Second Chances

Pt. 05

by G. Lawrence

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. Once again, a reminder. This is an alternate timeline from our own. The history is similar in some respects and very different in others. None of this story is political. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Summoned by General Fowler, Jack engaged in a covert operation to save two children from Tashad terrorists in Afghanistan. Now he's headed back home to Jenny.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

National Archives

700 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. Franklin,

Now that John Lawrence has been officially declared dead, it is my responsibility to dispose of his belongings. Jack owned few possessions. My daughter is keeping his guitar. My son is retaining his combat decorations. Other items have been donated to the Smithsonian. There is a box of original documents that may be of interest to the National Archives. Let me know your thoughts. With appreciation, Patricia Blair

Chapter Five

THE PAST COMES CALLING

Winter in Sar'ret was approaching. Ma'amet gave me a warm fur coat and leather boots, and the boys provided a small stove for my stone cell at night. My willingness to help with tasks made me a common sight around the village. I asked for nothing, and my mild manners won enough confidence that I was allowed to tend the sheep when the shepherds were busy. I enjoyed the chores, spent my free time studying the Qur'an, and read Dr. Askari's medical books.

My few hours of time outdoors gradually increased, eventually lasting from breakfast to sunset. Khillan and Ishan became my full-time guards, sometimes together, at other times taking turns. Being young and confident, they didn't realize I could hurt them if I wanted to. Khillan was tall, thin, and prone to scholarly pursuits. Ishan was middle height, athletic, and curious about the world beyond Sar'ret. I enjoyed their company but did not talk a lot.

"You do not sleep well. Khillan says you have nightmares," Ma'amet said to me one evening, sitting in his home while his wife cooked. It was a nice brick house with thick fur carpets, running water from the lake, and access to an electrical generator.

"It is true. It is good he and Ishan lock my room at night," I said, tasting the bread. Lalia was a wonderful cook.

"Some nights your room is not locked," Ma'amet said, which I didn't know.

"Do you seek to test me?"

"Some still fear you might attempt escape," he said, the question hanging.

"To escape, I would need to travel hundreds of kilometers through a hostile land," I said.

"Is that such a concern?"

"Why ask such a question?" I inquired.

"The war in the lowlands grows quiet in the winter. Tashad may retreat to the mountains. They are not your friends," Ma'amet warned.

"Don't you think I know this? Do you not think my heart stops every time I hear trucks coming up the mountain road? They put me before a firing squad once, and Abari has promised to do it again."

"Then why don't you flee?"

"Tashad would make your village pay a heavy price if I did."

"Do you owe us so much not to try?"

"Allah will not give mercy to anyone, except those who give mercy to others," I said, quoting the Qur'an.

"I forgot, you have become a scholar," Ma'amet said with a smile.

"The ink of the scholar is more holy than the blood of the martyr."

"You may stop now. I understand," Ma'amet said, holding up his hand. "In your first days, you spoke of becoming one with those around you, as you have become one with us. It is a rare gift."

"The world thinks I'm dead, and I have no one to go back to," I said, enjoying the hot tea. "Better to end life here, among friends, than spend my last days in desperate flight."

"Is this what troubles your dreams? Fear of Abari?"

"No, I've had troubled dreams since the war. Doctors gave me medication to control them, but the medicine is gone. Ishan and Khillan must be careful around me. They are fine young men. I don't want to hurt them."

"There is something I must show you. All the men have read it. We were not sure if you should see it."

"What could cause such apprehension?" I asked.

"It is a book. About you."

"I care nothing of what men write about me."

"This is not an ordinary book. You are the author," Ma'amet said.

It was a clothbound book printed in Arabic. Well leafed through, with some of the page corners bent back. It had been published in Egypt. It was Diminished Capacity by John H. Lawrence.

"This is difficult to grasp. To see my own thoughts come back from another world," I said, flipping through several sections.

"These are, indeed, your thoughts?" Ma'amet asked.

I read another passage, wishing someone had edited the rough edges off the manuscript. It recounted waking up after the shooting of President Blair and not remembering. How I discovered the Thanksgiving Eve plot, escaped from the Cumberland Detention Center to ingratiate myself with the Tashad terrorists, and then foiled the attack on Boston. It also recalled my years in Windhaven as a teacher, and my time in Northfield, beginning as a brutalized victim before evolving into an angry avenger.

"A sad tale of violence, lost hopes, and broken dreams," I said, handing the book back to him.

"It is not a sad tale at all," Ma'amet disagreed, setting the book down in front of me. "Perhaps you should read it again."

____________

"Hi, Red. I missed you," I said, squeezing her tightly. She felt good in my arms, trim and feisty.

