The greatest ever? Of course but I'm biased.

I finished writing the book, using the name Cody Jaycroft, in early January of 2002. Now, you might wonder since I think it is such a great book why haven't I done more in the subsequent seven years. Simply put, because of a lack of interest. One of my nearly life-long goals, to write a book, has been achieved. With that behind me, I have no ambition for writing another.

Like me, you also might think it is a pretty darn good effort for a first time author.

Here is an overview from the back cover:

Action-craving and action-starved middle-aged Lew Barry finds a new purpose for living. The wealthy and irreverent syndicated columnist and radio personality accepted life as it came since leaving the military thirty years earlier. However, that wasn't good enough for he wanted something different. Barry, who thought of himself as a has-been, continuously relived his experiences as a U.S. Navy SEAL. He longed for a return to the center stage of danger but realized fate reserved it only for young performers, not old men.

Unknown to Barry, fate had his return to center stage scheduled all along. Barry receives an invitation to visit the home of powerful Baxter Perry King, a former United States senator. There, he meets the brilliant Frederick Sparks, a retired career soldier and terrorism expert. King and Sparks offer Barry the opportunity to experience the good old days one more time. They ask Barry to uncover what becomes the most damaging act of terrorism ever thrust upon the United States.

Barry accepts their offer and learns how a handful of determined people can control millions of apathetic people. We learn from Barry how a superpower nearly crumbled in a way that we could never have dreamed or imagined.

Larry Croft

Snowflake, Arizona

Order from the publisher, iUniverse.com

or from your favorite bookstore.

ISBN: 0-595-21456-8

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 Offer and Acceptance

Chapter 2 The Commitment

Chapter 3 The Lure

Chapter 4 Snakes Come Out at Night

Chapter 5 Joe Bolin

Chapter 6 Zinch

Chapter 7 The Toll

Chapter 8 The Blind Hog

Chapter 9 SBNI

Chapter 10 Ned Nelyson Exposed

Chapter 11 Good-bye, Ilanna

Chapter 12 The High Pervert

Chapter 13 Rick Kort

Chapter 14 The Five

Chapter 15 The Quarterback Huddle

Chapter 16 The Showdown

Chapter 17 The Big Dance

Chapter 18 John Rance Macray

Chapter 19 The Grand Finale

About the Author

Introduction

Near the end of the second millennium, the middle-aged and irreverent Lew Barry found a new purpose for living. Barry, a man of inherited wealth, took on a three-month mission to uncover the most damaging act of terrorism ever thrust upon the United States. Barry dug in for the long haul at a time when our inept President, Quentin Jeffrey, offered only talk and promises.

The syndicated columnist and radio personality craved action, the life threatening kind of action. Barry especially missed the adventures he experienced thirty years earlier while serving his country as a U.S. Navy SEAL. He often wished for a return to the center stage of danger and, while wishing, he pursued exciting outdoor activities. As with most of us, Barry accepted life as it came, like it or not.

Fate had Barry scheduled for a return all along. With no knowledge of the coming trauma, Barry received an invitation to visit the powerful Baxter Perry King, a former United States senator. There, he met the brilliant Frederick Sparks, a retired U.S. Army lieutenant general and terrorism expert. King and Sparks offered Barry a chance to catch up on the excitement he missed since leaving the military. Barry accepted their offer.

After three murder attempts on his life, and after learning of eighty-one unknown murders, Barry completed his mission. From his pursuit for answers, we learned how a superpower nearly crumbled in a way that people could not believe, even after it happened.

Chapter 1 Offer and Acceptance Pages 1- 5

I took my hand off Ivy's head to begin our descent through the clouds. She closed her mouth, turned, and pressed her nose on the window. I would not see her eyes again until she saw the ground. She is like that each time we fly.

Most of us would rather watch objects on the ground than stare into a cloud. Ivy is a bit unusual but cute to watch.

We were returning to our Snowflake, Arizona home from a two-hour flight over New Mexico. My wife, Kerrie, often joins me because of her love for the air but that day was different, much different. Perhaps not inviting her was cruel of me but it had to be that way.

I needed time to think that first Saturday afternoon of November. I knew Ivy, always happy in my presence, would respect my wishes and let me think. Someone sitting next to me making small talk was not on my agenda. For that reason, with an invitation to Ivy only, my wife of twenty-four years stayed home.

Ivy and I spent the afternoon above the jungle of people because of one person, Baxter King. He wanted to see me at his Paradise Valley home, near Phoenix, the following Tuesday. King is, perhaps, the most influential man in Arizona. By age fifty-five, he had served six years in the United States House of Representatives and twelve years in the United States Senate.

King left public service nearly five years before that snowy November day. Back home, he devoted himself to Baxter King Investigations, known as BKI, which he formed a quarter of a century earlier.

I had never met King. Other than his voting record, I knew little about him. I did, however, know enough to think of him as a man of character. I still chuckle when I remember the reason he gave for leaving public office.

Referring to the President of the United States, he said, “I have had enough of that guy in the White House. He is an immature kid in a man’s body.”

Many of us watched King’s admission from the comfort of our homes. It came when our president was in the thick of denying a White House sex scandal. At the time, most of us thought the enemies of the President in the world of politics as usual started the rumor. In time, however, we learned King was right.

The President provided a safe haven for participants of sexual activity in the White House when his wife traveled. Worse, he was an active participant and spent much of his time in the Oval Office undressed with others while watching pornographic movies. Three words, shock, anger and embarrassment described the national attitude. That was when I first used the disrespectful name of the high pervert when talking about him.

Why did King want to see me? “Well, Mr. Barry,” his secretary said in a soft and polite voice, “I’m sorry but he didn’t tell me. He has left for the day and I do not have a way to reach him.”

Using the excuse I would have to shuffle my schedule, I promised to decide and respond by early Monday. I did not want to go because of other plans but I was curious. I stalled to have time to think.

My best thinking occurs while I shave my face. Thinking comes easy when I fly too. That is why Ivy and I took our sightseeing trip. Since I vigorously do not shave on weekends, our ride in Zitter was the next best choice.

I decided to see King just as Ivy and I touched down on the southwest runway at our ranch. Next, I wanted to tell Kerrie of my decision for she was curious too. Before walking to the house, I used the hanger restroom while Ivy used the ground outside the kitchen door. As all dogs do Ivy goes where she wants. I left her outside, as she wanted, so she could play with Meow, our pet cheetah.

Kerrie, knowing about King’s invitation, wondered why he wanted to see me and thought she knew. We both thought we knew. In a word, it was money. Born to families of wealth, we hear from people with their hands out almost every day. We have learned to expect them but we have never learned to accept them.

Still, we could have been wrong. “It might be that he wants to add another distinguished gentleman to his list of friends,” I joked at dinner that night.

“Yes, it could be but probably not,” Kerrie said with a laugh. “I have never heard anybody call you either.”

“You should get out more. Anyway, I will drop in on him. Just to be polite, you understand.”

That was fine with her. She expected my answer. “Well, that does not surprise me,” she said. “After all these years of marriage, I know you. I know what you will do before you know.”

“Your insight pleases me. Now let us talk about something else. I want to borrow your headset Monday morning for my trip to King’s place. Mine needs repaired or replaced.”

She raised an eyebrow and balked. “Hey, I need Zitter for my trip to Albuquerque Monday. I told you about my flight test. Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“No, I didn’t forget. I thought you might change your appointment. You know I would do the same for you.”

“Aw, come on, Lew. Don’t do that to me. Do you have to go Monday morning? Why not wait until I get back? Your appointment is Tuesday anyway.”

“Well,” I answered, “I want to spend Monday afternoon at the Phoenix library to learn more about King. It helps to know all one can about the host, you know.”

Kerrie drummed her fingers on the kitchen table while waiting for me to change my mind. Of course, she stared and smiled too. She always does that to get her way. It always works too.

“Do you have to go to Albuquerque Monday?” I asked. “Tell me why it can’t wait until the end of the week.”

“I've scheduled time for an instrument cross country trip. If I do well, Paul will sign me off for the flight test.”

Paul Caylor was her flight instructor. I was happy she was that far along in her pilot training. I always worried knowing she could lose her way in bad weather or, worse, fly into the clouds. Without instrument proficiency, a pilot unable to see the ground can easily become disoriented and buy the farm. With Kerrie close to having an instrument rating, I felt better.

“Well, OK. Like I always say, with more instruments, we have more confidence. I hope you pass, sweetheart.”

The drumming stopped and the stare disappeared. The smile, however, got bigger. She knew all along that I would yield.

“I might get to take the flight test in the afternoon,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

“You have already won,” I said. “Don’t push it or I might change my mind. Anyway, I would have to park Zitter for a day and rent a car. No need to leave her on the ground if you can put her to work.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Besides, I could use a long bike ride before winter. If the roads are clear of snow, I will take Fat Boy. Otherwise, I will use the car.” Then, I added, “Good luck.”

After searching the Internet, and finding nothing about King except his BKI web site, I took Ivy for a short walk. By 10:00 p.m., I was in bed.

-----

Instead of waiting another day, I left for Phoenix early Sunday. I wanted time to visit friends who were friendly with both King and me. From them, I could learn some things about King that never got in print.

On that sunny Sunday, a stop to admire the Salt River Canyon stretched the four-hour trip to five hours. I could live in the canyon alone and enjoy every minute. One can look for miles across the Salt River Canyon and see few signs of civilization. To me, only the Grand Canyon is more awesome.

That day, with King on my mind, I could not enjoy its beauty to the fullest. Neither could I enjoy a conversation with the only person I met at the canyon, a lone horseback rider. She liked to talk, mostly about how the canyon had not changed since her grade school days. I like to talk too but not then. Instead, I excused myself, mounted Fat Boy and headed west toward Phoenix.

Any other day, I would have enjoyed talking and listening to her. I like talking to anyone and everyone about any subject. When with strangers, I start conversations. Of all mortals, I would suffer the most if we were to lose our voices. Kerrie tells me I should talk less because I might use my entire allotment of words long before I die.

Chapter 2 The Commitment Pages 28 - 32

My high school bookkeeping teacher ballooned to more than one hundred pounds above his ideal weight because he could not control his urge to eat. When faced with tough decisions, and unable to decide, eating gave Mr. Knight the comfort we all crave. It did not seem to hurt him though because he lived to age eighty-eight.

As with many boys, we had a way of showing our collective mean streak with teachers. We called him “Mr. Mugwump” at first and then “Mugwump Fats” when his weight passed one-eighth of a long ton. We chose the name mugwump because he reminded us of a cartoon about an indecisive politician. The cartoon depicted the indecisive, and distraught, man sitting on a fence with his mug and his “wump” on opposite sides.

I have what I think of as a similar quirk. I like looking at old cars when stressed out. Why, I do not know. Anyway, I left King’s place with that pitiful anxious feeling. Although I told King and Sparks I would help, I was not sure in my heart that I wanted the job.

Sure, the positive aspects appealed to me and I wanted the adventure. Still, did I really want to change my lifestyle? Should I have agreed so quickly to take the job? Was I ready to commit? I was not sure.

My weakness got the best of me. I walked from the hotel to a used car lot where a two-year-old pickup caught my eye as Glen drove me to the hotel. While there, I met a young couple down on their luck. Their only vehicle, a fifteen-year-old car, broke down. In my mugwumped state, I bought the truck and gave it to them.

“Why would you buy a truck for us?” the woman asked. Both her voice and eyes expressed skepticism.

“Well, it looks good and you need transportation,” I answered. “What better reason could I have?”

With raised eyebrows, they got in and drove off. They must have believed I was genuine when they got the license plate and all the paperwork without a hitch.

For me, I felt good about my act of benevolence. However, I still had reservations about taking on the project. Buying the car did not do for me what food did for Mr. Knight. Food took him out of his mugwump state for a few minutes. I got zero relief.

My day ended with exercise, the evening news and a call to Kerrie. We like to talk at the end of the day when we are apart. I enjoyed talking to her again after missing the night before because of her cross country trip.

“Hey, guess who passed her flight test?” she asked right away.

I was happy for her. Passing a flight test ranks second only to living another day.

“Hey, tell me about it,” I said. She went on for what seemed like hours. In brief, she did well.

“Now, tell me about you,” she said. “I have done all the talking.”

“It was a good visit,” I said. “I’ll tell you more when I get home.”

I did not want to talk about my trip over the telephone. Instead, because of the topic, I preferred to tell her in the privacy of our home. Besides, by then, I hoped I would feel better about my decision.

We talked mostly about where to spend the winter. After an hour, we decided to stay home because the cold and snow at 6,000 feet would be pleasant for a change. We had not spent a winter at home during the previous ten years. We agreed that the time to do so had come.

-----

I wanted eight hours of sound sleep but got five restless hours. Thinking about IYE kept me awake. For the most part, I wanted to begin. At times, though, I thought the whole notion was silly and wanted to renege. I refused to believe people would become phone-shy.

The desire for adventure motivated me. Meaningful adventure had escaped me since my SEAL days. Most activities that I plan, such as hiking and hunting, do not fully satisfy me because I can change the rules as I go. Finding IYE offered what I wanted. Still, I lacked commitment from the heart.

Years ago, I had breakfast with a good friend named Mister Timothy McIntosh. His parents gave him the first name of Mister so he would always get respect from others. It was another good idea that did not work. Feeling awkward about forcing people to call him Mister, he used his middle name, Timothy. Few of us even knew his first name.

While preparing his plate of ham and eggs for consumption, Mister explained the difference between participating and committing. “It is like this breakfast,” he said. “The chicken participates but the pig commits.”

To me, that analogy is a bit extreme when talking about my life but it makes a point. Was I chicken? So far, I had only promised King and Sparks I would participate. Was I not ready to risk my life for a good cause?

In my younger days, the answer was a quick and final yes. That night was much different for Lew, the mugwump. Tormented, I silently asked myself some serious questions. Was I afraid of the responsibility or, worse, was I afraid of some busted bones? Should I back out?

While trying to sleep, I thought about King and Sparks. Each was candid and to the point. Each showed a good sense of humor too. I liked them.

I chuckled about Sparks’ response when I agreed with King about the President. He merely pointed at us and said, “Two people, two jerks.”

It is still my belief that Sparks agreed with us. Although retired, years of conditioning by the military would not let him speak ill of the nation’s Commander in Chief in my presence. He knew when to bite his tongue even if it cost a little self-respect. Dedicated military people are that way.

King and I have kidded Sparks often about the President since our first meeting. Each time he muttered, “Jerks!”

-----

The new day started where the previous night ended. It was a long ride home. Somewhere along the way, just before noon, I pulled into a rest stop to give the matter more thought. My choices were simple. I could either commit or cluck.

My short-lived dilemma ended soon. An incident at the rest stop removed all doubt. I became committed as sure as death row prisoners say they find Jesus.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” someone yelled from a truck as I walked out of the one-holer. I looked up to see a brown sack fall at my feet. A small kitten tumbled from the sack.

While reaching for the kitten, I looked up to see only dust as the driver floored the accelerator. The sound of a racing engine convinced me the driver did not want the kitten. Before the dust settled, I accepted ownership of another, but smaller, cat.

It was a mess. The sick kitten drank all the water I poured into the cap of my Thermos, not once but twice. I also gave it bologna from a sandwich I picked up at a store near the hotel. It was not cat food but it was better than no food, much like a dog’s bad breath is better than no breath.

So that I could watch the near-lifeless kitten that I named Rowdy-Rowdy, I strapped the backpack on my chest. With Rowdy-Rowdy inches from my face, I started Fat Boy. Together, we eased across the loose rock and onto the highway. My new friend and I biked away from the rest area with her curled tightly in my backpack.

The thought that someone abandoned Rowdy-Rowdy angered me. I have never seen a bad cat, only bad cat owners. One can find a bad cat owner on every block. They are the people who let their cats roam neighborhoods instead of treating them as family members. They are the people who let their cats destroy the yards of others.

Kerrie and I have always liked cats. That is why we got Meow at age two. We had to be careful with her but, with the help of a trainer, we learned how to enjoy her charm.

Meow is a beautiful cat, weighing 110 pounds with a body slightly longer than four feet. She ran 500 feet at sixty-six miles per hour in her prime. Now thirteen years old, Meow is near the end of her life but she still is a good playmate. We will miss her when she goes.

Perhaps Meow would nurture Rowdy-Rowdy to be charming too, I thought. They might even become good for each other. Sadly, neither got the chance.

I did not want to admit it but I knew the end was in sight. A veterinarian was the only hope but, as it turned out, not enough. Rowdy-Rowdy did not pull through; she took her last breath in the doctor’s office just fifty miles from her new home.

