys after his car broke down on a weekend getaway and decided this is where he wanted to live. In 2020, he received the International Readers' Favorite Silver Medal & Bronze Medal award, respectively, for his action/adventure thriller Wolf's Head Bay- Journey of the Courageous Eleven and Wolf's Head Bay-The Race for Home. I care passionately about how our society treats its children and I find it deeply troubling. In the 1980's tv news magazines like '20/20' began to do stories on human trafficking. My extensive research revealed that human trafficking flourishes globally including here in the United States. Victims are mostly women, but to my shock includes young girls and boys—children. After the publication of my first novel Wolf's Head Bay-The Journey Home I came across something called the Franklin Credit Union scandal or the Franklin child prostitution ring. Allegations began in 1988 in Omaha, Nebraska. At the time it attracted significant public and political interest until late 1990, when separate state and federal grand juries concluded that the ring was a "carefully crafted hoax—scripted by a person or persons with considerable knowledge of the people and institutions of Omaha," but without identifying who perpetrated the hoax. And yet there is the Yorkshire video to consider. In 1993, Yorkshire Television in the U.K. sent an investigative team and film crew to Omaha, Nebraska to produce a documentary about a pedophile ring operating there. The film, 'Conspiracy of Silence', was funded by the Discovery Channel. Yorkshire conducted a national investigation for 10 months, interviewing, filming, and documenting the Franklin story, finding new witnesses while uncovering new evidence. It exposed a nation-wide pedophile ring that delivered mostly orphaned children to the rich and powerful for the purposes of sex, drug trafficking and blackmail. Listed in the national publication, "TV Guide", it was scheduled to air nationwide on May 3, 1994. At the time, major regulating legislation impacting the future of the Cable T.V. industry was being debated on Capitol Hill. Legislation, which the industry opposed, could potentially place controls on the industry and the contents of what could be shown. Key politicians involved in the debate, behind-the-scenes, made it clear to the cable T.V. industry that if 'Conspiracy of Silence' were shown on the Discovery Channel as planned, then the industry would more than likely lose the debate. Under duress the cable industry acquiesced. Subsequently the Discovery Channel, without explanation withdrew support for the documentary and reimbursed Yorkshire for the half-million dollars it cost to make it. 'Conspiracy of Silence' was removed from the schedule and all copies were to have been destroyed. Fortunately, a leaked copy does exist on YouTube. You decide. I used the Franklin Credit Union scandal as the basis of 'Wolf's Head Bay-Journey of the Courageous Eleven' and 'Wolf's Head Bay-The Race for Home' through the theme of an action/adventure thriller, incorporating my fixed-wing and helicopter aviation background. "The most exciting and engaging books and movies for me are those storylines about ordinary people suddenly thrust into extraordinarily perilous and realistic situations. And that's what I feel compelled to write about." Today Boyd divides his time between Islamorada, Florida and Lake Ann, Michigan, with his partner and their thoroughly laid-back cat, Simon, living the island life as a Jetski tour guide and pursuing his passion for writing his Wolf's Head Bay action/adventure thrillers.

Book preview

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I do not know anything about sabotage . . . but there have been entirely too many violent deaths associated with this investigation for me to accept the conclusion that Caradori’s aircraft simply came apart in the sky.

– Nebraska State Senator, Loran Schmit

THE GLOBAL CRIMINAL NETWORK . . .

THE GROWING NATIONAL SCANDAL . . .

THE ENSUING WHITE HOUSE COVER-UP . . .

And thrust into the middle of it all, caught in the crosshairs of an old enemy and a professional assassin, are the kids from Wolf’s Head Bay.

I don’t believe this! Jeremy uttered incredulously, nearly laughing at the absurdity. Of all the major events to rock this country in the last half century, maybe except for the Kennedy assassination, this one is the biggest, and the least known, mostly because of the orchestrated cover-up. And we are squarely . . . in the middle of it!