"No explanation for the last three weeks?" Jenny asked.

"Just doing my civic duty. Any excitement while I was gone?"

I was finally back in Manhattan, casually dressed, and carrying a bag without my name, rank and serial number stenciled on it. Passersby glanced at us and kept going. Some with smiles, more with frowns.

"Bobby's working on a new book. Won't say what it's about," she said, holding my arm as we walked through the airport. "Mr. Palmer called to make sure you haven't forgotten about Denver. And you missed the 4th of July."

"Don't worry, I saw plenty of fireworks," I said.

Jenny wanted me to move in with her, but it was too soon. And I didn't want to impose on Bobby, who lived a few blocks away. By an interesting coincidence, Alex finally got her transfer to New York and bought a modest two-bedroom condo on West 57th Street not far from Central Park. I became her roommate.

"Pretty nice," I said, looking out the window. Though the Hudson River was two blocks away, I could catch a glimpse of it through the trees. "It's got to be expensive. How can you afford it?"

"Signed a book deal, and my agent is shopping the movie rights," Alex said, showing me a drawer for my socks. My new bedroom wasn't large but had a nice view of the river and a fresh coat of white paint.

"Sounds intrusive," I said.

"I only write what I'm willing to let people know. It's not a big deal."

"It would be to me."

"I don't live in the shadows like you do. Now that you're in the big city, what are your plans?"

"Mr. Palmer is lining up speaking engagements for me," I said. "Two next week, two more the week after. I'm going to Denver, San Antonio, Salt Lake City, and San Francisco."

"You need better luggage," Alex said.

"Yes, I've noticed a canvas bag doesn't do wonders for my good suit," I agreed.

"I can go shopping with you," Alex offered.

"Jenny's going to help. I think she's a little jealous that we're living together."

"We're sharing a flat, not living together."

"She knows. Not everyone understands our relationship."

Alex laughed and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"And why is it we've never had sex?" she teased.

"Because you're too much woman for me," I answered. "But I did have you in my bed at Cumberland. Almost naked."

"Don't tell Jenny that," Alex advised.

____________

Living in the heart of the Big Apple made it hard to avoid the news, but I did my best. The rescue of Marjani and Hydar, though vague on details, had improved relations between Iraq and Iran, and the United States was about to establish its first Iraqi embassy in ten years. I was glad to hear the children were doing well.

A week after my return, I learned the Bates' brothers had taken a plea bargain, getting life in prison instead of the death penalty. Which disappointed me. Such creatures have no right to walk the Earth. Their mother was being sued by the victims' families and would probably lose her house, which I was happy about.

From time to time, I would see my name pop up on a web report. Some writers sought to portray me as a hero, often with rumor rather than facts. Others accused me of being a criminal mastermind exploiting a gullible public with lies and subterfuge. I did my best to ignore all of it, especially the gossip linking me with Jenny.

Though I enjoyed being in the city again, there were times it created uncomfortable moments.

"Lunch with the Secret Service?" I said, wary about the location Alex had picked out.

"My co-workers don't understand why I'm friends with ..."

"The man who killed a president on their watch?" I inquired.

"It does sting. But they get the PTSD thing, and Thanksgiving Eve, too. It's complicated," Alex said.

The Secret Service field office was on Adams Street near the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. We took the York Street subway and walked the rest of the way.

"Don't be nervous," Alex said.

"Easy for you to say. I'll be the only person there without a gun."

"Since when do you need a gun to beat the crap out of everyone in the room?" she teased.

"Okay, you've got me there," I confessed.

There was an affordable cafeteria on the ground floor that served several government agencies. Eight of Alex's colleagues took seats at their usual table in the back, a mixture of various ages, sizes and sexes. The walls were decorated with portraits of presidents. There were no pictures of John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, or me.

"Everybody, this is Jack Lawrence, my new roommate," Alex introduced. "Jack, this is the gang. We're called the Foreign Transfer Tracking Unit."

I glanced around for eavesdroppers or hidden cameras. That earned me several smiles.

"We don't disclose classified operations here, but we can discuss general procedures," a serious looking Asian woman named Wendy said.

"Like the Black Web?" I asked.

"Whoa, where did you hear about that?" a skinny red-headed kid asked, hardly out of college. Yale by the look of him. The rest of the group was surprised, too. Half had no idea what we were talking about.

"Army Intelligence. And don't ask for classified codes, because you won't get them," I replied.

"Haven't you guys ever wondered where those tips kept coming from while Jack was at Cumberland? The Crenshaw case? Dash Triblock? The Woolly Hunter?" Alex said.