The doctor said the kitten died of malnutrition. She had a few other points to make too, one of which crossed the line. That was when she saw fit to berate me in the lobby.

“You should never feed bologna to a cat! That is what killed her. Her death is your fault!” Her arms flew all over the place as she carried on. People on the street could have heard her.

Chapter 3 The Lure Pages 38 - 42

I wasted no time in an attempt to lure IYE by arranging interviews with various talk radio hosts. Thirty agreed to interview me during the next six weeks. Five had national audiences and the others had large local audiences. Each host agreed to discuss current news topics and to take calls from their listeners for my response.

After the first ten broadcasts, people listened to me more than any other broadcast. Even televised sporting events took a back seat. The Internet helped by allowing people to listen who were outside normal broadcasting range. Also, listeners could download the broadcasts and listen when convenient.

My role was to record voices and draw IYE to me. I kept callers talking for about one minute before thanking them and taking a new call. Everyone had an opinion about IYE. Some called with questions. Others claimed to have all the answers.

More than a few people called me a troublemaker because of my strong position against our government. I took the label as a good sign. After all, I promised to stir the pot. A man convinced me during the fourth interview that I was on the right track. He said I was like a woman where he works.

“I saw her pick at a paper cut on her thumb for hours,” he said. “She even picked at it with a nail file. Then, she showed it to others and they picked it to death. The next day she had to see a doctor. Silence would have worked better.”

He ended by saying, “That is the way it is with you, Sonny. You would serve us better with silence.”

My slogan set off callers too. Many accused me of stealing John Kennedy's famous words. My version: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for you.”

I have used it for years. It is sound advice for the ages. After all, the more we help ourselves, the less we need a handout. It is a funny thing, though. Nobody complained about my slogan until I turned into a rogue.

Others, mostly those bleeding the taxpayers, thought of me as a threat. They had slogans too, such as “I have my rights, you know.”

Many people failed to show respect because of my perceived change in attitude about our government. People who had heard my earlier broadcasts were shocked. They did not believe I meant what I said. I truly was a different Lew Barry. Others, those not familiar with me, were often hostile.

I gave respect to every caller, even to those who attacked me. With those, I held my nose and handled them with civility. Good manners go a long way. The politeness of the “old” Lew Barry did not change, only what I said changed.

To lure a call from IYE, I often said something like, “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Eighty percent of our income will go to taxes in thirty years. Now is the time to revolt. If we don't, we deserve what we get.”

Holding our government accountable became an obsession for me early in my broadcasting career. The obsession grew stronger during my effort to lure IYE. During every broadcast, I urged citizen revolts. However, in spite of using the word revolt, I always stressed peaceful demonstrations.

“Here in the United States, we have the right to protest,” I said. “We owe it to ourselves to keep on top of our affairs. If our quiet good-faith efforts fail, then we must revolt.”

I explained, “To revolt effectively, assemble groups across the country and act in an orderly way. Congress will listen to the masses. A handful of people acting without order is a different story. We do not have the right to tear down the country.”

“Let me explain,” I continued. “If you want to outlaw cars with 300 horsepower engines, for example, get organized with a few thousand people from each state. Make yourselves visible with marches for the media to see. Our Washington politicians will see you too. Change will come if you are on firm ground and if you persevere.”

Only a small bandwagon rolled for my head. Other than a few malcontents who attacked me on the air, nobody accused me of creating internal strife. Even those who demanded that stations take me off the air made no such accusations. They thought of the new Lew as repulsive, not subversive.

One incident came close, though. I especially upset the black community. It happened when an upset caller said, “Hitler had the right idea. He just had the wrong group.”

The caller blamed the blacks for our racial strife. “They keep the issue alive with their segregated groups for this and that,” he said. “You never hear of a white umpire’s union or a white Miss America contest, do you?”

“You are right, sir,” I said in answer to his question. I did not mean I agreed with his assertion about Adolph Hitler.

Still, my critics did not believe me. Some were quite hostile. “It sounded like you agreed with the caller who said Hitler had the right idea but the wrong group,” one said. “Do you mean that about me and my black brothers and sisters?”

“No,” I said, “That was my feeble attempt to calm an upset caller.”

Still not convinced, he hung up. I learned the importance of clarity from that ordeal.

The caustic helped, more than harmed, the cause. They often opened the door for me to let IYE know I might be an influential resource.

One man said, “You should go home. You are a coward! You are all hat and no cattle. With your money, you could overthrow Uncle Sam alone. Why don't you?”

To this man I replied, “I'm not ready yet.” I put a generous supply of emphasis on the word yet.

He then became extremely combative and said, “You are part of the group that caused havoc in the West. Why don’t you admit the truth?” “Tell me more,” I said. “Whom do you mean?”

“You know whom I mean,” he said with emphasis on the word whom. “You are one of the rich that sent all that hate mail. Go ahead and tell us the truth.”

He kept harping about a group of malcontents, the subject of a news item around Christmas a year or two earlier. I forgot it until he called. Even as he spoke, I could not remember the details because the story was in and out of the news so quick.

“Give me a hint,” I said. “What does the group do?”

“Admit it. You and two other rich dudes mailed racist and anti-Semitic posters to 10,000 homes. Those same homes got videos from you too. Now, it is time for you to tell the world.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “It is coming back.”

“I bet it is,” he said. “You never forgot.”

I did not deny that I was part of the group. Instead, I said politely, “I don't tell the world how I spend my money.”

I thought people would believe I was part of the group if I dodged the issue. Although I was right, I would have told the truth, by denying any involvement, if I had remembered the article.

The next day, I researched the article. It was shocking to read. The poster incorrectly described nonwhite people in a very profane way. After reading the article, I truly regretted my remark, one made without adequate preparation.

By then, it was too late. Over the next few days, dozens of callers criticized me. Some used the word Antichrist to describe me. Still, I had no regrets about the various labels because I had stirred the pot as requested and as promised.

Many people called for trivial reasons not directly related to IYE. One such caller was the woman who did not like me using the term “news reader.”

“You insult them,” she said. “You should call them reporters.”

I told her a person in front of a studio camera reads what someone else reported. “Am I a reporter when I read from my newspaper?” I asked. “No. I am a reader. A reader of what someone else reported.”

She hung up in a huff. Would she have called to talk about people reading the news during normal times? I doubt that she would. It is my guess that she, in a depressed state, found it difficult to manage. During bad times, people act differently.

One caller who was critical of me claimed to be the mayor of a city in Maine. “You're a shining example of uniformed trash,” he said. He did not offer to explain.

So, I begged, “Why do you so think?” “You say ethical people don't run for political office. You say only a loser runs for office. To hear you say it, people who run for office cannot do anything else.”

I told him, “Yes, I said that but don’t you see? It was the punch line of a joke.”

He did not mellow. “You still said it and that was wrong. I bet nobody likes you. Do they?”

“Not everyone but it doesn't matter. I like myself enough to make up for those who do not like me,” I answered.

Chapter 4 Snakes Come Out at Night Pages 48 - 52

It began only a few minutes after I left the warmth of the house. In spite of the cold weather, I dozed while sitting on the east porch swing with Ivy at my side. Her cold nose and wet tongue on my face brought me back to life. That was her way of telling me she saw an airplane approaching our airport. The watch dangling from my belt told me the time near the end of that Christmas day was 11:51 p.m.

The navigation lights went out on the downwind leg and the landing light was off during the entire approach. From a quarter of a mile away, I could see the pilot set the plane down without the propeller turning. The man, or woman, made a remarkable dead stick landing. Landing safely at night with no power at an unfamiliar airport is always remarkable but here the pilot pulled it off on an unlighted runway.

I don’t know why but I never thought to turn on the runway lights. Fortunately, enough of the sun’s light bounced off the moon for a safe landing. It allowed me to see well too. When the plane was on short final and convinced the pilot was in trouble, I jumped up and said, “Come on, Ivy, let’s help.”

We ran about ten seconds when I had second thoughts about helping. I became suspicious when the pilot braked to a quick stop the moment of touchdown. My suspicions grew when the pilot then slid from the seat onto the left wing and then jumped to the ground. Then, a second person ran from the trees. Together, they pushed the plane into the trees and out of sight.

I went inside and woke Kerrie. “Pay attention,” I said, “because something is wrong!”

After telling her what little I knew, I left with Ivy and the shotgun. Kerrie watched from the bedroom window as I walked to the barn with Ivy and woke Meow. From the southeast corner of the barn, I waited in the shadows with Ivy, Meow and the shotgun.

Two people soon came into view. With the help of the bright moon, I saw a man. The other person looked like a woman. They walked slowly and close to the trees. The man held a revolver in his right hand.

Person number two carried a bag that contained supplies for stealing people. They had handcuffs, blindfolds, knives, tape, rope, filled syringes and pills.

I startled them when I bolted from the corner of Meow's barn. As quick as lighting and without warning, I fired in the air and lunged at the man. In panic, he retaliated with a single shot that went wild.

At that instant, three more things happened. I took his firearm, shot him in the left knee and Meow leaped into the mix. His moaning left no doubt that he was in extreme misery. Since he was out of action, I turned to the other person.

Meow stood with her right paw on the other person’s chest. I was right. The other person was a woman. Her whining voice gave her away. Looking straight into Meow’s face from only inches away, she yelled a string of profanities and then, “Get out of here!”

I squeezed her cheeks with my left thumb and forefinger to quiet her and said, “My little kitty doesn't like insults. Apologize to her. Look her in the face and, with a loving smile in your voice, say, ‘Please, get up and away from me you pretty kitten.’. Say it now or the cat stays. If you say anything else, I’ll sew up your filthy mouth.”

Hysterical, the woman could only scream and cry, so I ordered Meow to relax. Meow then stretched out with the full weight of her two front legs across the woman’s newly flattened breasts.

The woman finally calmed some but could not talk. She could only cry.

“Listen,” I said, “I need a little revenge. Now, pay attention. This is how I get it.”

Saying nothing else and using her companion’s revolver, I cracked her right ulna. It was easier, less messy, and just as satisfying as sewing her mouth. Besides, I never carry needle and thread.

By then, the work was over. Kerrie called the 9-1-1 operator when she heard shots. I yelled to her that I was in good shape and then waited for the law.

Never let anyone tell you dogs are better protection than cats. Meow worked. Ivy merely watched from thirty-five feet while sitting on her left buttock. I can still see her tongue hanging and her eyes looking straight at me.

Ivy is a much better drinking buddy than Meow though. We get at it on the front porch two or three times a week. She drinks from a bowl of water while I sip tea. The party never gets wild, we seldom talk and she usually falls asleep. Sometimes I fall asleep too.

Yet, for protection, she is no match for the right kind of cat. I've told her that too. She doesn’t care. She just licks my face until I push her away.

Two deputies from the sheriff’s office arrived in twenty minutes. They gave first aid to the couple, Charles and Jill Dunn, before one deputy asked questions of me. I put Meow back in her barn and waited for medical help that came a few minutes later.

The Dunns were in pain but not me. I enjoyed every second. Of course, I was polite; I even smiled when our eyes met. Cheerfully, I helped them reap what they sowed.

Charles Dunn told their plan to the deputies right away which caused me to question his sanity. Who admits guilt today? It must have been the pain talking. Even the most nasty people sometimes act with remorse when in pain.

According to Charles Dunn, Kerrie was worth ten million dollars to me. That was their price for me to reclaim her. When I heard their story about spiriting Kerrie away, I knew they were fools because they went about it like buffoons.

The Dunns saw Zitter and me leave at five o'clock but they did not see us return. Therefore, they thought Kerrie was alone. That was their second mistake of three.

The third mistake was admitting guilt and the first was thinking I would return the same way I left. Instead, I came home in a car.

I took Zitter to my friend for a new paint job. I had arranged for Al, my friend and the painter, to take me home on his way to a hardware store. Al wanted to drive me all the way to my house but I declined. Instead, I walked to the house from the road, taking a shortcut through the trees. If Al had driven me to the house, the Dunns would have seen the car’s headlights and probably would have suspected that I returned.

The poor saps did not see me from where they watched on the side of a mountain. For one reason, the trees blocked much of their view of our lane. It was dark as well. Besides, they didn’t think to look for someone walking. They expected an airplane.

At eleven o'clock, the man drove to the airport at Taylor, Arizona, about twenty miles from our ranch. He flew back in the getaway plane while his friend waited. When he returned, she met him at the landing spot, prepared for action. She got action but with an unplanned outcome.

The deputy accepted my story of self-defense. For that, I am still grateful. He could have charged me with assault. The man’s injury was an act of self-defense but I broke the woman’s arm only for sport. By then, Kerrie, Donna Jean and I were out of harms way.

The deputy wanted to charge the Dunns with attempted kidnaping but I suggested otherwise. Mostly, I feared the publicity would give someone else the same idea.

“Let’s forget it,” I said. “They didn’t harm us and we have no property damage. I would rather go to bed.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Barry? You must be one swell guy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m a swell guy too.”

I had another reason for not wanting to charge the Dunns, a reason that I intentionally did not mention. I knew from my knowledge of airplanes that theirs had only two seats. It had no room for a third person; it hardly had room for two people and a bag. Instead of kidnaping, I suspected their mission was something else but what I didn’t know. Since I feared that the Dunns might have an IYE connection, I wanted to prevent the deputy from connecting me to IYE.

The deputy was suspicious too. “How were you going to put Mrs. Barry in that plane?” he sarcastically asked Charles Dunn. “It doesn’t have enough room."

Charles Dunn only shrugged his shoulders. Jill Dunn, pretending not to hear the question, turned her head away from the deputy. Neither answered and the deputy noted their lack of response in his report.

Before leaving, the deputy learned that the Dunns were hot items with the law. California wanted them for breaking into mailboxes and now Arizona had them for property theft. The truck they used for watching from the mountainside and the airplane were not theirs. They stole both from the Flagstaff airport.

Chapter 5 Joe Bolin Pages 60 - 64

Kerrie and Donna Jean left for Europe the second Sunday of the last January of the second millennium. I went to Columbus, Ohio the same day to speak to a group the following day. To the group, I gave my arguments for closing the Internal Revenue Service.

Early in the evening of that Monday, I received an e-mail message from a man who identified himself as Joe Bolin. He asked to see me but refused to give a reason. I could only guess.

Perhaps Mr. Bolin attended the meeting and wanted to pick my brain, I told myself. That was my best guess, although I did not recognize his name. I was wrong. Mr. Bolin turned out to be a piece of the puzzle in different ways.

At 7:00 p.m., I called him from my hotel lobby but he would only talk to me in person. We agreed to meet in an hour. “Come to my hotel,” I said. “Look for me in front of the gift shop holding a six-inch ruler. Describing a six-inch ruler is easier than describing clothing.”

I arrived with a small recorder taped to my chest inside a dark baggy shirt. Perhaps I would get a good voice for Sparks.

Bolin was waiting. He saw the ruler and walked over. “I feel foolish asking,” he said, “but I will anyway. Are you Lew Barry?”

I laughed, extended my hand, and told him yes.

Bolin was an impressive man. He had no facial hair. His dark blue suit never saw a rack. His snappy red tie looked good on his pale blue dress shirt. At 5 feet 11 inches, he weighed about 165 pounds and I judged his age at forty years.

Nothing about the appearance of Bolin suggested poverty. Everything suggested just the opposite, opulence. An expensive watch decorated his left wrist and an impressive wedding ring did the same to his left hand. His cuff links, sparkling with precious gems, cost more than a few dollars.

To me the most impressive of all was the pen and pencil set clipped to his shirt pocket. The clip of each very elegantly showed four diamond letters. I meant to ask Bolin the significance of the letters, SBNI, but forgot.

Bolin was clearly ill at ease and a little wobbly from drinking too much. He struck me as a teetotaler on the hunt for courage. A chat and a sandwich seemed in order so we walked one block north on High Street to a snack shop.

After seating ourselves on stools at the counter, he said, “From your web site, I knew you would be here today. I drove down from my home in Findlay to see you. By the way, call me Joe.”

“You might have missed me,” I lied because I planned to spend the night in town. “I finished my work around noon and could have been two states away by now. Anyway, what do you want to talk about, Joe?”

He removed his glasses and looked at me before talking. Deep marks on his nose showed his glasses were too tight. He studied me much like King studied me before he and Sparks dropped the bomb. I told myself to get prepared.

Bolin convinced me that I passed his test when he continued. “I know the identity of IYE,” he said.

“You do?” I asked with an attitude of indifference without showing surprise or concern.

“Yes, it consists of only one person. I know him.”