©2023 Jeffery Allen Boyd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 979-8-35091-421-4 (print)

ISBN: 979-8-35091-422-1 (ebook)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For my parents

Jack and Pearl,

For my sisters Sharon & Jill,

and Candy, who edited several drafts,

I could not have asked for a more loving & supportive family

Last, but not least,

for Grace Glynn, my most heartfelt gratitude for her

critical eye and professional editing skills in the final draft

And finally,

for Christopher,

I love you all

This book concerns the three-day ordeal of nine kids from

Wolf’s Head Bay, Michigan, who were kidnapped while

on a camping trip. The parents of the children and the children themselves encouraged me to tell their story

accurately and in detail.

Slavery is founded in the selfishness of man’s

nature, opposition to it is in his love of justice.

– Abraham Lincoln, 1854

Although slavery has existed for thousands of years, changes in the world’s economy and societies over the past 50 years have enabled a resurgence of slavery. Government corruption around the world allows slavery to go unpunished, even though it is illegal everywhere. Most slaves are forced to work in agriculture, mining, and prostitution. However, slaves also work in factories and other areas where their labor and exploitation feed directly into the global economy.

– Free the Slaves/Anti-Slavery International, Inc. 2003

The sexual exploitation of American children cuts across every economic, ethnic, and social line. This is not just a Third World problem.

–Dr. Lois Lee, Founder, Children of the Night

O

n December 18, 1988 an investigative article in The New York Times was the first to expose the embezzlement scheme at the Franklin Credit Union of Omaha, Nebraska by its manager, Lawrence E. King Jr. The National Credit Union Administration would ultimately conclude that $39.4 million had been stolen. The Federal inquiry, joined by state investigations, began to expand their focus on rumored criminal and covert activities against children involving the failed credit union. This article was the first of many, which at the time had implicated prominent local government Nebraskans and high-ranking United States government officials, reaching as far as Reagan and George H. W. Bush administrations.

In an open meeting of the Executive Board of the State Legislature in Lincoln, the speaker State Senator Ernie Chambers of Omaha, said he had received numerous reports from credible sources of child sexual and physical abuse linked to the scandal. In a closed meeting of the Executive Board Mr. Chambers told of boys and girls, some of them reportedly from foster homes, who had been transported around the country by airplane for the expressed purpose of providing sexual favors.

It is rare indeed when a major newspaper article rocks the very foundation of our government. Six months later, June 29, 1989

The Washington Times published their explosive investigative article with the front-page headline: ‘Homosexual prostitution inquiry ensnares VIPs with Reagan, Bush’.

Within an hour of the issue’s release, they were abruptly gathered up and collected from newsstands and newspaper vendors throughout the Washington D.C. area. It had been suggested that the White House, working through the Secret Service, played a leading role in arranging to have these newspapers recalled.

Documents obtained by The Washington Times had revealed that the prostitution ring under investigation by Federal and District authorities at the time, included among its clientele key officials of the Reagan and Bush administrations, military officers, congressional aides and U.S. and foreign businessmen with close social ties to Washington’s political and power elite. The Times article reported that at the heart of the prostitution ring was the alleged procurement through illegal interstate prostitution, abduction and use of minors for sexual perversion, extortion, larceny and related illicit drug trafficking and use of prostitutes and their clients.

Despite a news media blackout ordered by the Bush White House, in what appears to have been an orchestrated cover-up aided by other U. S. government authorities and local officials, corroboration of the facts of the Franklin Credit Union Scandal have come from eyewitness accounts, investigative reports and depositions by some of the victims themselves, many of whom were forced participants.

In 1989 Nebraska Senator Loran Schmit, Chairman of the Nebraska Senate’s Investigative Franklin Committee, appointed Gary Caradori, a former law enforcement state police trained investigator and interviewer to get to the bottom of the Franklin child prostitution ring.