"That was you?" Wendy asked.

"How did you pull it off?" a senior agent inquired, a grim middle-aged fellow with a shaved head named Brewster.

"I asked Judge Smart for a computer to research my murder trial, then reconfigured access for the Black Web. A rogue's gallery of homicidal psychos considered me a hero for shooting Blair. Those who appeared dangerous were forwarded to the Secret Service, which is how I began working with Alex."

"And it's how he found Frac Khanani," Alex added.

"You really don't remember the shooting? Not any of it?" Brewster asked.

I paused, hoping not to answer. For eight years, I had done my best to avoid specific questions about the president.

"Jack, they already know. It's not a secret anymore," Alex said.

"I'm missing about twelve hours," I reluctantly admitted. "I was in my apartment packing for Miami, and then I was in a police station. Handcuffed. I've had dreams. Blurry images of a gun falling to the ground. That's why I don't watch reports of the shooting. How would I ever know what's real or what's been implanted in my memory?"

"I read about false memories in Dr. Livingston's paper," Wendy said.

"Which she had no right to publish, even if she didn't use my name," I complained.

"It's an explanation," Wendy insisted.

"It's an excuse, and I've never made an excuse for what happened," I replied. "I knew I was sick. If I'd gotten help when I should have, I never would have been in Jackson Park."

"That's a different issue," Brewster said.

"Not to me it isn't," I responded more harshly than I intended.

The table fell silent for a moment.

"Okay, Alex, we get what you've been saying," Agent Placer remarked.

"What do you think about the case being reviewed?" Wendy asked.

"What do you mean?" I inquired.

They exchanged embarrassed glances, turning toward Alex.

"You didn't tell him?" Brewster said.

"Tell me what?" I asked Alex.

"Jack, a team is looking into whether you really fired the shot that killed Blair," Alex sheepishly said. "Some contradictory evidence has emerged. I didn't say anything because you get mad sometimes."

"Not another of these stupid conspiracy theories?" I asked, a little impatiently. "It's bad enough Fowler claims I was framed by mysterious unknown forces."

"How do you know you weren't?" Wendy asked.

"Because those things don't happen in the real world," I answered.

"Let's not get excited," Alex said, waving to the waiter that we needed more beer. "No one is going to reopen the case without evidence."

I noticed another uncomfortable silence. What weren't they saying?

__________

I started running in Central Park, usually in the late afternoons. Wearing a hood or hat, I was rarely recognized, for New York City is a busy place where people tend to mind their own business.

"Hey, guys," I said, finding a band playing in a small amphitheater. "The 144th?"

There were four of them, one on lead guitar, a bass guitar player, one on an electric keyboard, and a drummer.

"We all served with the 144th in Second Afghan," a tattooed vet said, thick and bald, wearing an eagle t-shirt.

"So did I," I said, taking off my Mt. Vernon baseball cap and sunglasses.

"Jesus Christ, it's the Sarge," the drummer said.

They jumped up to shake hands, except the keyboard player, who was missing both legs. Their audience, a motley group of twenty park goers, also wanted to meet me. In days past, I would have avoided a crowd but was striving to get better. And I needed practice for the speeches I was giving for Mr. Palmer.

"I'm Garth Mathews," the bass player said. "This is Andrew Ralston, Chase Cavetto, and Joaquin Ignacio."

"Honored, gentlemen," I said, sitting on a cement bench to hear them play.

"Want to play with us?" Ralston the drummer asked.

"I don't want to interfere. My guitar is back home," I said.

"Play this one. I have a banjo," Ignacio urged.

It sounded like fun. We played half a dozen songs, all popular barracks ballads, with each one getting better as I grew accustomed to their style. Cavetto played a mean keyboard. And someone was ratting us out. The audience, using their cell phones, were taking pictures and sending text messages. Our fans grew from twenty to a hundred. The donation hat that had held ten dollars was soon overflowing with dollar bills.

"Cops," Cavetto said, releasing the clamps on his wheelchair.

Two of New York's finest strolled into the amphitheater. When the crowds were small, they didn't mind a few veterans playing for pocket change, but this was growing into something larger.

"Need to break this up, fellas," Officer Murphy said. "Sorry guys, you know the rules."

The band started packing up their instruments but were interrupted.

"Hey, Dodge, wait a minute. That's the Sarge," his partner said.

"Goddamn, it is you," Murphy said, stepping up to shake my hand. "Dodge Murphy, 7th Air Cavalry."

"My honor, officer. You guys saved my butt at Lavanna Valley," I complemented, giving the guitar back to Ignacio.

"No, wait. Play a few more," Murphy said.

"Really?" Mathews asked.