Pretending disinterest, I said, “You should go to the police. All I do is talk all day. Catching bad boys is not my kind of work.”

“That's right, you talk and you talk very well,” he said while playing with his burger that was just delivered. I then waited in silence for him to say something.

A half-minute later, after building a head of steam, he said, “I want you to talk to the police. Leave my name out of the story. Just tell them an unidentified man gave you a tip.”

“Is that all?” He acted as if he had more to say.

“No. Make sure nobody knows I talked to you.”

“Why?” I asked.

Straight to the point he said, “He took me for a ride in a business deal. I don’t want my family to know. My marriage is unstable because of financial problems. If he learns I turned him in, I will have more troubles at home than I can handle.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I’m interested because I am the curious type. Tell me more if you want but I doubt that I will take your story to the police. Just want you to know where you stand from the beginning.”

“Mr. Barry, I hope you will take my story to the police. It is important to me. Since I can’t get my money back, I want the law to punish him without mercy.”

“OK, keep talking.” I was right. He had a lot to tell me. If his story was true, IYE was as good as caught.

After he told his story, I changed the subject as a way to end the meeting. “Well, let me think about it for a day or two. I don’t want to horse around with the police, but this is important so I might.”

“It's about eight-thirty,” I said. “I have a few things to do before going to bed. Are you going back to Findlay tonight?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said. His lack of emotion failed to convince me.

It was late for him to start the long drive home. He had been up all day and was far from sober. I did not want him to drive off the road because I thought he might be useful later.

“You look too tired to start the trip back to Findlay,” I said. “Will you stay here overnight?”

Bolin said no at first. Then he changed his mind. The change of mind came when I offered to pay his hotel bill.

During the walk to the hotel, I realized Bolin did not tell me the whole truth. I repeatedly tried to talk about the city of Findlay but got nowhere. It seemed like a good topic for conversation but Bolin must have thought differently. He changed the subject each time. Perhaps his story about IYE was true but, if so, he did not seem to know much about Findlay, Ohio.

I tried again. “Findlay is a pleasant city. Have you lived there long?”

“All my life,” he said without conviction. He responded to almost everything I said about Findlay with grunts and nods.

Suspecting he did not live in the fine city of Findlay, I brought up the subject of Marathon Oil. “You must like all the money Marathon puts into your economy,” I said.

“Marathon? Oh, yeah, Marathon. We all hope they do not pull up stakes and leave. We need them.”

Something was wrong! Findlay was home to Marathon before moving to Houston a decade or so earlier. Why did Bolin not correct me?

If he lived there, he would know about Marathon for Findlay was a small city. I remembered Findlay as a city with a population of about 36,000 ten years earlier. I let it go. We were back at the hotel by then and I had heard enough.

“This is Mr. Bolin,” I said to the desk clerk. “Put him in a room of his choice for the night. Let him charge what he wants. I’ll pay his bill in the morning.”

Turning to Joe, I said, “I will think about going to the police with your story. If I do, I will go tomorrow before I leave town.”

He said, “OK, but don’t give them my name and I don’t want you to call me either.”

We shook hands and I went to my room. I left him with the desk clerk.

-----

I slept well and was up at 6:00 a.m. That morning, I ate breakfast as I took a shower, a feat I seldom try. However, to save time, I filled my mouth while outside the shower and chewed while inside.

By seven I had made two copies of the Bolin tape and left them, with the original, at a shipment collection point. One went to King and the other to Sparks. I sent the original home for safekeeping.

Life is one surprise after another. At the front desk, I learned Bolin never checked in for the night. The same desk clerk that was on duty eleven hours earlier gave me the lowdown. “After you went to your room,” he said, “I asked Mr. Bolin to sign the guest card but he balked.”

“Did he say why?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the desk clerk, “but only that he changed his mind. Then I changed my mind too. I handed him a room key and told him to forget the guest card. I knew you were good for the bill.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He refused the key, buttoned his coat and walked out the north door. It was almost like he planned to leave all along.”

Good old Joe must have left when I disappeared inside the elevator. It should not have surprised me. He was far from stable and predictable the night before.

Chapter 6 Zinch Pages 72 -76

I had put my bags in Zitter and started the preflight work. The sound of a truck stopping at the wing tip did not alarm me because I expected someone to bring my fuel bill. Besides, service vehicles always buzz around airports. I remember starting, but not completing, a check of the port engine oil level with my back turned to the truck.

My next awareness was waking with a pounding head in an unheated room. Only after adjusting to my new quarters could I see that the room was in poor repair. A sliver of light under the door helped me see the outlines of a cot, sink, shower stall, and toilet. The room had no windows, lights or hot water. Torn wiring dangled from the ceiling where walls once surrounded the bathroom.

Where they dumped me, I had no idea. The place must have been in the sticks because it was so quiet. I heard no sounds of cars, trains or airplanes.

A man wearing a ski mask, who said his name was Mr. B, entered the room. It had been a long time since I had seen anyone with the anger of Mr. B who was sore for two reasons. First, I would not talk. Second, I learned after another five minutes that he believed I was not Lew Barry. It was then that he left the room in a rage, yelling loud enough to wake the dead.

Through the walls, I heard him scream. Although I heard screaming, it was so faint that I concluded they put me in a soundproofed room. “Tell me why you think Lew Barry is in that room! The man does not have one piece of paper that tells me his name! He could be anyone!”

A voice answered, “A man at the airport told me.”

“How do you know the man was right?” the livid Mr. B screamed.

“The man sounded like he knew Barry. What else could I have done?”

Preceded by a string of profanities, I heard Mr. B say, “You could have looked in his wallet. It’s too late now because he has no wallet with him.”

I left everything, including my money and identification, in Zitter. They had no way to know me. My face had never been in a newspaper or on television.

“We didn’t have time. We had to work fast. He was about to get in his plane and zoom off,” the other voice said.

Judging from the conversation, I thought four people were outside my room. However, I heard only two different voices.

“That man isn’t Lew Barry,” Mr. B said. “He is a coward. In spite of all his muscles, he is afraid of his shadow. Barry is the toughest man alive. Now, who is that man?”

I did not hear another word. What I heard was someone attacking a human punching bag. It is my guess that Mr. B was the bully. Then, someone, probably Mr. B, came back to the room, stopped outside the door and waited for about thirty seconds without saying a word. I could hear frustration in his breathing.

Hoping we would meet again, but as equals, I tried to remember each voice. Given a fair chance, I could whip any of them.

Toward the end of the first day Mr. B, the tough guy, said, “Listen up! This is Zinch. Zinch people are not friendly people. Tell me all I want to know or I will have your family. That’s the best advice you will ever hear.”

I soon learned that Mr. B used the word “Zinch” for any location on the planet Earth. Zinch could be Annapolis, Indianapolis, Minneapolis or any other city Mr. B wanted to call Zinch. That was his way of putting a label on a place without identifying the place.

I knew more about my family than Mr. B realized. His having my family was an empty threat. Kerrie and Donna Jean would not come home from Europe until they talked to me. That was our plan. They were safe.

I also knew Kerrie would hire a good security team if necessary. That too was our plan. No, Mr. B could not harm them. He would have more success climbing up a lightning bolt.

Further, Kerrie and I promised early in our marriage that we would die before yielding to kidnapers. It is unlikely that either of us will break. Why? I can only answer by saying that is the way we are.

I liked knowing that Mr. B thought of me as coward. He would not expect me, a coward, to bust out. I knew I could and, if the chance came, Mr. B would have the pleasure of wondering what went wrong.

Early during the second day, I realized Mr. B was certain of my identity. How he learned, I do not know. He probably heard news reports about my disappearance but he might have investigated for himself. Anyway, he knew.

Mr. B did not return after the second day. Instead, the “boss” and two others took care of their captive. I never heard the voice of Mr. B again but I believe he ran the field operation. Another person, or a group of people, I thought, ran the overall operation. Mr. B was a good soldier but would have been pathetic as a general.

The boss and his boys insisted I tell why I turned against our government but they never mentioned IYE. They beat me constantly to make me talk. I did not say a single word during my captivity, not even a grunt, in spite of the punishment. None of them would ever recognize my voice from the Zinch encounter.

Even their whips failed to hurt me. I only flinched once or twice. They did not understand how I held up.

Nobody who knew me could understand. My dad told me he could never spank me hard enough to make me cry. He never understood why. It puzzled my mom too.

“Harvey! Stop! Touch him another time and I call the police!” Mom said to Dad when I was nine years of age.

He stopped the belt lashing as she ordered. She should not have yelled at the old man though. I had it coming because I had just banged up the family car. Not many people have achieved so much at such a young age.

Dad parked the car in front of the mayor’s house, set the hand brake and walked toward the front door. Just as he knocked, I released the brake. I had watched him and Mom drive enough to know all about levers, handles, knobs and pedals. Then, off I went. A passerby stopped the car just as my huffing and puffing dad got there.

Dad was quiet during the ride home. He waited until we were in our basement and out of the hearing range of neighbors. Then he lit into me. Those were the days before local governments got into the child care business. Parents could still discipline their kids.

Mom entered the basement when she heard my dad yelling and screaming. She pushed Dad aside, then looked at me, and said, “Are you OK, Lewis?” I nodded my head up and down. Then she said, “Your back is full of bruises. Don’t you hurt?”

I nodded my head from left to right and back. “I don’t believe it,” she said as she looked into my eyes.

Dad never struck me again. To this day, I still think of him as my best childhood friend.

My parents were not alone in trying to understand my inability to feel pain. Friends and professionals have talked to me about the unusual condition over the years.

A navy doctor said it best. Giving me his official explanation, he said, “You have a defective brain, sailor.”

“Thanks a lot, sir,” I joked. “Make the record show me as a misfit and send me home.”

Liking military life as I did, I didn’t want to go home. That was just my way of making conversation. Flippant remarks are as much of me as is breathing.

He laughed and said, “What is torture to most people is a mere flip of a rubber band to you. Your brain fails to detect anything less than what most of us think of as severe pain.”

He had heard stories about me from the others. Most of what he heard came from Paul Scott, my friend from North Dakota. Paul and I spent six months together in Hanoi as prisoners of war.

The enemy could not break me physically or emotionally. More than one guard said something like, “My friend, it is time to cut off your fingers.”

Once, a guard promised to remove my right hand unless I talked. I didn’t talk. Now, years later, I still have two hands with eight fingers and two thumbs.

Another guard told me that Dad killed Mom before blowing off his own head. I didn’t believe the story but I had to wait a few months to know for sure.

I knew Dad could have gone berserk. People do every day. If he did, I concluded, he must have had a good reason. However, the story wasn’t true. He and Mom are now close to ninety years of age and they move around every day.

Surely, I could survive life with the goons of Mr. B. After all, I had been through more torture than I expected from them. I feared nothing, not even death.

The Toll Pages 96 -100

The IYE debacle became grave while I was in Zinch. The media stepped up its coverage because of the people’s demands. We were a nation in trouble.

As a way to gather more recorded voices for Sparks, I stopped traveling. Less travel permitted more airtime.

Since I scheduled a long vacation anyway, I welcomed the chance to stay home. Kerrie, Donna Jean and I enjoyed our time together. The three of us played Chinese checkers, our favorite game, daily.

Kerrie and I spent a couple of hours each day in Zitter practicing instrument flying procedures. I found time for night jumps as well. Sure, I cheated but so what? Does it matter that I always landed at the same safe, and lighted, spot next to Meow’s barn?

I avoided most physical labor. Just the thought caused me to bubble over with apathy. Besides, IYE kept me busy enough.

With IYE taking its toll, everyone had a story to tell. Some were merely amusing; others left lasting reminders of the troubled times. Some, but not all, came about because people refused to use the telephone. Others came about because of financial hardships related to IYE.

-----

A man living in Spring, Texas spent the night in jail because he refused to use the telephone. When his wife failed to come home on time, he drove to her office. “Get her out here right now,” he said to the security guard. “Get the man she is with too. I want them now!”

The guard tried to explain. “Your wife had to work late and was afraid to call you,” she said. “You know how the phones are.”

When the man became abusive, a passerby called the police. The jealous husband didn’t get home until the next day. The police held him overnight because of his threatening behavior. If he had not blown up, he would have gone home with his wife.

-----

Fate was worse to a Bismarck, North Dakota woman. She put off calling home when her car broke down on a snow-covered road. Instead, she sat in the warm car with the engine running while waiting for help. To avoid breathing exhaust from the car, she wisely cracked her window a few inches.

At 1:00 a.m., no help came as she waited on the lonely back road. Few people were out that late even in good weather. That night, the minus forty degree wind-chill factor was deathly. A foot of fresh snow made driving quite difficult. People without a need to travel stayed home.

Not one car passed during the two hours she waited with faith that someone would find her. The car heater did its job and kept her toasty warm as she persevered. She even fell asleep unworried and in comfort. The woman slept soundly until the car engine stopped.

With no gasoline to keep the engine running, the car quickly became very cold. Knowing she had to do something, she foolishly set out walking toward her house. Not until the pain became unbearable a mile down the road did the woman use the telephone in her purse and call home. Her son found his weeping mother four miles from home and took her to the hospital with severe frostbite. Doctors removed two toes from her right foot.

-----

Jim Donavin and his brother John of Martinsville, Indiana created the most bizarre incident of all. Out of work and desperate, they put on a show to raise money. The show was a game of double Russian roulette. Jim and John were not only the organizers they were the main attraction as well. Four hundred people paid a dollar each to watch the event, held at their dad’s farm.

Jim and John agreed to divide the money in one of three ways. They would share the money equally if both survived. If only one survived, all the money would go to the widow of the deceased. If neither survived, their widows would share the money equally.

As the crowd watched from behind a yellow ribbon, their father opened a new box of ammunition. He put one bullet in each of two revolvers and spun the cylinder of each before handing one revolver to Jim and the other to John. Then, Jim and John walked ten steps in opposite directions before turning to face the crowd. Other than a loud collective gasp from the spectators when the men turned, silence prevailed.

The brothers stood, each holding a gun tilted upward at his nose while facing the crowd, until their dad gave the command to fire. In the silence, those gathered could hear only the clicking sound of a hammer striking an empty chamber. Nobody heard two clicks. Those closest to Jim heard the click from his gun and those at the other end heard the click from John’s gun.

To show the audience that each revolver contained live ammunition, Jim and John then fired their guns at tin cans. Jim’s gun fired on the second squeeze of the trigger. John squeezed the trigger of his gun once. Both cans took off like rocks skipping across a lake. Nobody could deny that the event was fair.

Though nobody claimed the shootout was dishonest, a riot developed anyway. Raising a fist and using a generous portion of profanity, a man ran to the brothers shouting “I want my money back.”

John Donavin quietly said, “Sorry, Randy. All sales are final. You knew that before we took your money.”

Randy might have known but he didn’t let on. “I came to see blood. You let me down. I, by God, demand you refund my money!”

Another man took Randy by the arm and said, “Look, you got what they promised. They only promised an event and that’s what you saw.”

“It wasn’t the event I wanted,” said the drunken Randy. “I came to see blood. If we don’t stop them, they will pull this farce again.”

“Yeah!” said another man from the crowd. While sweeping his head from right to left and back, he asked the crowd, “Is that right or not?”

That’s all it took. About a dozen men joined Randy demanding refunds. Shortly after that, another dozen or so stepped forward, cursing all the way. Mob rule took over during the next twenty minutes. Five spectators died and forty needed medical treatment.

Jim and John kept the money and, since that Sunday morning, never entertained the public again. They never played Russian roulette while alone either.

----- Most incidents were not violent. Many were amusing and made interesting reading. Jerry Waterman, a distant cousin of mine, proudly participated in one such incident. He and the owners of the next-door property entertained their New Mexico neighborhood during a three-month-long property line feud.

Jerry contends the feud came about from the stress his neighbors endured because of IYE. He had lived next door to Michael and Michelle Coals, known as Mickey and Mickey, eight years. Jerry and the Coals got along well until the female Mickey lost her job.

Her employer, a grocery chain, closed five stores in New Mexico at the height of the IYE saga. Mickey’s store was a victim. It was then when the Coals became difficult for Jerry.

A brilliant man, he was nobody’s fool. Cousin Jerry made his mark as the chief legal counsel of an established company where annual sales exceeded three billion dollars. Thirty years with the company took Jerry a long way. As he developed and exercised his considerable influence, employees considered him the defacto chief executive officer.

The affectionate name of Jerry the Just, given to him by friends at work, describes him very well. At home, Jerry proudly displays a trophy engraved with those words that the employees presented to him during his retirement dinner.