Two years later on the evening of July 11, 1990 Mr. Caradori called Senator Schmit, informing him that he had in his possession vital information given to him by one of the victims, connecting missing children to Franklin including photographic evidence—the ‘smoking gun’. He told the senator that he would fly that night with his 8-year-old son, Andrew (A.J.) back to Lincoln, Nebraska on his private plane with the evidence.

While flying over Aurora, Illinois Gary Caradori’s plane exploded. Missing from the crash site were the two rear seats of the plane and Gary’s briefcase containing his dossier of papers and evidence.

In late 1990, separate state and federal grand juries concluded that the ring was a carefully crafted hoax . . . scripted by a person or persons with considerable knowledge of the people and institutions of Omaha, but without identifying who perpetrated the hoax.

And yet there is the Yorkshire documentary to consider.

In 1993, Yorkshire Television in the U.K. sent an investigative team and film crew to Omaha, Nebraska to produce a documentary about a pedophile ring operating there. The film ‘Conspiracy of Silence’ was funded by the Discovery Channel. Yorkshire conducted a national investigation for 10 months interviewing, filming, and documenting the Franklin story, finding new witnesses while uncovering new evidence. It exposed a nation-wide pedophile ring that delivered mostly orphaned children to the rich and powerful for the purposes of sex, drug trafficking and blackmail.

Every year the numbers of children who go missing, both here in the United States and abroad, are both heartbreaking and disturbing.

Most of them are male.

Many are runaways, some are throwaways.

Others are taken by a parent or relative.

And still others simply vanish without a trace,

abducted by strangers.

Perhaps you may remember as I do some of the more notable disappearances. These are only a few of the reported incidents and even fewer of them received national attention. I still have the original flyer I received in the mail regarding Jacob Wetterling.

Etan Kalil Patz

6 years old

May 25, 1979

Adam John Walsh

6 years old

July 27, 1981

John David Johnny Gosch

12 years old

September 5, 1982

Kevin Andrew Collins

10 years old

February 10, 1984

Eugene Wade Martin

13 years old

August 12, 1984

Marc James Warren Allen

13 years old

March 29, 1986

Tiffany Sessions

20 years old

February 9, 1989

Jacob Erwin Wetterling

11 years old

October 22, 1989

Alexis Patterson

7 years old

May 3, 2002

Jennifer Joyce Kesse

24 years old

January 24, 2006

Jahessye Shockley

5 years old

October 11, 2011

Although on the surface, seemingly separate occurrences, it has been alleged that a link exists between the Gosch and Martin abductions, the mysterious and still as yet unexplained in-flight explosion of Gary Caradori’s airplane, and other incidents

of child abductions.

Somebody out there knows the truth.

The author, summer 2017

Islamorada, Florida

National Missing Children’s Day is May 25th,

the day of Etan Patz’s disappearance.

National Human Trafficking Awareness Day

is January 11th

Contents

PROLOGUE

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

PART 2

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART 3

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE

PROLOGUE

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Coleman A. Young International Airport

Detroit, Michigan

7:12 p.m., EDT

Inside the cavernous hangar, a Learjet 55, long and sleek, covered in a snow-white aluminum skin with silver and blue stripes, was destined to end up at the bottom of Lake Erie within hours.

Alongside the twin turbine, Wright Aviation’s massive hangar housed a variety of aircraft ranging from large turbojets to smaller turboprops, mostly corporate planes used by the city’s executive movers and shakers. Throughout the day, at various times, several of them had been towed out into the warm sunshine with a heavy-duty tug onto the tarmac and readied for departure, while inside a crew of Wright mechanics, clad in navy blue overalls hovered and labored about some of the other aircraft. By early evening, much of the activity that had characterized such a balmy, sunny day had ceased. With the large hangar doors fully open, facing a fire-orange orb at the end of the world, long shadows spread out across the vast expanse of the airfield. A casual breeze drifted through the building carrying the familiar mix of jet exhaust and the warm late summer scent of Lake St. Clair. In the distance, the roar of a 737 airbus gracefully lifting into the sky momentarily drowned out the Rolling Stones blaring from a small, beat-up portable radio set atop a workbench. Nearby, two lone mechanics, hoisted several feet above the floor on a mechanical lift, worked silently alongside an open panel of a Lockheed Jetstar’s turbofan engine. Absorbed in separate tasks, neither one of them paid much notice when yet another pilot strolled into the unrestricted hangar from the employee lounge.