Born in a poor farm family, Jerry became wealthy by age forty and very wealthy by age fifty. Declaring that work sucks, he quit his Michigan job at age fifty-three and moved to the Southwest with his wife, June.

“I’m not the only person to say work sucks,” he told me. “It is just than I am fortunate and can quit working while I’m still young.”

In retirement, Jerry travels, tends to his investments and works in the yard. Travel gives Jerry the most enjoyment. “Now, June can visit places I have seen without her. She had to stay home during my business trips to raise our children. I felt bad for her because she had to do many things around the house that I would have done if I were home.”

Few family members like Jerry, probably because of jealously. I especially admire him because I share his outlook on life. Still, I harbor a trace of jealously, which I never mention, because Jerry achieved what I haven’t. Jerry became wealthy on his own; I had my wealth given to me.

Chapter 8 The Blind Hog Pages 110 - 114

A big break came the second Sunday after I returned home from Zinch. I have driven to a cafe in Snowflake almost every Sunday morning for years. While there, I pick up the Sunday Tribune and chat with the guys. We jack-jaw for an hour or two and I go home. I think of those times as our informal lodge meetings.

That Sunday was almost the same but not quite. A photo on page one of the Tribune resembled someone I thought I knew. Without reading the article, I dismissed the photo as that of a celebrity I saw on television. It didn’t seem important. I glanced at most of the newspaper, tossed it in the back seat and started the drive home.

Then, about a mile down the road, a bell sounded inside my head. Whoa! The image of the photo above the fold hit me like hot buckshot. Without stopping, I shot several quick glances at the photo. Convinced I knew the man, I lunged for the paper and yanked it up to the front seat.

The article identified the man as Ned Nelyson, a name I did not recognize. It was uncanny. The impact of seeing the photo stunned me. I knew him from somewhere. Sometime recently, we had met.

Rather than struggling to stay on the snow-covered road, I pulled into a farm driveway. There, I studied the photo and noticed the story headline, “SBNI Executive Held - No Bail.” SBNI? Where have I heard of SBNI? Of course, it came back to me before my next heartbeat.

Those were the letters on Joe Bolin’s pen and pencil clips. I studied the picture again. Yes, I did know the man but not as Ned Nelyson.

The newly grown beard and moustache changed the looks of much of his face but they did not hide his nose. I knew only one person with the same deep nose indentations that tight eyeglasses cause. Beyond all doubt, Nelyson was the same man I knew as Joe Bolin!

The gist of the front-page story, full of details, was that Ned Nelyson needed money. He chose to get it from a wealthy Utah socialite. Instead, he got no money and his botched attempt that Friday afternoon led to his unraveling. What the newspaper didn’t tell, I learned during the next ten days.

Nelyson found his target, Gail Moore, at a Salt Lake City art museum. Finding her was easy because she spent many hours at the museum working as a volunteer. Seeking the spotlight, she kept the newspaper reporters up to date about her activities. In turn, the reporters kept the public up to date. One would see her name in print almost every week and her picture at least once a month.

Mrs. Moore, the widow of hall of fame baseball pitcher Melvin “Mutt” Moore, was worth more than twenty-five million dollars. Nelyson planned to make his own pitch at the museum. He had a good plan but inattention to details and poor decisions at the museum led to his downfall.

After losing Mrs. Moore in the crowd, Nelyson mistakenly thought he found her. Nobody else would wear such an unusual hat, he thought. Nelyson approached the woman from behind, took her by the arm and whispered, “You have what I want. Just act normal.”

Instead, she did what was normal for a startled woman. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath. Just before the scream, Nelyson put his hand over her mouth. He then quickly turned her, and himself, away from the crowd before anyone noticed.

Nelyson knew right away that he had the wrong woman. She and Mrs. Moore wore similar hats and were of the same size. Otherwise, they did not come close to looking alike. If he had taken just a quick look at her face before talking, he might never have encountered the Salt Lake City police.

When Nelyson realized his mistake, panic took over. Unable to think clearly, he went ahead with the plan he prepared two days earlier instead of walking away. By then, the woman, a visitor from Bend, Oregon, regained her composure and gave Nelyson the appearance of cooperation.

“I foolishly followed a script written for a different player,” Nelyson explained later. “I should have told her I mistook her for my sister and apologized. Instead, I felt it was worth a try. I am a desperate man.”

Nelyson gave the woman her orders. “Bring only one-hundred dollar bills. Put one thousand of them in a box and keep the box in your car trunk. Remember, I know who you are and I know about the man that you entertain. You wouldn’t want the press to know too, would you?”

It was a bluff. Nelyson knew nothing about the woman’s personal habits. To him, it seemed like the thing to say because it was in the script. Nelyson put it in the script because of rumors that the Utah socialite had a married man on the side. After a few days of rehearsing, Nelyson went on like a robot.

In disbelief, the woman stared at him without speaking. Nelyson became nervous and confused. He then forgot everything he had rehearsed and switched from robot to human in his behavior. Not knowing what to do, he flew by the seat of his pants.

“I’ll be right over there tomorrow at noon,” he said, pointing to a fountain at the entrance. “Park your car where I can see you. Get out of the car and walk to the back. Open the trunk lid and look around inside. Then close the lid and get back in the car.”

She said, “OK, but what then? If I do all this for you, I don’t want hurt.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Nelyson said. “Just bring the money.”

“I hope I can trust you. Can I?”

“Yes,” Nelyson replied without hesitation. “You should know something else too,” he said while patting the left side of his rib cage as if he had a revolver. “I will have my friend here too. This little guy will bolt into action if you cause trouble.”

Nelyson did not have a weapon of any kind. To the woman from Bend, he looked so pathetic. He probably does not know how to shoot a gun, she thought.

“OK, you can go, now,” Nelyson said. “Remember, you are here tomorrow or the press gets a letter.”

The woman, not wealthy but of ordinary means, took a cab to the hotel where her husband waited. She promptly told him of the strange encounter. “That poor deranged man needs help,” she said.

Knowing his wife, Myra, was pure, the old man fumed. She wanted to forget the incident but her husband, Ted, said no. Together, Myra and Ted Stone went to the police.

The police were skeptical. Myra did not want to talk so, therefore, Ted did all the talking. Ted quickly annoyed the officer by not giving Myra a chance to talk the few times she started to answer questions. After five minutes, Myra’s reluctance to talk caused the officer to become forceful.

“Look, Mrs. Stone,” he said. “You come to me with a complaint and refuse to talk. Mr. Stone does all the talking but you claim to be the victim. I have to wonder if you have something to hide.”

“This is so silly,” Myra told the officer. “I’m safe and I won’t go to the museum tomorrow to meet him. Ted and I planned to start our drive home in the morning. He must have mistook me for someone else. Why the fuss?”

“He can alarm someone else or do something worse,” the officer explained. “I say this from years of experience.”

“OK,” Myra said. “Yes, you know best. Sunglasses covered most of his face. He tried hard to not let me get a good look at him. I can only say he is in his early forties and about the size of Ted.”

After a few seconds, the officer came around. The woman’s sincerity convinced him to continue. After taking her statement, the officer escorted Myra and Ted to another officer.

The second officer knew exactly what to do. Without excusing himself, he rose from his chair, peered out the door and motioned. He returned to his chair and sipped from a coffee cup without talking. It was not until a policewoman knocked and walked through the door moments later that he spoke.

“This is Officer Vera Gilber,” the second officer said as he introduced the three people. He then explained the situation to Gilber and said, “She will pose as you, Mrs. Stone. We want you to watch from a safe distance with another officer. Officer Gilber will bring a box stuffed with paper to the museum. We will put a few bills on top of the paper to satisfy the man.”

The next day, Officer Gilber went to the art museum with the box. Three police officers, ready to move, waited. Each officer wore the kind of clothing one would expect to see at an art museum. They blended well with the crowd.

One officer, a man, waited inside with Myra Stone who had dressed in a way to make herself unrecognizable to Nelyson. Together, they watched the entrance from inside the gift shop office. The other two officers, one a man and one a woman, watched from outside. Sitting on the same side of a picnic table in the unusually warm weather, they looked like vacationers. To complete the deception, they placed a camera on the table and ate burgers bought at a nearby fast food restaurant.

Chapter 9 SBNI Pages 123 - 127

Zitter and I arrived at Denver Tuesday afternoon, the next day. At eight o’clock sharp, Wednesday morning, I walked into the empty lobby of Sounds By Nelyson, Inc. After signing the guest book, I took a seat. A million thoughts raced through my head as I thumbed the pages of an audio magazine.

Could I pull it off? Will Mrs. Nelyson take me in or will she kick me out? Would I regret my boldness and the notion that she would accept me as a business consultant?

I did not wait long. A woman with a long face and clacking heels walked to a desk in the lobby, picked up some papers and left without greeting me.

Seconds later, she returned. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to ignore you. My mind was elsewhere. Our receptionist took some papers to production. She will be back soon.”

Suspecting she was Mrs. Nelyson, and understanding why she had an occupied mind, I smiled but said nothing. Most people with a spouse in jail would have a fully occupied mind.

She smiled and turned to leave again. Then, she suddenly stopped with her back to me. Turning again to face me, she smiled again before resuming her walk down the hall. Then, three steps later, she stopped and turned around another time.

It hit me. Clearly, she thought she knew me. About one blink of the eye later, I understood. “Why, Mr. Barry,” she said. “What brings you here?”

Surprised, I lied without conviction, “Oh! I signed the book. I'm Thomas Gray, of Thomas Gray Consulting, to see Mrs. Nelyson.”

“I'm Ilanna Nelyson. I do not know Thomas Gray but I have met Lew Barry, the speaker. You can’t fool me,” said with a friendly laugh as if I were an old friend teasing her.

“Aw, c’mon, I know you are Lew Barry,” she continued. “You were in town a few years ago and made a convincing argument for buying car insurance at the gas pump. Will you please tell me what this trip is about?”

The plan was, I thought, in danger. I feared I crossed the line from confidence to arrogance with no graceful way back. Mrs. Nelyson was friendly enough, friendlier than most of us could imagine with a spouse housed in a distant jail. Still, not knowing what to do, my mind wandered all over the place.

She was right. I remembered the speech but, after five years, I forgot meeting her. Searching my memory, I could only remember one person in the group, a man, and that is because he arranged the event.

Paying for auto insurance at the pump is a simple notion. Equipment could easily scan the vehicle identification number for a description of the vehicle. Equipment could then analyze a personal attribute of the buyer such as a thumbprint or eye retina. The vehicle description and the buyer’s driving history along with locality history would determine the cost of insurance.

Pay-at-the-pump insurance has two powerful benefits. One, every car on the road would have insurance coverage. Two, insurance would cost less. By paying insurance premiums where we buy fuel, we would not have to support thousands of insurance agents or other insurance company employees. With an adjustment in driving habits, we could reduce the cost of insurance further by buying less fuel.

Although the system would operate without a hitch, it probably will never come about because of the insurance companies. Those in the business want more insurance jobs, not fewer. Still, I keep pushing the notion because it is best for the public. Businesses try to avoid unnecessary costs and individuals should as well.

Ilanna Nelyson only needed a few seconds to revive my memory. She recognized me because I looked the same as five years earlier when I delivered that presentation. When preparing for the visit to SBNI, I unwittingly changed my appearance to what it was five years earlier. Other than adding a few years, I looked no different from when she saw me.

I felt doomed. My mistakes are few but those I make belong in the record book.

“Let’s use my husband’s office,” she said. “I’m not here much and do not have an office. I hope you have heard all you want to hear about his difficulty in Utah because I prefer avoiding the subject.”

“Yes, I have Mrs. Nelyson,” I said as we entered Ned Nelyson’s office. “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

She asked for and deserved an answer. I thought it best to confess because, after lying about my identity, I could not quickly come up with a believable story. This time, I hoped my best judgment was sound.

After clearing my voice, I told her about much of my role with IYE. Thinking it best, I did not mention King or Sparks.

“Mr. Nelyson called me at my hotel in Ohio a few weeks ago using the name Joe Bolin,” I began. About five minutes later I concluded by saying, “I saw his photo in my local newspaper Sunday. I think he is part of IYE. I do not like telling you what I am about to say Mrs. Nelyson. The tinnitus epidemic probably got its start in this building.”

“It doesn't surprise me,” she said with her eyes on the computer screen saver. Ironically, it showed a snake slithering through the grass. I thought of Ned Nelyson as I watched.

“Ned kept me out of everything. Anything could happen here and I would never know. By the way, call me Ilanna. Should I call you Lew, Mr. Barry or that Tom guy?”

“Call me Thomas, please. I don't want the others out there,” I said pointing toward the office door, “to know why I'm here. That is, if you permit me to stay.”

She opened her mouth to answer just as Ned's secretary, Lori, knocked and entered. “Excuse me,” she said as she handed Ilanna a note. “I think you should read this.”

Ilanna read the note and excused herself. She went to the next room and closed the door. Through an opening in the window shade, I saw her pick up the telephone.

With Ilanna out of the room, I used the time to assess her. Around forty years of age at five feet and eight inches, she had brown hair and brown eyes. I guessed her weight at 135 pounds. Ilanna’s physical and verbal poise suggested she was nobody’s fool.

Her snappy western attire put me on her cheering team. To me, the east has come too far west. Real women wear western skirts and jeans. Real men wear bolas. Only men who are real puppets wear neckties.

However, I realize I am in the minority because I often like what most people reject. A battered pickup truck, the vehicle of choice for real people, is one example. To me, leather-seated sports utility vehicles are for lost souls.

My favorite all-time truck is a ten-year-old pickup that I borrowed from a woman in Gilbert, Arizona. With 250,000 miles showing on the odometer, it came with two problems. The driver's door would not close and it would not go down the road straight. The owner warned me but I borrowed it anyway. I loved driving that truck.

In spite of her poise, I could see that Ilanna needed rest. Judging from her eyes, I had no doubt that worrying about the old man kept her awake all night. That concerned me because I have difficulty predicting the behavior of tired and worried people whom I do not know. Not knowing how she would behave the next day or the day after that, I wondered if I could trust her.

I did not know her one hour earlier. I reminded myself that other people have fooled me and she could too. Perhaps the package, not the contents, sold me. That is how the President duped us into electing him. His makeup artist got him there.

Time was short. No longer could I be a mugwump. I had to follow my instinct. Yes, I thought I could trust Ilanna Nelyson and decided to take the chance.

Ilanna was in the other room ten minutes. I used the time to size up Ned Nelyson as well. Vanity plaques covered his walls. So did photos. Only one photo was of him and Ilanna.

The others showed him with well-known people. Some were movie stars. Others were politicians. He was with sports figures in six. For sure, Ned Nelyson was a showoff.

A diploma showing he graduated with a business management degree from a renowned university in the East supported what King told me. Judging from what I knew about him, he did not speak well for the school. Sure, businesses run by people with management degrees fail every day but I thought a Harvard education automatically leads one to success.

Ilanna came back very somberly. Picking up where she left off, she said, “You may stay. I need help running this business but I do not need you because I have two qualified brothers. I will introduce you as a business consultant just the same so you can do your work.”

Chapter 10 Ned Nelyson Exposed Pages 142 - 146

At 10:00 a.m., Wednesday, I walked through the SBNI front door. Since I could learn no more at SBNI, I planned to say good-bye to Ilanna and leave. The visit took a little longer.

Ilanna was in her office with surprising news. While I was with King and Sparks the day before, she visited Nelyson in Ohio. He called to see Ilanna and her brothers about what he called an urgent matter.

“With Ned in jail,” she said, “we had to go to him. I did not have a chance to tell you because of the time. When I got Ned’s call, I had only enough time to catch the redeye. Mr. Herman went with us.”

Ilanna told me everything she knew and, seven years later, Nelyson repeated to me what he had told her. That was when I visited him in prison as he awaited execution. He asked me to come because, in his words, “Nobody visits me and I have to talk to someone.”

My visit with him was short, only about forty minutes. Nelyson apologized for the way he treated me that night in Columbus and thanked me for helping Ilanna. I was his last visitor before the state executed him.

For Ilanna, Waynie and Warren, the visit was not pleasant but it was not without good news either. While there, Nelyson surprised them by giving his SBNI stock to Ilanna. He said he lost interest in the business and wanted out. His move pleased Ilanna and her brothers because the gift gave them control of SBNI.

With all the stock, they could close SBNI. They wanted out too. They had too many bad memories of SBNI. To them, SBNI was a burden.

They did not want the trauma of turning SBNI around. With the defection of the best employees, only the weakest remained. Influenced by their bad memories of SBNI and Nelyson, they wanted to shed SBNI and go forward.

Ilanna and her brothers were relieved that they could pay the creditors with Nelyson out of the way. Waynie and Warren had good credit. So did Ilanna. None wanted a blemish on their record. To them, bad credit meant bad character.

“I feel sad for my brothers,” Ilanna told me. “The sale of company assets won’t raise enough cash. Waynie and Warren will use their personal money. They refuse to let me help.”

“Your brothers must like you,” I said. I did not know what else to say.

“Yes, they do. That is how Mom and Dad raised us.”

Then Ilanna changed the subject. She told me Ned Nelyson confessed. “We were alone when he told me,” she said. “He murdered both Mr. Bolin and Mr.Davis. Ned will never come home.”

Tears came from her eyes. I said, “I’m sorry to hear that but we both knew.”

Ilanna handled it well. She wiped her eyes. The tears dried and did not return until she finished.

“Yes, but I didn’t want to hear it from him. He said he will never confess but I think the jailers heard him.”

“I know why he did it too,” she said. “At least I know if he told the truth. He has lied before so I might not know as much as I think.”

Ilanna then told me Nelyson’s story. Her telling of the story was identical to the version Nelyson gave me later, except without the profanity. Nelyson was a victim of greed; he was a man with expensive tastes but without enough money to pay for everything he wanted. Nelyson thought he found a way to raise a large amount of money from Bob Davis.

-----

One August day, Davis came to SBNI unexpectedly and asked to speak to Nelyson. Nelyson was out of town so Davis left. He told the receptionist that he would return in a day or so.

Then, the next week, Davis came back, again without notice. That time Nelyson was in his office preparing a pitch for a prospective customer. As he peered over his reading glasses, Nelyson saw Davis signing the guest register. At that instant, and before knowing the identity of his visitor, Nelyson disliked Davis intensely.

“I don’t know why, but I don’t like him and I won’t like him. Before talking to him, I can tell you he doesn’t ring true,” Nelyson whispered to Lori, his secretary.

“To Ned, he was ‘just another nutty college professor’,” Lori later told Ilanna. “The disliked quickly advanced to hate.”

Davis said he wanted a special sound for an academic study. According to Davis, his boss asked him to study the long-term effects of tinnitus on mice. In spite of his immediate dislike for Davis, Nelyson listened as he would to any prospective customer. However, he lost interest upon learning Davis taught accounting. Smelling a rat, Nelyson wanted no part of the project.

To discourage Davis, Nelyson quoted an unreasonable price, “I have a lot going now but I can squeeze it in for a hundred grand.”

Davis was not a fool. He saw through the razzle-dazzle of Nelyson’s technical jargon and took the quotation as an insult. Determined to get what he came for, Davis controlled his newly formed resentment for Nelyson and pressed the cost issue.

Davis rose and, in a half-sitting and half-standing position, walked to Nelyson’s desk while dragging the chair. A foot from the desk, sitting in the chair but leaning forward, he placed both palms on the desk. Each man stared at the other.

“Why so high?” Davis asked with a sour tongue. “You could put dozens of sounds on a compact disk in minutes. Your cost will not exceed a hundred dollars if your highest paid employee does the work. I will pay you another thousand for profit.”

No comment came from Nelyson, only a stare. Nelyson positioned himself mentally to not say the next word. It worked.

Davis went on, “I am a tenured professor. Do you know why? I will tell you, sir. It is because of my keen understanding of cost accounting principles.”

Nelyson angrily shot back, “Now, let me tell you what you already know! You are a liar! Schools don’t instruct bean counting teachers to conduct scientific laboratory experiments.”

Again, they stared at each other a short while. Then Nelyson got up, opened his office door and said while looking straight at Davis, “Good day to you, sir. I will personally escort you to the parking lot.”

Davis left in a huff. Any chance of a friendly business deal seemed to collapse.

-----

Nelyson opened his eyes the next morning with regrets racing through his mind. What is his true motive, Nelyson wondered? He did not believe Davis’ story. Still, Davis had a reason for making two trips to see him. Nelyson’s gut incorrectly told him the reason was money.

Nelyson’s instincts about money were usually good. He had a knack for finding its smell. The problem was he never sniffed out enough to satisfy his wants. During the restless night, Nelyson convinced himself that Davis planned to get rich with the sound. He bounced out of bed that morning with a vow to take all he could get from Davis.

When the clock showed 7:00 a.m., Nelyson placed a call to Davis. With the time difference between Colorado and Ohio, Nelyson expected to find Davis in his office. Davis answered on the second ring.

“I owe you an apology for how I treated you yesterday,” Nelyson said after identifying himself. “I’m sorry for the shabby treatment. Let me make a good deal for you, Mr. Davis.”

Davis was not so sure. “I have made two trips to Denver,” he said. “In your dumb-ass way, you told me to go to hell. If you are serious, you come to me.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can work it out over the phone,” Nelyson said in an attempt to reconcile. “We had a good talk in my office. Let us. . . .”

Davis cut in, “Look, I want to do business with you but you will not get another chance to kick me out of your office. We will not discuss details on the phone either. As I said, if you are serious, you will come to me.”

Nelyson deferred to the demanding and unbending Davis. “I can do that, sir.”

They met for lunch the next day at a popular Findlay restaurant to discuss the matter. The lunch was good but not the company. As with his many other business discussions, Nelyson merely tolerated the man across the table. The thought of raking in a few thousand dollars made it easier.

“Forget that mouse study,” Davis told Nelyson. “I was foolish to tell such a story. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry about it now. Consider this a fresh start. What do you have in mind?”

Chapter 11 Good-bye, Ilanna Pages 157 - 162 Complete Chapter

I walked out of SBNI for the last time that afternoon to prepare for the next phase. Tired, I returned to the hotel and took a three-hour nap. That night, my last in Denver, Ilanna and I had dinner at Casa Bonita.

Since meeting her, I believed Ilanna would always do the right thing. She proved me right again. “SBNI will shut down next week,” she said. “This afternoon, after you left, I told the employees.”

“You and your brothers made the right choice,” I said. “How did the employees take it?”

“They knew the end was near. I gave all of them six months of pay. They surprised me with a gift of expensive western jewelry.”

Everyone admired Ilanna. Jan Donnell, the new controller, must have admired her most of all. Ilanna paid Jan forty thousand dollars even though Jan had not yet started working at SBNI.

“It was the right thing for me to do,” Ilanna explained. “She left a secure job in favor of the SBNI offer. I put her and her family in an awkward position. Mrs. Donnell acted in good faith and should not suffer.”

Our dinner approached the end with Ilanna talking about Ned. “I have sad feelings for him. I will never forget him.”

“What will you do? You can’t forget Ned but you can’t stop living either.”

She talked about moving to southern California to be near her sister. “The year-round warm weather appeals to me now. Denver is my kind of city and I will come back when the vivid memories of all this fade. It will be when I can walk the streets without people staring.”

Ilanna had one final question, “Are you close to exposing IYE?”

I told her I did not know which was true. However, I did not tell her everything I knew. She didn’t know that Kort’s hard drive contained almost the entire IYE story. Too, she didn’t know that I secured all the IYE data with password and encryption protection.

After dinner, I walked Ilanna to her car and then walked the two miles to my hotel. She offered to take me but I declined. It was four miles out of her way and she had enough on her mind. Besides, I wanted to think in private. We said good-bye through the open window of her car.

-----

In my room, I turned on the television to watch the Rockies and the Cubs. Instead, the President preempted the game. He was at it again. This time, he was about to address the nation about IYE.

I doubted that he would say anything of value but I watched anyway. When curious, I do shameful things. Perhaps this address will be different, I told myself, but it turned out as more of the same. If the situation were not serious, his speech would have been good comedy before falling asleep.

While waiting for the President, the head in the camera said, “The President has good news for the nation.” I could not believe her. Still, I realized, she had to tout the politically correct line. People kiss up to keep their jobs.

Are King and Sparks watching, I wondered? I answered with a profanity. Of course they were. So was everyone else near a television. Concern was real and pervasive.

The President had trouble delivering that night; his heart was not in the speech and we knew why. His favorable rating dropped to twenty percent during the sex scandal. Those still standing by him were likely immoral as well. It is the “birds of a feather” notion.

“Good evening,” he said while looking directly into the camera. “As you know, we have a crisis. We have a crisis worse than I have ever seen. We have had many thousands of new tinnitus cases daily. Now, at last, I can say I have good news for you.”

He told us how he would stop IYE and prevent copycats from doing the same thing. The man wanted desperately to convince the public and gain support. He failed for two reasons. One, the people knew his plan was a farce. Two, he lacked credibility.

“We do not yet have the enemy in hand but I have the solution. I will ask Congress” he said, “for one billion dollars to fund a special force. It will consist of 10,000 troopers. They will have the necessary training and equipment for shutting down IYE. I will let nothing stop me from protecting you.”

As laughable as that was he had more to say. The man didn’t know how silly he came across.

“In addition, I will ask Congress to pass a new law. The law will make it a crime to use the telephone for causing tinnitus. It will contain severe penalties.”

We still laugh when we think of that ten-year-old speech. To Mr. and Mrs. Public, the idea was ludicrous. Astute citizens know throwing money at problems alone does not get the job done. Making laws, without strict enforcement of those laws, does not get the job done either. We can look at our continuing drug problem for proof.

If laws alone prevented crime, we would not need the police. Determined people will find ways to break laws. Murderers, swindlers and drunk drivers break our laws every day. The President tried to dupe us again with slick talk.

Handlers of the President were ill at ease because they could not defend his plan. They behaved as they did during his sex scandal. One ranking official took the extreme step and resigned her job.

“Senator King was right,” she said to a television reporter. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

-----

I fell asleep in the chair with the jerk still talking. After a half-hour, I awoke to learn the Rockies won the game with two grand slams in the eighth inning. The final score was twelve to four.

With all the adrenaline swirling, I could not sleep. It started the night before when I left King and Sparks. Although I had been up sixteen hours, I felt as if I had just rolled out of bed with eight hours of sound sleep. I was ready for action.

Instead of fighting it, I gave up. After taking a shower, I packed my bags and checked out of the hotel. Two minutes later, I tossed my bags in a cab. The driver took me to the tip of Zitter’s starboard wing.

During the cab ride, I thought about our plan. It had everything I wanted. It offered what I needed. The last real danger I experienced was thirty years earlier while serving in the navy. My next danger was only hours ahead.

Feeling on top of the world, I gave the driver, a kid perhaps twenty-years-old, the fare plus fifty dollars. He deserved more than the usual tip. The ride was quick and safe. He was even polite.

“I never expected so much for such a short ride,” he said. “I shouldn’t take it all. Here, take this twenty.”

“No, sir,” I said, “you deserve it all. Always remember why I gave it to you. With your attitude and style, you can become a millionaire driving a cab.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you for both the tip and the advice.”

After the preflight work, I stowed the luggage and slid into Zitter's left seat. Zitter, sitting in the shadows of the moonlight with her new paint job, looked brilliant. Kerrie and I have now owned Zitter, a beautiful red and white twin engine plane with full instrumentation and deicing equipment, twelve years. She is as much of the family as are Ivy and Meow. Kerrie and I will likely keep her until we stop flying.

With Zitter, I can handle everything the airline pilots handle. Call me cocky, but I boast that I wear her like a glove. My pilot friends have always said my attitude will kill me. I never believed them. With Zitter, I feel invincible.

That is why we departed on the shortest runway with a slight tail wind. I did not want to use time turning around after leaving the ground. Few pilots would have taken off downwind on any runway but living through “risky stunts” gives my life meaning. I think of it as scoring on a fourth down from sixty yards.

The time was fourteen minutes after midnight. With full flaps and full power, Zitter popped off the ground after a short run of 1,500 feet. We were high enough when we crossed the airport boundary to clear all obstructions within the next mile.

Climbing through twenty thousand feet put us well above the clouds and the highest mountain en route. Traffic was light. Zitter and I had a full moon and severe clear visibility. I closed the IFR flight plan and set Zitter on a direct route to Four Corners. At Four Corners, we would make the usual slight heading change to the left and fly direct to our airport.

Then, I did what pilots should not. I daydreamed. With the part of the speech that I heard from the President still fresh in my mind, I let my thoughts drift to a day many years earlier. It was the day I met Justin Jeffrey, brother of the President and a part owner of Jeffrey Beef Company, known as JeffBeefCo.

Chapter 12 The High Pervert Pages 163 - 167

Our paths crossed near Garden City, Kansas when Kerrie, Donna Jean and I were on vacation. Toward the end of the third day, I became tired from driving on the straight and flat highway. We had traveled miles without seeing a single car, bike, truck or tractor. After we ran out of talking points, boredom got the best of me.

I saw the cow, owned by JeffBeefCo, before I shoved it off the road. As it stood motionless in the center of the road, I slowed to about thirty miles per hour. At the very instant I thought it safe to go on, the cow walked in front of our car. Too late to stop, I ran into it broadside. Upon impact, it staggered and fell into the ditch running alongside the road.

Justin saw it all from his front porch. He reached the scene by foot in one breath, showing more concern for his cow than for the Barry family. Cows were his income. Cow killers were his problem.

Justin looked at his dead cow and then turned toward me. “She's dead,” he said. “I'm sorry this happened.”

“Me too,” I said. That is all I could think of to say. Instead of a smile, he scowled. He looked mean. I expected a punch toward my nose.

Justin weighs 220 pounds and stands more than six feet tall. He did not look like a pushover. I stayed in the car with the window only cracked.

I feared I could not handle him. Perhaps I could put him in his place another day, but not then. Not wanting to look bad in front of my family, I chose to avoid a second disaster.

Finally, I said, “I’ll make it up by paying you the market value of the cow plus the cost of disposal. Just tell me how much you want.”

“Yeah, well, that's OK,” he said through the corner of his mouth. Then, he looked into my eyes. “Just make it $500. She is young and I have not put much into her yet. I'll hook her to the truck and drag her to the barn.”

To Kerrie, I said as he walked toward the house to get his truck, “Get $500 from the glove compartment. By the way, what is wrong with that guy? Didn't his parents teach him to open his mouth when talking?”

She handed me the money. Thoroughly angry with me, she spoke her mind. “You wouldn't open your mouth either if you didn't have teeth. Now, get out of the car and take the money over to him. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

That is all it took. When Justin returned, I scooted out of the car and walked to his truck. After putting one end of a log chain around the cow's neck, he hooked the other end to the truck. Then, while still on his knees, he tilted his head up to look at me.

“Again, I'm sorry,” I said as I handed him the ten fifties. “We live in Arizona where I see cattle on the roads every day. I know to look for them but I botched.”

“Aw, don't worry about it,” he said with a smile that showed zero teeth. “I'm glad you came over to the truck. I felt awkward talking in front of your family. I’ll have my new dentures tomorrow.”

“By the way,” he said, “my name is Justin Jeffrey.” Pointing to the departed, he said, “I can get another cow. Hey, it’s good that you and your family didn’t get hurt.”

I introduced myself as he and I walked to the broken-down car. “Meet my wife and daughter, Mr. Jeffrey.”

All three got along well from the beginning. He apologized to Kerrie and Donna Jean for his missing teeth. Kerrie, always the princess of humor, pointed to me and said, “Don’t feel bad. He wouldn’t.”

Well, I misjudged the man. Justin was jovial and helpful. First, he called a tow truck for our damaged car. Then, he drove us to a hotel where we registered to stay four days while our car was in the shop. After that, he took us to his house for dinner.

-----

I failed to connect Justin to JeffBeefCo when he introduced himself. To me, he was just a farmer with a dead cow. At dinner, Justin told us more. He liked talking about his locally famous family.

“My grandfather, Ben, founded JeffBeefCo. He was always full of energy. That is until last year when he broke his hip. Now, he just sits around waiting to die.”

“My grandma died in a car accident ten years ago,” he said, “and my dad is their only child. His name is Joseph and my mom is Sally. A heart attack killed Dad when he was only fifty. He worked too hard.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kerrie said. “That’s too young to die.”

“Yeah, I know. He and Mom had a happy marriage. They had lots of fun until he got sick. I have two sisters also. Of course, you know about my twin brother, Quent.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t believe so. Tell us about him.”

“You might know him by his other name. Have you heard of Norm Quent?”

“The former movie actor?” I asked. “Is he your brother? He doesn’t look like you.”

“Of course he doesn’t look like me. I work and he plays. He has to look good. I don’t. Besides, we are not identical twins.”

“Oh, yes!” Donna Jean said with a raised and excited voice. “I do remember reading his birth name in a tabloid. It was the answer to a trivia question. How is he? What does he do now?”