That was just one of his many talents, his ability to blend in. His years of training and experience as a former Special Forces Soldier had served him well on more than one occasion. His background in arms-dealing and gunrunning made him dangerous and decisive. Yet it was his expertise in electronics and explosives which made him the perfect choice for this job. He was very good at what he did. By his own calculations, he would be in and out of the hangar in just under eight minutes.

The U.S. trained chameleon had made a thorough study of the hangar and its personnel. He knew the day’s schedule and the best time to perform his task. Carrying a black flight case, typical standard pilot gear, he walked through the hangar as casually as any of the other pilots who had come and gone throughout the day, with an air of familiarity, as though he had been there many times before. Every conceivable contingence had been foreseen, thought out and planned for, leaving nothing to chance. If someone were to stop him, he would quickly assess the situation, knowing exactly what to do and say. This he found to be the most exciting aspect of his work. It was a natural high for him. He considered it almost a game, and his record was nearly flawless.

The chameleon smiled slyly and thought to himself how easy it was for him to move among others, like a disguised wolf in the company of unsuspecting sheep. Nothing escaped his meticulous attention to detail, including his appearance, right down to the tinted Ray-Ban Aviators he sported. Although those were mostly out of habit, they hid his only discernable feature. A two-inch scar just above his left eyebrow. Average in height, his normally short salt-and-pepper hair had been concealed beneath an equally short, yet black, hairpiece. Wearing black loafers with tan slacks, a blue tie accompanied the traditional white shirt adorned with the appropriate pilot shoulder epaulets. Even his walk was typical. He left nothing to chance that would draw or arouse anyone’s attention. All carefully orchestrated.

Speaking to no one, the chameleon quickly spotted and identified his target by the aircraft’s black call letters, N311TR, on the tail. It was in the fourth row at the north end of the parking-lot-styled hangar, the door hatch conveniently open. He deliberately approached the Learjet confidently, striding up the rollaway boarding ramp, and into the cabin. True to his skills and timing, confirmed after checking his Breitling chronograph, he was right on schedule. He immediately noted the fresh scent of the tan plush leather seats in the luxurious main cabin as he moved aft. Standing within the spacious interior, he shifted the black flight case to his left hand as he reached out with his right and eased into one of the large Lazy Boy-like chairs. Softly whistling a familiar tune, he had heard on the radio on the drive to the airport, the chameleon set the case in front of him at his feet and opened it.

He sifted through the contents of flight manuals and charts, all props, until his fingers touched it. He grasped the object and carefully removed it from the case, setting it on his lap. He then reached for the phone receiver embedded in the padded railing below the cabin window, and, while he continued humming, unclipped it from the coiled line and set it in the cup holder in the chair’s armrest. He then replaced it with an identical receiver, the one he’d just removed from his case. He paused for a moment, admiring his handiwork.

Again, he smiled.

Carefully setting the new receiver back into the slot below the window, the cord retracted properly. He gently caressed, then tapped it lightly with his index finger. Clean, efficient, and compact, no one would ever know the truth. In his cold, calculating mind it was a work of art.

One last task to perform.

Adjusting his Ray-Ban glasses, and then checking his Breitling, the chameleon slipped the original receiver into the black case, burying it beneath the manuals and charts. Before closing the top of the case, clasping it tightly, he removed a small placard and a spray can. When he stood, he grimaced slightly, ignoring an old injury to his left knee from his military days. Lightly spraying the back of the placard with a thin coat of adhesive, he reached forward and placed the five-by-six-inch plastic card directly over an existing one on the cabin bulkhead. Depositing the spray can back in the case, he closed it and headed for the door. Stepping from the boarding stairs, the chameleon peripherally scanned the hangar. He continued to hum softly to himself as he strode across the concrete floor of the hangar.