“For the record, he is the CEO of JeffBeefCo. He is not around much because running for president takes all his time. That’s OK with me though.”

“President?" I asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, you wouldn’t because he hasn’t announced his candidacy. He will at the right time.”

Since then, Quentin Jeffrey ran successfully for the Presidency of the United States. Remarkably, he became our president with no political or public service background, except time in the reserves. Now, the whole world knows about him, the man I call the high pervert, and his antics.

Justin kept talking. “I like running the business. Quent only has the title of CEO because of Mom. She said a business title would look impressive when he runs for public office.”

With a cynical laugh, he added, “Mom never thought for a minute that Quent would shoot straight for the Presidency of the United States. He surprises us everyday.”

“She is right,” I said, “especially the title of CEO of a successful business like JeffBeefCo. How does your mother fit in?” I asked. I thought I knew but I wanted to say something to show interest.

“Well, Mom and I own eighty-five percent of JeffBeefCo. She has controlling interest with fifty-five percent. Quent and our sisters own the remaining fifteen percent equally. Mom pretty much forced us to elect Quent as CEO. You know how power works.”

I nodded. So did Kerrie. So did Donna Jean. Justin’s wife, Nancy, did nothing. She probably had heard the story too often already.

Justin continued, “Mom has always taken care of Quent; he is such an intellectual klutz that she feels sorry for him. She uses her clout to connect him to powerful people. They, in turn, do their part and sell him to the public. Of course, they expect a favor or two in return.”

Nancy, who said little up to then, spoke up, “Justin, don’t you think you should stop joking so much? These people might think you are serious.”

That was Nancy’s way of telling her husband to stop waving the family dirty laundry in front of strangers. I could hear it in her voice and I could see it all over Justin’s face.

“Oh, sure, I’m sorry,” he said. He did not mean it, though, because he kept talking in the same direction.

“None of them care about the daily activities of JeffBeefCo. So, Mom and my sisters take their dividends while watching the value of their of stock increase because of my work. Quent does the same except he gets a salary too. He gets more than he earns, I might add.”

I learned even more after dinner. Justin and I left the women for a walk around the farm. He gave me the low down on Quentin. It surprised me to hear him put down his twin.

“By the way,” he said, “I don’t tell everyone these things. I only tell you because I like you. After hearing you and reading your articles for years, I think of you as a good friend.”

To hear Justin say it, JeffBeefCo became a better company because of him. He is probably right too. JeffBeefCo became the largest beef processor west of the Mississippi River after Justin took charge of its operations. Of course, it helped to have Quentin as the CEO provided he didn’t meddle. Quentin did more for JeffBeefCo by making television commercials than he would have by making meaty decisions.

According to Justin, “Quent doesn’t have an ethical bone in his body. JeffBeefCo would not have survived with only Quent in the front office. Mom knew it too. That is why she told him to let me run the place.”

Chapter 13 Rick Kort Pages 182 - 186

Davis told Nelyson the truth. He knew nothing about IYE. It was Kort, not Davis as Nelyson suspected, who gave IYE national attention.

Kort’s actions puzzled me. He had stored twenty-eight pages of IYE and personal data on his SBNI hard drive. The startling part was that he did not secure the data. As a CPA, he surely knew the importance of good controls. With sensitive data, I would expect him to use password and encryption protection.

The data could easily have ruined Kort if found by an outsider. Didn’t he know someone might discover the data? Although I wondered, I didn’t spend time trying to understand his reasons. Instead, I concluded that Kort was another careless person in a world full of careless people.

Unlike Kort, I protected myself. First, I made four copies of all pages. Of the four, I had two, one to store at the Hole and one to carry in my shirt pocket. The third went to King and the fourth to Sparks. All had full security protection.

I learned much about Kort from his hard drive and more when the media dug into his life. Kort is a good example of how we can lose our way when we yield to temptation. For Kort, money was the temptation.

Those who knew Kort didn’t want to believe he was the bad guy. They spoke well of him, much like friends speak well of a man who had just murdered a dozen coworkers during a fit of anger. Family members claimed the infamous Richard Kort was not the Richard they knew as a boy.

During childhood, he was typical of most young boys. Kort lived with his parents and twin brothers in a middle class neighborhood. Robert and William, the twins, were two years younger than Kort. The boys had most of what they wanted and everything they needed. The three were close and never spoke ill of each other.

Never in trouble with the law while growing up in Casper, Wyoming, Kort’s infractions against society were minor. He enjoyed practical jokes and sometimes went further than good judgment dictates. Otherwise, the high school student with above average grades was harmless. Kort, a diligent Boy Scout, attained the rank of Life and served his troop as a patrol leader.

After earning a college degree in Texas, Kort returned to his hometown and worked at a small accounting firm. Kort met Clay, the owner's son and his only known enemy, at the bean counting shop. A strong and pervasive dislike for Clay prompted employees to call him the office SOB for the usual reasons. They fooled no one by claiming the letters “SOB” stood for the phrase, “Son of the Boss.”

Most employees disliked Clay because of his arrogance. They seldom invited him to lunch and never included him in their after work activities. New employees tried to get along with Clay but gave up after a few days. Kort was no different.

Kort had a genuine desire to befriend Clay. “I admire your knowledge of accounting principles,” Kort told Clay early in his employment. “Do you mind asking if we can work together? I can learn a lot from you.”

Clay responded with the ultimate insult. “No, I couldn’t take the time to train you. Frankly, from what I have seen, I don’t think you will survive in this business. That is probably why you want to work with me. You want to make points with Dad.”

Kort held no grudge but he never mentioned an interest in working with Clay again. Yet, he continued with attempts to befriend Clay who shunned him each time. Kort’s easy going style attracted the other employees to him and he enjoyed working with them. Unlike the others, Kort continued treating Clay with respect.

Clay was an intelligent man who never held a job more than two years. About ten years older than Kort, Clay went to work for his dad two years before Kort. During the two years, Clay prepared to become a certified public accountant. With a graduate degree in psychology and no accounting knowledge, he had a long way to go. Attending night school and strong perseverance got him there.

Clay put every available waking minute into the study of accounting. Those who worked with him say his attitude toward people hardened during the aggravation of putting up with what he called “nonsense” classes. It angered Clay that the school would not let him study accounting only. Taking classes unrelated to accounting cut into his valuable time.

Clay’s resentment toward Kort became ripe during his final three months of study. Kort, the man Clay said would not survive, had registered to take the CPA examination the following May. He had refreshed his knowledge of accounting principles and was ready. Together he and Clay would take the same examination. Fearing that Kort might score higher, Clay became extremely abusive toward his rival.

Clay mellowed, although only for a short while, when his dad got early information from his inside contacts about the examination results. Clay had received the second highest grade in the state! With the pressure of proving himself removed, the intensity of Clay’s arrogance diminished to almost nothing. His parents quickly planned a weekend of festivities to honor their brilliant son and invited all employees. The employees perceived the invitation as a command performance.

Then, two days later, Kort knocked the wind out of Clay’s sails. Kort and the entire staff learned that likeable Rick Kort got the top score! Clay became bitter with jealously. His arrogance reached new heights.

No news could have been worse for Clay’s parents. They canceled the gala, to begin the next day, immediately. Clay’s dad congratulated Kort but not from the heart. Clay avoided the topic. With Kort a hero in the eyes of his peers, Clay never again spoke to the man he knew would fail.

Kort left the accounting firm on Halloween day of the same year. “The rules of public accounting get me down,” he explained. “The work bores me. I need excitement.”

That was Kort’s official explanation for leaving but some of those who worked with him believe differently. One coworker said Kort left because of the modern-day golden rule. “Rick left because Clay’s dad forced him out,” she said. “The parents, embarrassed that a common worker showed up Clay, who would inherit the business, wanted Kort out of the way. He that has the gold makes the rules, you know.”

From public accounting, Kort went to the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington. Employed as a special agent, Kort liked working in a job where he no longer had to be pleasant with unpleasant customers. “I would rather kick difficult people than kiss them,” Kort said with joy.

Kort loved the fieldwork because it offered variety, the variety he never before had. He often worked on as many as six cases. Each was like reading a good mystery. He loved the challenge. Kort looked forward to a new day every morning.

“Here, I come to work with a smile and leave with a smile,” he said often. “It wasn’t like that in accounting. I always went home with a smile on my face but only because the day was over. I seldom went to work with a smile on my face. The job was tolerable but not exciting.”

At the FBI, Kort loved talking shop with his coworkers. He spent a couple of hours each day in a bar just to have more time with his friends from the office. His drinks of choice were ice tea in the summer and hot tea in the winter. Kort bonded quickly with everyone, especially the seemingly infinite number of accountants.

More than most agents, Kort befriended employees across occupational lines. Lawyers, clerical workers and experienced scientists all enjoyed his company. He never found himself without a lunch partner.

Kort and his wife, Amanda, quickly became friends with their next door neighbors, Ben and Marsha Owens. Like Amanda, Marsha did not work outside the home. They spent hours together doing things like sharing yard work and shopping. With no children, Amanda and Marsha made almost everyday one of leisure. They remained good friends long after Kort left the FBI.

Ben, also employed by the FBI, and Kort spent much of their off-duty time together. Unlike his wife with Amanda, Ben came to rue the day he met Kort. It happened when he learned the details of Kort’s role in the IYE fiasco. Ben who has an advanced computer science degree thought about leaving the FBI because of his relationship with Kort. Guilt drove him to discuss the matter with his supervisor.

“Rick was full of questions about computers,” Ben told his boss. “They were the kind that novices typically ask. He never asked or said anything out of line. His questions were innocent enough. I didn’t suspect anything then but now I have to wonder.”

After a pause to take a deep breath, Ben continued. “Now, I realize he could have used what he learned from me to disrupt the country.”

His boss asked for details. Ben, talking freely, cited a dozen examples.

Chapter 14 The Five Pages 199 - 203

Nobody realized they were the most powerful five men on Earth. They were careful so that nobody could connect any one of them to the others except socially. Each vowed to never discuss their agenda with any outsider unless all five approved. The five shrewd men worked in a way that did not raise eyebrows. Even the name, The Five, which they gave themselves, was unknown to the world.

The Five had one goal: to keep the United States as the only superpower. They worked their obsession relentlessly. With their financial security, they had the time. All but one, Andrew Ayers, traveled the country continuously peddling their agenda. Ayers did his part by working alone as a researcher.

Four of the five had been in the public view most of the previous forty years. All except Ayers kept company with the country’s most prominent public figures. They included entertainers, politicians, sports figures and business leaders in their activities. Two of the men had achieved celebrity status in a country where, sadly, people admire celebrities more than parents.

As the men became older, with less of a need to earn an income, they addressed every societal concern one could imagine. With contacts deep and wide, they influenced national and state elections throughout the country.

As a way to avoid the public perceiving them as instigators, they only talked to their targets in social settings. With each having a knack for subtle persuasion, they never asked for favors or made demands. Yet, they prevailed. Even the United States Congress unknowingly served the agenda of The Five.

In his ignorance, King once marched to the beat of their drum. It began as he and Albert Brandon watched the Reds whip the Giants in Riverfront Stadium during the late 1980s. During the seventh inning stretch, Brandon, a staunch Giant fan, expressed his dismay.

“Senator,” he said, “tomorrow is another day. It will bring another game. The Giants have to take the Reds tomorrow. When Giants relax, Reds kill.”

King nodded but said nothing. He did not, however, forget Brandon’s words when, during a vote the following week, he uttered the single word, “Aye.” King had voted to increase our defense budget by fifty billion dollars.

“Increasing the budget seemed like the right thing to do when I cast my vote,” King later told me. “It is funny, though, because I planned a nay vote. Until Albert Brandon worked his magic on me, I no longer thought of the Soviet Union as a serious threat. I saw it as a mere pimple on the butt of progress.”

Brandon had conned the great Senator Baxter Perry King. Knowing about the upcoming senate vote, and knowing King would likely vote against the increase, Brandon knew what to do. Getting King, the former switch pitcher, to the game was easy. King never lost his love for the game and quickly accepted Brandon’s invitation. Brandon’s timing was perfect and, of course, the names of the teams made the persuasion work.

-----

Unlike Albert Brandon with King, The Five seldom approached targets in person. Most often, the men had others carry their water. The mayor of one conservative city was such a target. As with others, the mayor never knew that The Five initiated a plan of revenge against him. Still, he felt the full force of what I call the wrath of The Five.

It happened when the mayor meddled with the Boy Scouts. He agreed with a proposal that city charitable contributions should no longer go to the Boy Scouts. “The Boy Scouts are not worthy of our money until they allow homosexuals among their leaders,” according the mayor.

Every inch of ground across the state shook. The mayor’s employees became unruly. To protest the mayor’s decision, many went home at night with more unfinished work than the previous night. Most dropped their guard and talked freely. Disgruntled employees get that way.

One polite city employee asked a television reporter, “How can he do this?” Others talked much rougher. Those with sons in the Boy Scouts screamed the loudest.

Groups canceled conventions. Visitors took their money to other fine cities within the state. Editorials sharply criticized the mayor. The typical resident expressed shock, humiliation and anger.

“That was a chintzy move on your part,” one citizen wrote in a letter to the mayor. “I was a Boy Scout forty years ago. Where do you get off? Are your shorts too tight? Naw, you have nothing to put in your shorts.”

Hundreds of people wrote letters to the editor. Callers to radio talk programs insisted on bashing the mayor. People went door to door with recall petitions. All this was going on while people living farther away called the whole thing a hoot.

Groups went to work too. Most marched peacefully while carrying signs in front of the mayor’s office. Others became noisy and disruptive.

One such group kept people awake during the early hours spreading the word. “The mayor is out to further his own agenda,” one man said through a loud speaker in his car without identifying the agenda. He traveled the streets twenty minutes before the police caught up with him. Then, another man with the same message carried the torch. Then, another followed by another.

Ten men in ten cars kept the show going. The police caught the last one at two o’clock in the morning. Residents returned to their beds but got little sleep. Dozens were late for work in a city where many people started their work day at 5:00 a.m.

News traveled to The Five the same day. They went to work and at their urging, using water boys, the hapless mayor left office the following month. Back home drinking lemonade, he still had not heard of The Five. He thought he was a victim of nothing more than an unorganized, but effective, public uprising.

-----

The mayor was only a bump in the road for The Five. The antics of the President caused the men much more grief. He admitted to immoral behavior when he first ran for the job and told us in the same breath it would not happen again. We believed him and elected him to the highest office in the land.

Flying his true colors, he kept his promise but only until he won the election. Then, he picked up where he left off six months earlier. Although we joked around water coolers about his promiscuity, we reelected him four years later. His moral bankruptcy did not matter, probably because so many among us lived the same lifestyle. People tend support their own kind.

Two years into the second term of the President, The Five became appalled. The five men learned that the President had paid more than three million dollars to blackmailers who took good pictures. The payments came from close friends since he had no money. Other than The Five, only those close to the President knew. He had succeeded in burying the story.

He could not, however, bury another story. The Five made sure it appeared in a tabloid about the same time. The tabloid claimed the President romped with six men and women during the previous year when his wife was out of town. Photographs leaked to the tabloid by a strait-laced secret service agent told the whole story.

Denying the story’s accuracy, the President boldly claimed the writer lied. He accused the tabloid of doctoring the photos and promised to sue for what he called their libelous ways. That never happened but the Treasury Department asked for, and received, the secret service agent’s resignation.

The Five feared the worse. Knowing blackmailers are not always after money, their concern for national security was at the top of their list. Could he have passed our secrets to the enemy?

With that concern, The Five had enough. The group started discussing the matter during a telephone meeting one Sunday evening in early August. Andrew Ayers conducted the discussion as he did most. Each man agreed that our nation had entered its final days as a superpower for we had an inept leader with an apathetic following.

Violent crime was out of control. The percentages of reported rapes and murders had never been higher. Fourteen school kids killed six teachers and thirty students in seven states during the previous school year. Judging from the number of permits issued, an estimated eighty percent of the adult population carried concealed weapons for protection.

Chapter 15 The Quarterback Huddly Pages 213 - 217

Slowly, I got out of bed and showered. I told Kerrie almost everything about my next trip, a trip that lasted five grueling days. The grueling part began with Kerrie taking me in Zitter to Burbank California, the starting point. Especially annoying to her was that she did not know the reason for going to Burbank. She asked but I put her off.

We touched down at 7:00 p.m. Friday and arrived at our hotel thirty minutes later, two hours past our usual time for dinner. We ordered an excellent meal in the hotel dining room but I hardly ate. Troubled because of what I still had to tell Kerrie took away my appetite.