Without any intervention, he exited the hangar from a side door and casually strolled into the parking lot. Inserting his hand into the pocket of his slacks, he withdrew a key fob, pressing one of the tabs. The electronic transmitter woke the black Lexus SUV, unlocking the doorknobs with a pop and a momentary flashing of the lights. Never once bothering to look back, he smoothly opened the driver side door and slipped comfortably into the leather-padded seat. Tilting his wrist, his Breitling confirmed his innate sense of timing. The job took him seven minutes, forty-two seconds. The SUV started right up. As the chameleon steered out of the parking lot and into a mounting stormy black night, drops of water began pelting his windshield. Tired of humming the same tune that had stalled in his head all evening, he switched on the radio and began humming along with a new one.

Dearborn Heights, Metropolitan Detroit

9:20 p.m., EDT

The night had deteriorated into a wild, raging caldron. A hurricane-like tempest, spawned during the late afternoon hours in the turbulent skies over the Upper Michigan Peninsula, produced a squall line of dense, boiling thunderstorms that roared down the western-most Great Lakes region with a vengeance. Gaining momentum, they spewed hail and touched off waterspouts in their wake. The Alaskan, a 1953 vintage tug with her crew of four, sailed right into the leading edge of the assaulting wind and rain just after nightfall, five miles south of Point Betsie. Moving south-southeast, the storm’s intensity gradually began to wane. By the time the violent onslaught had reached Wayne County and the Motor City in the southern part of the state, it had diminished to little more than a steady drizzle with occasional lightning flashes piercing the black, churning night sky. Through the light downpour, a white van made its way along the soaked and dreary city streets, eventually turning off a main thoroughfare and headed down a dimly-lit avenue. Within the darkened van, streaks of light from the occasional overhead streetlamp flashed through the shadows, momentarily dancing across the muted faces of its only two passengers. As they sat quietly in the rear seat, they nervously clutched each other’s hand. The van slowed, then braked, turning down a narrow driveway. The two silent passengers straightened in their seat and peered anxiously through the streaked windows. The headlights of the van flashed across a small sign beside the roadway, just long enough, through the oscillating windshield wipers, for one of them to make out the name.

MONARCH FOUNDATION

Easing up to, and then pausing before a two-car garage door, the driver reached overhead and pressed a button on a small remote clipped to the sun visor. Bathed in the bright headlights, the door jerked into motion, rising slowly. Finally, the van pulled inside and came to a stop. The driver again pressed the overhead remote button and the electric-driven motor reversed itself, slowly lowering the door. An eerie silence fell over the shadowy garage when the driver shut off the engine. The two occupants, cold, wet, and frightened, were then led from the van inside and down a dimly lit staircase that creaked beneath every footfall of their soaked shoes.

The air was damp and musty, like some dank, medieval dungeon. The last step at the bottom landing revealed a long hallway before them. The young girl nervously paused for a moment as she surveyed their surroundings. A single bare bulb, recessed within the ceiling above them, its plastic cover missing, disclosed a series of doors, four on each side, running the length of the hall. One of them was open. She gripped her brother’s hand more tightly, glancing back over her shoulder at his wet face. Neither of them had slept much within the last forty-eight hours, and it clearly showed in her sullen, emerald-green eyes. He met his sister’s momentary gaze with a silent, fearful expression; his own sea blue eyes a reflection of hunger and fatigue.

This way, their driver/guide said softly. Wearing an olive drab poncho, he pulled back the bonnet, revealing a brown mop over a fortyish weathered face, and smiled warmly. Come along now, nothing to be scared of.

A tall man with a thin build, he pointed toward the end of the hall where light spilled out into the corridor from the only open door. I’m sorry, but this is all we have available tonight. It isn’t the Waldorf, but it won’t be for long.

Sensing their hesitation, he went on down the hall to the open door and then turned back. As the tall man gestured kindly with an open hand, the young girl moved less cautiously toward him, her brother close behind. Her fears eased when they entered the small room. It was the bedroom she dreamed of but never had. The walls were painted in soft yellow beige. Two beds on either side of the room were separated by a small nightstand with a lamp. Flanking the open door were a matching pair of oak dressers draped with a floral pattern cloth. As tired as they were, they both marveled at what they saw.

It’s quite nice, the exhausted young girl said softly. Lovely, in fact.

Well, thank you, little lady, their driver/guide replied, water droplets scattering as he swiped at his poncho. What a night. It hasn’t stopped raining since earlier this evening. I think the two of you will be more than comfortable here tonight. Now then, I ah . . . oh I’m sorry. I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name is Henry Bartholomew. You can call me Henry. And yours?

I’m Charlee, Charlee Oconee. And this is my brother, Dylan.

Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.

Dylan nodded respectfully, if not apprehensively.

Now then . . . As he spoke, Henry moved about the room, circling the two teenagers, working his way back toward the door. The sheets are brand clean. There are some clean, dry clothes in various sizes in the dressers, so you can change out of your wet things, and…right out here in the hall, right around the corner is the bathroom. You’re the only ones here this evening, so you’ll have plenty of privacy.

Henry could see how fatigued they were and inquired gently, When was the last time you two have eaten?

We . . . sort ran out of money . . . a couple of days ago—

"It feels more like a week ago if you ask me," Dylan corrected her soberly.

Henry smiled. Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go up to the kitchen and make you something to eat. In the meantime, go ahead and change out of your wet clothes. Dylan, there are some shirts I think that will fit you in that closet next to the dresser, okay? I’ll leave you two and be back in a few.

And with that, Henry Bartholomew left the room.

. . . Well? Dylan asked.

Charlee hesitated before she faced her brother. Well, what?

What are we doing here?

Shhh, be quiet! Charlee whispered.

What for? He’s gone.

Charlee gestured for him to keep silent as she stepped over to the door and out into the hall. The doorway leading from the stairs was empty and Charlee listened for a moment, finally satisfied by the silence that they were indeed alone. Dylan frowned, meeting his sister’s concerned gaze as she came back into the room. Dylan was so exhausted that he slumped down onto the nearest bed, noting with relieved anticipation how soft it felt, and how anxious he was to simply lay back and go to sleep. Charlee approached him, grimacing as she touched her long jet-black hair. Normally soft and flowing easily about her shoulders and down to the middle of her back, it was a tangled mess; wet and matted against her chest and back. The result of their waiting outside the bus terminal, rather than inside, for fear of being spotted and apprehended by the police. She dismissed it as having little importance for the moment. Just as drained as her brother, Charlee slumped down beside him, expelling a long breath. Seated side by side, she took his hand and looked him in the face.

"Did you have to go off like that with our last foster family—again? If you had just behaved."

Don’t start on me, Charlee.

I’m trying to get us home.

Home? What home? We don’t have one. Not a real one.

Charlee could only stare at her brother with disapproval.

I’m sorry, the boy uttered in a sad, hoarse whisper. I didn’t like those last people. They weren’t nice to us. Their own kids weren’t even nice to us. I don’t like white people.

Dylan, listen to me—

Why didn’t they put us with a family on the Rez? What about that one lady who was gonna take us?

She was single, with a kid of her own. I don’t think she even had a job.

She seemed nice enough. I was hoping we were gonna go and live with her. At least she was one of us.

I know. I liked her too.

"So instead of putting us with our own, they stuck us with these white people that didn’t even want us. That’s stupid!"

They were nice to us . . . kinda.