Where was my courage, I kept asking myself? The time was late and the next day would start early. Knowing I could not put it off much longer, I began talking after we settled in our room.

She was not a bit happy. “Did you say your denture? What can you possibly mean?” she yelled.

“I thought you told me everything this afternoon. Now, I learn you came here to see a dentist. What is going on?”

Before I could answer, she had more to say. “Why do you need a dentist out here? You never complain about your dentures. We have a darn good dentist in St. Johns!”

I tried to calm her but failed. “You know I didn’t want to make this trip,” she said. “I had other things to do. Now, I wonder how much more you should explain.”

“Well, King and Sparks think. . . .”

Cutting me off, she said, “King and Sparks! King and Sparks! That's all I hear!”

She carried on and on. I feared she might move into another room. Would she leave the hotel and take Zitter home? I didn’t want her falling asleep in the air. Still, at one point, I was ready to help her leave.

My frustrated wife said impatiently, “Well, I’m waiting. What else is there?”

“The dentist isn't really a dentist,” I said. “He is an espionage specialist. I do not know his name but Sparks calls him Sarge. They worked together in the military. After two hitches, Sarge returned to civilian life for more money.”

“Why is this Sarge fellow concerned with your teeth? Is he putting a camera in your mouth?”

She knew better, of course. She was close though. Anyway, the faint smile on her face gave me hope that the night would end peacefully.

“Not quite, but he will put a small transmitter in one of the lower teeth. It will let Sparks’ hear me from anywhere on Earth. It will pinpoint my location too.”

My wife looked at me with a blank face that amused me. It was the first time since I met her that she did not know what to say.

I tried to explain. “You know how things are today. Science can do anything. Think of it as tying a balloon on a kid. The parent will find the kid in a crowd even if the kid can’t see the parent.”

It didn’t work. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Maybe we can get back to normal someday. Do you think so?”

“Oh, sure. This will end within the month. Then, we will pick up and go on, scouts honor,” I said while forming the Boy Scout sign with my right hand.

She appeared less upset. She even showed a trace of interest. “So, Sparks has a briefcase here for you to pick up too?”

“Yes,” I said, “it will contain a radio tuned to the frequency of the transmitter Sarge will put in my denture. The radio will send everything I say and hear to a satellite. Then, the satellite will send the message to Sparks’ along with my location. Nifty, isn’t it?”

I expected her to tear into me again. She didn’t but that sour look returned. Instead of saying more, I waited for her response. Seconds seemed likehours.

Finally, with a smirk she said, “Do you know how silly your story sounds? You will go to Andrew Ayers with your new tooth and your new briefcase. Then he will tell you all. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” I said, “almost, anyway.”

“Almost? What do you mean by almost?”

“Well, I have to persuade him to talk,” I said. “Don’t worry though. He’ll talk.”

I pulled a computer disk from my shirt pocket. “See this? First, I will give it to him. Then, I will tell him I put copies in safe places. Not only will he talk but the copies will assure my safety.”

“What if Andrew sees your denture or the radio?” she asked. “How will you explain them to him?”

“He will never know I have a denture,” I said. “Even if he does learn it will not make a difference. People everywhere have dentures. My denture will look just as it does now. Mr. Ayers will never think of a hidden transmitter in a denture.” “What about the briefcase?”

“The briefcase radio poses no threat. The radio is a razor thin device inside a strong lining. I will not carry the briefcase much because the radio will receive the signal from my denture up to a mile away. He can inspect the briefcase and never find a thing. No sweat, trust me.”

Kerrie rolled her eyes again. “Well,” she said, “if that's the way it is, what can I say?”

“Once inside, I will get answers. Not much can go wrong. Sure, I will find some bumps in the road but none on the head. You can take that to the bank.”

After about an hour, we made up and went to bed. Kerrie went to sleep right away but not me. I spent a full hour thinking while lying on my back in the dark room. Everything I ever knew about IYE went through my mind several times before I fell asleep.

The annoying beeping of our alarm woke us at six on the dot. Surprisingly, I felt more rested than I expected but I would have slept until noon if given the chance. The late night talk and the short rest made everything right again. The day got off to a good start.

Kerrie and I got presentable for the world and for breakfast that Saturday morning. We ate at our favorite chain restaurant across the street from the hotel. Working on two plates of pancakes, and with four cups of coffee, we ate in silence.

IYE was a strain for us. Still, we knew it would end. We also knew our marriage would survive. IYE was another hill of many that we had to climb.

Kerrie and I have climbed our share of hills but only one mountain. That was when we lost our second child, who died during birth. Even during that trying time, Kerrie had her head on straight.

“We will survive this. We will survive because everything is temporary,” she said. “Remember, our memories of this will fade.”

Since then, no difficulty has brought us down. Kerrie and I have always relied on each other for strength. IYE would not derail us.

Kerrie and I left the restaurant at 7:30 a.m. After checking out of the hotel, we took a cab to Zitter where, together, we did the preflight work. I waved good-bye to Kerrie and Zitter as they turned toward the runway. Then, I called for a cab. By 9:00 a.m., I was at Sarge’s home.

-----

Sarge was ready for me. After a short introduction, he said, “Mr. Barry, this will not take long. Please put the denture in this dish. Come along if you like or you may have a seat here in the living room while I work.”

I followed. Since he gave me a choice, I wanted to watch. We walked into a small room that was a bedroom earlier in the life of the house. I noticed that electronic equipment took most of the space.

As Sarge worked with precision, I watched his every move. How, I wondered, can such a powerful bug fit in such a small space? Curious, I asked while pointing to the denture, “Will drinking water with that in my mouth put me in orbit?”

“No sir.” Assuring me the bug was safe, he said, “You will never feel a tingle.”

Minutes later, he showed the finished job to me without saying a word. My denture looked no different from when I handed it to him. I could not believe he left absolutely no trace of his work. I looked up to him and asked, “Do you have any instructions for me?”

“Yes, get to within ten feet of the person talking. Stay within a mile of the briefcase and do not worry about the direction you face. The signal will travel to the briefcase and from there to the satellite. Both the denture and the briefcase transmit and receive omnidirectional signals. The briefcase transmits to a relay system in the Chicago area that transmits to the satellite.”

He then handed the denture to me. “Go ahead and slip it in your mouth, sir. You should not notice any difference.”

I did as he ordered. He was right. “Is that all I need to know?”

Chapter 16 The Showdown Pages 213 - 235

At 111 minutes after Ayers’ five-minute deadline, I rang his buzzer from the lobby. “Who is it?” he asked.

I told him and he unlocked the door. We went through the same procedure when I knocked on his third floor door. “Let’s get going,” he said while motioning me back as I started to enter his quarters. “Time has almost run out.”

“You have a funny way to greet one good morning,” I said. “Let’s get going to where? By the way, sir, good morning.”

He ignored what I said and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, “I have a trip planned for us.”

“Tell me more. You have planned a trip to where and for what reason?”

“For now, you only need to know that I want to cooperate. I will tell you more when we arrive at our destination.”

I followed Andy down the stairs leading to the basement garage. Using my tongue, I checked my denture at the first landing. As I expected, it remained firm.

Surprisingly, Andy never asked about the briefcase. If he had, I had an answer. “I grabbed it from the force of habit,” I would have said. “It is full of reading material. Reading helps me prepare for the next broadcast.”

Would he have believed me? I don’t know but I put the thick Sunday Tribune inside to help convince him. If he did not believe me, I had another response, the suggestion that he lock it in the trunk. If that didn’t work, I would have had to think on the fly. Anyway, the speculation turned out to be irrelevant.

Whether Andy wanted to cooperate as he said, I was not sure. He sounded sincere but I didn’t let myself forget that he was a successful toy peddler. He knew how to come across as a sincere person. Time would tell.

In the garage, he pointed to a black luxury sedan and stopped. “Here is our car,” he said. “Get in but don’t talk. Don’t say a single word. I’ll explain later.”

I nodded and started walking to the passenger side. Andy took my arm and motioned to the other side with his head. He didn’t explain but an explanation wasn’t necessary. I understood.

While looking for some goon with a gun, I got in on the driver’s side as instructed by Andy’s sign language. After I slid across the bench seat, Andy got in, started the car and cranked up the CD. We left the garage and drove the entire trip in a light and steady rain without talking. Andy provided extra loud classical music instead of conversation. The aggravation of the rain, the loud music that I despised and no talking made the trip seem to last a lifetime.

It wasn’t until we turned into a lane and stopped at the side of a farmhouse that I realized the rain had stopped. We were only a few miles south of Watseka, Illinois.

Andy got out of the car and motioned to me. I got out and waited for more sign language. Andy pointed to a barn fifty yards from the car. We walked about half the distance before he broke the silence.

“Now, we can talk. I am sorry for the confusion. I needed time to think about what I wanted to tell you. That is why I wanted silence in the car other than the music. Beautiful music helps me think.”

“Well, I admit to an hour or so of confusion,” I said while looking around for signs of other people. “Do you think I put a bug in your car or something?”

“No, as I said, I needed time to think. That’s why I bought this place five years ago. Of the 160 acres, I rent 140 to a farmer. It is perfect for thinking and talking in the peace and quite.

“I don’t have a telephone, radio or television here,” he said. “When I come here, I leave my phone at home. Not one soul can talk to me here unless he is here with me.”

The drive gave Andy the therapy he needed. The agitated man from an hour earlier had calmed down but was not out of the woods yet. Andy, the quarterback, I soon learned, believed one of his teammates tried to sack him. He had a rough twenty-four hours.

Andy sat on a tree stump as he began to talk. “I am very angry and worried,” he said. “Nobody told me that we created IYE. We promised all along to have no secrets. I thought they were always above board with me.”

Andy seemed ready to talk. With my left foot on a different stump and my left forearm on my left knee, I leaned forward. “Do you mean the rest of the ABC boys?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. We have done much as a group since childhood.”

“From what I know,” I said, “you are the most key of all. Why did they deceive you?”

“I don’t know if they all did. Right now, I only know for sure that Al did not tell the whole truth. That is why I am angry. Right now, I am the bitterest person alive. I wish I could get even with him without hurting the others.”

Andrew Ayers was a broken man. He acted as though his control over The Five had slipped away. I had both sympathy and empathy for him.

“Nothing matters now,” he said. “I’ll accept what I get. I must do the right thing now that I know. That is why I brought you here. That is why I will tell you everything about us from the beginning.”

I was smart enough not to trust Andy. Did he bring me to the farm to talk or to kill? Did he want to talk first and then kill? Perhaps he wanted to use me as a sounding board and then kill me. I dug in for the ride.

“You see, Lew, we never meant to hurt our country. Our mission was to make it a better place. I will never understand how this happened. See that flag?” Andy pointed toward the house.

I nodded. A small flag, measuring about three feet by five feet, hung limply on the pole in what became still air after the rain had stopped.

“That flag went up the day I bought the property because of my love for our country. You might have noticed a flag on the desk in my apartment. I have it for the same reason. It hurts knowing I am partly responsible for IYE. Whydidn’t my friends stay with me?”

“Then, you believe they are behind IYE? Did they dupe you?”

“Whether or not all of them duped me, I don’t know,” Andy said. “The disk tells enough to suggest, but it doesn’t prove, that Al acted alone. Why did this happen? None of them ever talked about creating havoc.”

“Well, someone knew. What did you talk about in San Diego?”

“We didn’t talk about much. The purpose of the San Diego meeting was to meet Richard Kort. Al thought Richard, his nephew, could think of a way to force people to act responsibly. We fear the United States will fall. It seems that people only think about their comfort.”

“Comfort is important. Don’t you think so?”

“Sure, but so are other things. Look around. For one thing, people elected the most corrupt man alive as our president not once but twice. It bothers me because I think most of us vote for our own kind. That tells me our country is top heavy.”

“Top heavy? How do you mean?”

“I mean we have too many selfish and inconsiderate people at the top. Need I remind you that once we topple and momentum develops, terminal velocity will come quick?”

Andy paused for a few seconds. I kept quiet. It seemed that he might tell me more if I did not talk. More important, he would tell my denture.

Andy talked another ten minutes before he ran out of steam. He verified much of what Kort put on the disk. He said he could not verify anything about IYE because he did not know anything. He sounded sincere but, still, I didn’t know if I could believe him.

Tired of standing, I sat on the stump and picked up a small twig. With the twig, I made ovals in the dirt.

“Anyway,” Andy said, “Al said Richard was a brilliant man. According to Al, Richard could work a miracle. He was to submit his plan to us for approval. I didn’t approve because his plan never got to me.”

Andy looked at me and then criticized himself. “I didn’t stay on top of things like a leader should. Instead of asking for a progress report, I let Al handle the project as he saw fit. I wondered why Al didn’t keep me informed and now I know why. He knew I wouldn’t approve of growing a monster.”

I let the twig drop, turned both palms up and looked at Andy. “Well,” I said, “why worry? It sounds like you knew nothing about Kort’s works until I enlightened you yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s true. Believing one or more of us caused all this havoc is hard for me to accept. Richard might have acted alone. I hope so because I don’t want my friends hurt.”

“Listen to me,” he continued. “Our interest has always been the United States. We want it to remain the superpower. We put away many evil people who were bad for our country. Some states could execute all of us.”

Chapter 17 The Big Dance Pages 254 - 258

The nation became absorbed in the four-month long trial of The Five that ended one week after Thanksgiving Day. With the principal IYE player, Rick Kort, out of circulation, the prosecution went after The Five only. That was fine with the public because most people believed the five men were responsible for IYE and that Kort was a mere errand boy. Still, if Kort were available, he would have been the big fish.

Each defendant, except Andy, danced around and dodged every question. For that reason, the trial quickly became known as “The Big Dance.” Adam, Albert, Bradley and Charles looked more foolish with each question. Still, they kept the dance going.

The media gave us full coverage. Few other issues made it to our homes. We bought more newspapers than anytime in our history. Every one of us wanted our own permanent record that showed every detail of The Big Dance.

All except Andy claimed innocence to the end even though ample evidence suggested very strongly that the others always went along with what Andy wanted. Throughout, Andy protected his friends by insisting that he alone authorized the creation of IYE and that he never informed the others.

“I did all research and formed all plans,” he told the court. “My friends knew nothing about IYE. I want to tell the court something else too, even though it is unrelated to this trial. They had nothing to do with the murders of the eighty-one people. I take full responsibility for each of those too.”

Otherwise, Andy said little. He did, however, bring up three issues about me. During questioning about the role of his high school friends, Andy shocked everyone in the courtroom.

Without a hint of what would come, he blurted, “I arranged for the execution of Mr. Barry three times. The first was last year on Christmas day at his home. The second was in January when he visited Memphis, Tennessee. You know about Watseka….”

Stunned by Andy’s unexpected confession, the prosecutor interrupted. “Mr. Ayers, please do not attempt to derail this process. This trial is not about what you did or didn’t attempt to do with Mr. Barry. For now, you must answer the question I asked.”

Andy persisted. With an abundance of profanities mixed in, Andy said, “No, I will talk about Mr. Barry now and never about my friends. Mr. Barry turned into an evil man. He talked on the radio every day about overthrowing the government. He had to go.”

The prosecutor turned to face the judge and asked, “Must we put up with this, an obvious distraction, your Honor? We are not here today to discuss Mr. Barry.”

Looking straight at Andy, Judge Edmond “The Sherm” Tanker said “Answer the question, Mr. Ayers.” Then to the prosecutor, “Please continue, Mr. Finch.”

Andy refused to answer. “I will not speak ill of my friends,” he told the court. “You cannot know the remorse I feel. Take me away anytime. I’m ready to die now.”

“Mr. Ayers,” the prosecutor said, “the court requires you to answer. Now, tell me what role your friends played.”

“No, I don’t have to answer. I have told you I’m ready to die. What can you do to hurt me? Let me tell you something, sir. With my attitude, you will play hell making me talk.”

Judge Tanker addressed Andy again. “Mr. Ayers, I warn you. This court will not accept your behavior. I will hold you in contempt if you do not cooperate. Now, answer the prosecutor.”

“Please understand that I control what I say, sir. If you want to hold me in contempt, please do.”

Judge Tanker replied with compassion, “Mr. Ayers, surely you don’t mean that. The stress of all this might be too much. This court orders you to appear for observation. We will resume when the doctor releases you.”

A doctor appointed by the court testified four days later that Andy was a sane man. “Mr. Ayers is a strong-willed man with excellent control of his speech,” the doctor told the court. “It is my opinion that he chooses his words carefully to achieve his purpose. To Mr. Ayers, getting the desired result justifies his speaking style.”