Dylan held up his hand, mocking a phone, his thumb and pinky extended, the remaining fingers curled. "BRRRIIIING! Clue phone—it’s for you. Nice, my ass. Their kids had the nice rooms upstairs. Where’d they stick us? Downstairs in the frickin’ basement. Our bed was a crappy mattress thrown in a corner."

Dylan became somber, and then muttered softly, Our own people didn’t even want us.

That’s not true, Charlee replied in a frail voice. The tribal council tried to get us placed in a home on the reservation.

Dylan angrily turned away. As he did, his eyes welled and the words began to choke in his throat. Nobody on the Rez wanted us. Nobody . . . He shook his head and tried taking a breath, Nobody!

Dylan was a mirror image of his twin sister, right down to his jet-black hair. Though he kept his trimmed short, barely touching the top of his ears, it too was matted against his scalp from their stint in the rain. He was a ‘tough-as-nails’ fifteen-year-old kid who had learned at a young age never to show his emotions, or any weakness, with anyone. Only with his fraternal twin, Charlee, would he allow himself to let his guard down. And like so many times before, she could see the anguish he felt deep inside, seeping to the surface, and becoming visible in his eyes, gently creeping down the sides of his cheeks.

Charlee gripped his hand tighter. She then drew him to her chest and wrapped her arms about him. With his head resting on her shoulder, she whispered in his ear as she too began to weep, "Now you listen to me Dylan Oconee. Whatever it takes, we are going to find our father, and we will be a family again, do you hear me? It’ll be all right. No one is ever going to hurt you or me again. Never. I’ll see to it. So don’t you give up on me, all right?"

Charlee?

Yes?

I can’t breathe.

—Oh, she gasped releasing him. . . . Sorry.

Dylan stared at Charlee, clearing his throat, and wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands. Do you . . . do you think maybe our father’s been looking for us?

Charlee opened her mouth and for a moment hesitated. I’m sure he has.

No, you’re not, Dylan groaned. We’ve never even heard from him. Not a phone call or even a letter. And if he had, how could he find us? We’ve had so many last names and moved around so much he’d never be able to find us.

And whose fault is that?

Don’t start, Charlee.

. . . You’re right, she sighed softly.

Hey . . . come to think of it, what was our last, last name anyway?

It was, ah, well it was . . . how do you like that? We’ve lived with so many different foster families the last couple of years I can’t even remember.

Dylan thought for a long moment. Well, at least it wasn’t Smith.

Charlee smiled back at him and they began to laugh. Whoever heard of an Indian named Smith?

The grin on Dylan’s face abruptly vanished, replaced by a downcast, pensive expression. He then looked up into his sister’s eyes again and said, "Why couldn’t we have taken care of mom? We could have, you know."

They wouldn’t let us.

Why’d she hav’ta die, Charlee? And why didn’t she ever tell us our father was alive anyway? Why? All this time and we never knew. He probably has a family of his own by now. He’s not gonna want us. He never did to begin with!

That’s not true, Charlee snapped in defiant hope. You don’t know that.

Well, neither do you, the boy fired back.

Look, Charlee began slowly, softening her voice. That last night in the hospital, mom told me everything.

I don’t care. I hate her for what she did.

No, you don’t Dylan Oconee. And don’t you ever say that again.

Dylan angrily turned away, muttering, I don’t want to hear any more.

Well, you’ve got to. I haven’t told you everything.

Dylan instead half-turned. Why are we here? What is this place?

We ran out of money, remember? And that guy at the bus station said he would help us.

And you believed him?

Well, we didn’t have much of a choice.

Sure we did, countered the boy.

Dylan, we can’t pickpocket our way across the country.

Why not? I was doin’ pretty good, he said patting his bulging pants pocket. We had a nice cash flow goin’. I told ’ya I’d send ’em back. Their driver’s license has their address on ’em, so, no worries.

Everything happens for a reason, Dylan—

There you go, gettin’ all religious on me again—

Dylan—

Charlee, what’d anyone do for us, huh? Do you think anyone cares about us? No one’s gonna help us. And I don’t see God doin’ very much to help us either.

We’re still together. Charlee reminded him, her faith unshakable, at least for the moment. Besides, we’re here now. We get to dry off, eat and if we’re lucky, they probably have a computer here.

So?

All I need is a few minutes.

What for?

So, I can do a search. Charlee then reached into her pants pocket and carefully withdrew a small envelope. She opened it and pulled out a snapshot, holding it in the palm of her hand. When mom found out how sick she was, that’s when she told me about our father.

I’m not interested I said, Dylan muttered, turning away again.

Listen to me, Charlee barked softly as she yanked at her brother’s damp shirtsleeve, jerking him back. He’s the only family we have left now. She told me how they met, and what happened between them. He didn’t know about us. Mom never told him. Then she said she lost track of him. But I think I know how we can find him. When our caseworker gave me some of mom’s things, this was in her diary. Look at it.

Dylan’s eyes reluctantly gazed down at the photograph. Despite the Polaroid’s faded image from years of being tucked away in the private and upholstered pages of their mother’s memory book, the photo was still relatively sharp and clear. A twenty-something young man, dressed in denim jeans and plaid shirt, western boots, and a hat, reposed casually against the side of a yellow pickup.

This? This is our father? Dylan then lashed out sharply He’s white!

Stop it, Dylan. Would you just stop it! Yes, this is our father. And no, we’re not full-blooded Oglala Lakota. Just deal with it and shut up!

Dylan relented with taut lips and a frown. Finally, he asked in a defeated tone, Okay . . . but how is this gonna help us?

Charlee’s tone softened again. Look what’s over his head.

Dylan’s eyes focused on the huge archway over their father’s head and the words spelled out in large letters:

SKYLAND EQUESTRIAN STABLES OF KALKASKA, MICHIGAN

And, we’re in Michigan, she continued. All I need is a few minutes on a computer to do a search. We’re sooo close now.

Dylan looked directly into Charlee’s eyes. What’s our father’s name?

"Richard. Mom kept her last name as ours. Our real last name is Skyland."

Huh? Dylan uttered, then spewed indignantly, No, no, no, I am not changing my name. No sir. No way. Not to Skyland, Skywalker, Smith or . . . whatever he calls himself. He then casually waved her off as though he was dismissing a servant. You can if you like, but not me!

Charlee remained silent, glaring at him impatiently.

Besides, it doesn’t matter anyway, the boy continued, as he thought further on the subject. They’ll never let us use their computer.

They will, if we don’t tell them. You’ll have to help me, though.

If they catch us . . . Dylan then shook his head. It won’t work.

We can’t give up now, Dylan, we can’t, she implored him. Not when we’re this close. Now, c’mon!

Dylan’s expression softened and his gaze drifted to the floor. The two were silent for several moments. He then gestured toward the photo. Look how old it is. What if the place isn’t even there anymore? He could be dead, too, for all we know.

Charlee snatched her brother’s hand again. How did you ever get to be so cynical, little brother?

With his free hand, Dylan passed the photograph back to Charlee, looking her square in the face again through his hurt, angry eyes, and replied tersely, Easy. Ever since mom got sick, we were abandoned by our own people, taken from our home by white people, and made to sleep in a basement corner on a dirty mattress like animals. Right now, I’m not sure who I hate the most.

Charlee reached out, touching her brother’s cheek. I know, I miss her too.

Subdued into silence, the two teenagers began again to survey their surroundings. While Dylan’s mind flooded over with fear and resentment, Charlee’s continued to hold steadfastly to her hopes and dreams of finding their father.

Hey kids—

The two teens nearly jumped out of their skins.

Sorry, Henry’s voice apologized from the hidden shadows of the hall as he peered through the open door. You’re still in your wet clothes.

We were, ahh, just talking, Charlee stammered. Without his poncho obscuring his face and body, sporting jeans and a plaid button-down-collar shirt, Henry seemed more open and friendly to Charlee as he came into