Back on the stand, Andy again refused to cooperate. He sealed his fate by continuing his obstinate and profane ways. The jury recommended the death sentence. Judge Tanker set the date and it happened.

Andy never appealed. He fired his attorney and gave the silent treatment to other attorneys who approached him. Andy never stood trial regarding the incidents with me, partly because of me.

“We have no valid reason for another trial,” I explained to the authorities. “I don’t feel threatened any more and neither does my family. Sure, he could order a fourth attempt but I do not think he will.”

My justification was my way of avoiding more attention. I testified five hours at the televised trial, mostly about Andy’s notes, and that was too much. Now, strangers recognize me everywhere I go and I resent every second of putting up with them. Let me quickly explain that I do not resent the people. What I resent is losing the privacy I once enjoyed.

----

At his request, Andy spoke to me on the air during a special broadcast two days before his death. Our exchange was short. He seemed happy to go and ended by saying, “Mr. Barry, I hope we meet again in another life.”

“So do I,” I said. “If we do, please call me Lew.”

Unless Andy told, nobody could have known the story behind my last words to him. I never told anyone except Kerrie and Donna Jean.

I will never know why Andy wanted to talk to me. After all, he tried to have me killed three times and I nearly beat him to death for revenge. That doesn’t sound like friendship. Perhaps he felt that a talk with me was a way of saying he was sorry. To the end, Andy never spoke ill of his four school chums.

Some people say Andy was the most evil man of the millennium. Perhaps he was, at the time of his death, since he died early during the first decade of the millennium. Regardless, I dare say someone will come along during the remaining nine hundred and ninety plus years to claim the distinction. I doubt that history books will give Andrew Ayers any recognition.

Andy never came close to rivaling Hitler. He never flew an airplane full of people and fuel into a skyscraper full of people either. It would take a large book to write about the evil deeds that Andy did not do. Andy was zealous vigilante who genuinely believed his work helped his country. Also, he was a man too loyal to his friends.

Andy might have spared himself the death penalty if he had been mannerly, as were the others. Adam, Albert, Bradley and Charles got life sentences with no possibility of parole while maintaining innocence. However, Andy’s notes, salvaged from the library, damaged their claims of innocence.

The notes implicated all five equally. The other four insisted anyone can fabricate a story. Since all the notes were in Andy’s handwriting, they had a point but it didn’t help because the jury rejected the argument. With testimony from various outside sources corroborating Andy’s notes, the jurors knew they reached the correct verdict.

Only Adam and Charles are alive now. I read about them once or twice a year. In separate prisons, both are loners. They receive visitors regularly but the inmates shun them, probably because of jealously. In the words of one inmate about Adam, “I despised everything about that rich golfer’s ass when I was a kid and I still do.”

Albert and Bradley died of natural causes, Albert during his fourth year inprison and Bradley during his third year. Albert had no visitors. Even his daughter and her husband, the recipients of his farm, stayed away. Bradley’svisitors, all underworld figures, never returned after the first year.

The rise and fall of Albert and Bradley reminds me of advice an uncle once gave me. “Pick your friends,” he said. “Don’t let them pick you. If they pick you, they will run out when your luck runs out.”

Some people decried the eighty-one killings. Others said the killings were good for the country. I agree with the second group for the most part. Why? Once dead, the drug dealers and porn peddlers could no longer cripple the minds of our youth.

Sure, their families and friends had grief to bear. For that, I’m sorry but I have more sorrow for our country. They and their kind, society’s most pathetic of all people, show no compassion. Their drugs and porn destroyed more young people than anytime in our history. Many of those addicted have no hope for a happy life.

Chapter 18 John Rance Macray Pages 261- 265

John Rance Macray was our first president inaugurated during the third millennium and our first war-hero president since Eisenhower fifty years earlier. He was our breath of fresh air. Macray had two big things going. He had character and he kept promises. One could not say Macray and scandal in the same sentence.

Everyone fell in love with him months before the election. Our love for him never waned. The dignified Macray was a good role model for the young. Every kid on the block had a Macray wristwatch.

We talked about President Macray with pride. We didn’t snicker when someone said his name. Parents were not ashamed to talk about him with their kids at the dinner table. Their kids listened with long ears.

President Macray became a hit the first day on the job. “Today,” he said, “I ordered workers to seal the Oval Office. I wish things were different. It is a grand room with rich heritage. It should not remain sealed forever.”

“You know what went on inside,” he told us. “The mere thought of using the space makes me feel dirty. I will keep it sealed while Mrs. Macray and I live in the White House. Someday, another president will do the right thing at the right time. He or she will remove the concrete blocks.”

Macray never mentioned the Oval Office again. Neither did the press. Reporters chose to avoid the matter because of their tremendous respect for President Macray.

Further, to restore dignity to the Presidency, Macray banned pornographic movies from the plane we know as Air Force One. He was shocked when one such movie arrived during his first month in office. When asking for an explanation, Macray learned Quentin Jeffrey’s Hollywood friends forgot to take the White House off their mailing lists.

“The mailing list? What mailing list?” Macray asked.

“Well, you see, Mr. President,” an aide said, “your predecessor had pornographic movies sent here regularly. While traveling by air, he watched every porno that he could get. Perhaps that’s why he traveled alone so much. With the first lady somewhere else, he could watch and pant in private.”

“Say no more,” Macray said while shaking his head. “Just stop them from coming.”

Next, Macray promised to travel only when necessary. “I do not have to leave town every week,” he said. “I can do as much work with a phone alone as I can do with a phone and a plane. If I don’t have to shake hands or sign a paper, I will stay home. I will not waste your money boondoggling around the world.”

Macray kept his word. “Mr. President,” a reporter asked during Macray’s third month in office, “parts of Missouri have severe flooding. Will you visit the damage?”

“No,” he replied, “it is not necessary that I travel to Missouri. I will review the video today and announce my decision for financial aid tomorrow.”

Another reporter, showing his disgust for Jeffrey, asked Macray if he too would leave the country during rough times. “No, sir,” was Macray’s quick response. “Tough questions never make me squirm. Why should I leave town? If you don’t believe me now, you will.”

In many ways, Macray showed us that a president can achieve without travel. Each year, Macray spent sixty-five percent less on travel than did Jeffrey. With so little time in the air, Air Force One became known as the “Hanger Queen.” However, it was always in top form and ready to go.

Macray went a step further. He reached into his own pocket to pay the travel expenses of family members. That was his way to avoid even the appearance of misusing our money. To me, that act alone showed him as a man with class.

Macray had a long list of achievements. His handling of the military and taxes were his glowing achievements.

-----

Our military had taken a back seat to none since World War II but, still, it needed attention. Jeffrey slashed our military budget each year of his two terms. The reduction of funds led to deterioration in all branches of the armed forces. Far too many men and women of our armed forces returned to civilian life. Equipment failed too often and morale hit bottom.

Parts taken from one piece of equipment kept another going. Stripped equipment was common. With some training cut completely and other reduced, the troops were at risk. Grumbling within both enlisted and officer ranks found its way to the media. Top ranking members of military brass could no longer hold their heads high.

The loss of pilots hurt us most. A pilot alone in an airplane must cope with any situation. Otherwise, we can lose both pilot and airplane. For that reason, training pilots for combat takes time and is costly. High turnover among pilots meant more costly training.

In the words of one pilot, “They expect magic from us to compensate for their not maintaining our planes. When poorly maintained tanks stop running, they stop on the ground. When poorly maintained ships stop sailing, they stop in the water. Know what happened to me last fall when my plane got sick 40,000 feet above the Rockies?”

He did not expect an answer. Of course we knew. He told us anyway. “I took the heat for running millions of dollars into a mountain.”

The number of recruits dropped drastically but not because of apathy. The young people wanted to serve but chose to stay home because they didn’t like the stories they heard. Many of those who would have entered the military ten years earlier took low wage civilian jobs with no health or education benefits.

Discontented careerists often discouraged the young. One sergeant told his kids, “Don’t follow in my steps. Wait until we get a new president. See if it gets better. This was a good place twenty years ago when I came but not now.”

Rapidly declining recruitments stunned military leaders. Many discouraged recruiters spent more time in their offices than with prospects. With less effort came even fewer enlistments. Some recruiters asked for an early return to regular duty. Others, because of not recruiting enough warm bodies, received orders to return before they asked.

Congress quickly approved Macray’s request to increase the military budget. Additional funds returned each branch to a high state of combat readiness. By the end of Macray’s first term, we could again fight major wars on two geographical fronts plus terrorism at home. With terrorism brought to a halt, we felt secure again.

Understanding why the two presidents had different views of military importance is not difficult. Comparing the military records of Macray and Jeffrey is like comparing glue and water.

A teen-aged Macray entered the United States Navy as an enlisted man. He returned to civilian life forty years later with countless ribbons and medals and wearing the four stars of an admiral. He retired from military service while a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Quentin Jeffrey had one military goal, the goal of avoiding danger. He did so by serving in the reserves while hoping he would never get a call for combat duty. The coward who later became the Commander in Chief of our armed forces stayed home and let the brave men and women protect him.

In Macray, the troops had a leader. They knew he was in their corner. The men and women of our armed forces were a proud group during Macray’s time in office. The number of enlistments soared too.

-----

When Macray insisted that we kill the federal income tax and set up a national sales tax, Congress went along with very little resistance. We kissed the Internal Revenue Service good-bye after nearly a hundred years. Honest people welcomed the new tax for a variety of reasons. Only the dishonest complained.

People could no longer evade taxes. Billions of tax dollars went unpaid when we were on the honor system. The sales tax changed all that by eliminating the underground economy. Drug and porn dealers finally had to pay their fair share.

Drug and porn dealers were not alone in the underground economy though. My barber, Matt, a card-carrying member of the underground economy, still grumbles every time I drop in for a haircut. “I used to report just enough income to look good,” he says. “Now, every candy bar costs me another dime.”

My response to him never changes. “It’s high time you carry yourself, Matthew. You’re too heavy for me.”

I tried to educate him at first. “Look, Matt,” I said, “you helped carry all the others who underreported their income. So did I and everyone else. Now, we only have to carry ourselves.”

Chapter 19 The Grand Finale Pages 269 - 273

My personal grand finale came two days before Christmas the year after it all started. The high pervert invited King, Sparks, and me to the White House. He wanted to honor us for bringing down IYE. It was his last official ceremony before leaving office. King and I proudly made the ceremony a fiasco by not attending.

King couldn’t stomach the man so he stayed home. I didn’t want my reputation tarnished so I stayed home too. We planned it that way, the last minute cancellation and all, because we refused to give Jeffrey the photo opportunity he wanted.

Of course, Sparks attended. As I stared at my television, I watched him explain his presence and our absence. “I'm here,” he said, “because coming was the right thing to do. They stayed home because they are jerks.”

Sparks chuckled in a way that only King and I could appreciate. I loved it!

My most compelling reason for not attending, however, was one of ethics. We didn’t bring down IYE. It disappeared with Richard Kort. Still, Jeffrey planned an extravagant ceremony for public viewing as a way to look good.

Instead of making the trip to Washington, I made myself useful around the house. I also wrote to Amos and Maggie Johns. Maggie replied a few days later with a very pleasant letter. She closed with this paragraph:

I asked Amos if he wanted to write anything. He said no but to tell you he will never again offer a chew to a man who can buy a sawmill. I don't know what he means but maybe you do.

-----

I have seen Sparks twice since the ordeal ended. The first was when he and his wife visited Kerrie and me at our ranch. They spent a July weekend with us the following year. It was the only time Kerrie had met him. That visit was the happiest social event of our marriage.

Frederick and Eleanor Sparks impressed Kerrie more than anybody I know. She and Mrs. Sparks were instant friends. It was as if they were close friends in a previous life.

“It is a treat to get away from the snooty people back home,” she told Kerrie. “I put up with them because I have to go along to get along.”

I turned to Sparks. Then, I whispered, “Much like showing up when the high pervert calls.”

I should have kept quiet. Sparks, staring into my eyes, scowled and forced me to suffer the silent treatment for a minute or so.

The last time I saw General Sparks was the following June. It was when King and I attended his funeral. Neither King nor I knew he was sick. While discussing his death, Mrs. Sparks reminded me of what I already knew about the General.

“Fred always said that living should last a century,” she told us, “but dying should last only a second.”

Sparks told me the same thing sometime along the way. Did he have suicide in mind back then? I don’t know. However, I understand why he took his life. Sparks was a fighter but he was not a man to put up with situations once he lost control. To his credit, he had very little experience working with lost causes.

“Fred suffered two heart attacks during his last month,” Eleanor said. “He had all he cared to take. When he told me what to expect, I left the house.”

King and I remained silent. Our curiosity must have shown.

“I was less than a block down the street when I heard the shots,” she said. “I didn’t know he fired two shots until later in the day. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

Handing a newspaper to King, she added, “Here, you may have this. The article on page one tells it all.”

Getting up from the chair, I expressed my sympathy and an offer to help. King did the same.

“I have one request,” she said. “Please don’t tell anyone I knew he would take his own life. All the women in my social circle will talk about how I should have helped him. Instead, I left him alone in the house.”

King replied in a way that Sparks would approve. “You helped him by leaving him alone. That is what he wanted. Just tell the whores to go to hell.”

“Yes, I know,” she said while wiping her eyes. Then she smiled and added, “You know what, Senator? That’s what the General called them too.”

We laughed. Heads turned to see two grown men laughing with the widow while standing next to the corpse. Well, I thought, let them have this for gossip fodder.

During the flight home, I read the news item about Sparks’ life and death. It explained that General Sparks took his life in his back yard by firing identical revolvers at the same instant. One bullet entered the left temple and the other entered the right temple. According to the article, he died in the same determined way he lived.

Some people say such a feat cannot happen. They claim a person cannot pull both triggers at the same instant. Well, Sparks did.

He planned and executed well. The bullets collided and remained in his head. Did Sparks plan the collision? You bet he did.

I admire Sparks. It takes courage to kill oneself. Some people believe only the mentally unstable commit suicide. I disagree. Sparks was more stable than the oldest mountain.

-----

King and I have become good friends and we get together every few months. When Glen drives him the 200 miles to our place in the high country, Kerrie enjoys his company too. During those visits, we usually play golf and pitch horseshoes. Meow and King often tussle the instant he arrives, sometimes with the car door still open.

During his most recent visit, King told me of a drive to put him in the U.S. Senate again. His popularity still grows daily, ten years after IYE. He told me that he lacked the interest and declined with an official explanation that was far from the truth.

“I told them,” he said, “it is time to wind down. I’m spent and I don’t want the hard work.”

“Few people will fault you for that,” I said. “You have earned a life of leisure.”

“No, that’s not the reason,” he said. “Have you ever heard a politician tell the truth?”

“Only you,” I said. His grin told me he didn’t believe me. So did his words but with more clarity.

“Don’t kiss up to me,” he said. “Politicians are repulsive people. It wasn't always that way but it is now.”

“Why is that?” Of course, I knew the answer. He had told me a dozen times.

“Greed. Politicians consider only two things when they vote on a bill. One, which vote will get them reelected. The second is which vote will get them a high paying job after politics.”

“What is the solution, closing down Washington?”

“Pull your head out, Lew.” With a wink and without missing a beat, he added, “Do you know what this country needs? It needs a dictator who thinks and acts like me.”

Not wanting to stroke his tank-size ego, I merely said, “Yeah, I know. Politicians are shabby people.”

He looked at me, nodded and then stared at the sunset. It was as if he wanted to live those years again. I changed the subject when his eyes became moist.

I enjoy our visits and, of course, we always relive some part of the IYE trauma during our times together. We always remind ourselves that, at first, the experts thought IYE had hundreds of members. None thought one citizen, working alone, could do so much damage. Rick Kort changed all that and, in doing so, changed the way we think and live.

Baxter Perry King and I often speculate about the fate of Rick Kort. We believe Kort knew that sometime he would make a mistake. Rather than pay the price for his evil ways, we believe he left the country and lives lavishly incognito with Mrs. Kort. Our theory is as good as any when considering his wife disappeared unexpectedly and without a trace three months after Rick’s disappearance. We believe The Five honored Uncle Albert’s monetary promise before I entered the scene in Chicago.

About the Author

After working in the finance, insurance, transportation and forest products industries, Cody Jaycroft approached retirement age by writing this novel, his first.  Jaycroft served in the United States Navy and has worked as a computer programmer, accountant and auditor.  He and his wife, Wanda, live near Phoenix, Arizona.