"We'll keep order. There won't be any problems. Right?" Murphy said to the audience. Everyone raised their hands in agreement.

"Okay then," I said, taking the guitar back. "This one is for my friends in the Air Cavalry. Garryowen."

We played for another thirty minutes, the crowd swelling to two hundred. Half a dozen cops came to help. I did most of the singing, Mathews not being very good, and the performance was well received. And why not? I had been a street kid who knew how to play for food money.

"Thanks, officers," I said as the makeshift concert disbanded.

"We've got a thousand dollars in the hat," Cavetto said. "We've never had anything like that before."

He started to give me two hundred, but I gave it back. They needed it more than I did.

"Let's do this again. Next Sunday," Mathews suggested.

"We'll never get a permit," Cavetto said.

"Sunday afternoon, two to four. We've got you covered," Officer Murphy said, offering a salute.

Everyone looked at me. I hadn't planned on joining a band, but I didn't leave for Denver until Monday morning. And there was plenty of time for church before the gig.

"I'll bring my own guitar next time," I agreed.

I looked for a neighborhood bar on the way home, knowing I'd want a place to hang out, and found Flanagan's on 58th. I ordered a beer, made some introductions, and headed back to the apartment.

"There he is. What have you been up to?" Jenny said, sitting on the couch next to Alex. They had been friends for a year, at least, but I still thought Jenny might be checking up on me.

"No place special. Went for a run. Had a refreshment."

"And held a concert?" Alex asked.

"Played a few songs in the park," I replied.

"Jack, look," Jenny said, showing me her tablet.

They had one of the internet feeds on. Central Park. The 144th Band. And Sarge Lawrence. The sound quality wasn't the best.

"It's going viral," Alex said.

"I need another beer," I groaned, going to the kitchen.

Alex had found Squirrel Nut for me. I sat down between my girls. The apartment was still filled with cartons from Alex's move. My two boxes were already unpacked. Jenny held the tablet in her lap.

"We're not so bad," I observed as we watched the amateur videos.

"You're good," Alex said. "Where did you find those guys?"

"Just loitering around. We're playing again on Sunday," I said.

"Can I provide the sound?" Jenny asked. "I can get my agency to provide the equipment. It has our logo on it."

"I suppose, if the band doesn't mind," I tentatively agreed. "How was work today?"

"How was work? Wow, look how domestic we're getting," Jenny laughed.

"Oh, am I too tame for you?" I asked.

I scooped Jenny off the couch, marched into my bedroom, and kicked the door closed with my foot.

"What will Alex think?" Jenny said as I was setting her on the bed.

"She's Secret Service. She knows exactly what to think," I replied.

____________

After church on Sunday, I met up with Jenny and Alex, who were Presbyterians. We walked together to the small cement amphitheater, only to find it empty.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Jack, look. Detour signs," Alex said, pointing to a line of markers.

We followed the flags to a far bigger theater near the lake. There were hundreds of people waiting for the concert, and hundreds more in line. A dozen cops were watching the area, two of them on horseback. Jenny saw her sound crew and went to check-in.

"You didn't mention this," Alex said.

"I had no clue," I replied.

The 144th Band was setting up on the long stage.

"Hey guys, how did this happen?" I asked, walking up with the Jack Wood guitar that Alex and Dragon had given me years before.

"Mayor told the cops to put us here. Supposed to be good for the city's image," Mathews explained.

I noticed the media had been invited, and though there were no campaign signs near the stage, there was a banner with the mayor's favorite slogan, "A City for Everyone."

"What do you think?" I asked.

"What do we think? This is great," Ignacio said. "My kids are speaking to me again. I even got offered a job."

"Me, too," Cavetto said.

"We can play this into big money," Mathews boasted.

"My schedule may not allow it," I warned.

"Don't you want to be a famous rock n' roller?" Cavetto asked.

"I'm already famous, and I have speaking commitments for the next month," I replied.

"What if we work around your schedule?" Mathews pressed.

"Yeah, Sarge. Come on, this is our big break," Ralston also urged.

This was important to them, and who doesn't want to be a rock n' roll star?

"We'll give it a try, but I can't promise anything," I agreed. "Go over to that young lady with the long red hair. She arranged for the sound system. Her agency might be able to represent you."

"You mean Jenny Blair, the hot babe you're banging?" Cavetto said.

"Jesus Christ, Chase, are you trying to make Sarge quit already?" Ralston said. "Show some goddamn respect."

"Sorry, Sarge. It's not like we all want to bang her," Cavetto apologized.

We spent twenty minutes setting up, the large stage and extra equipment new to us. I asked Ralston to teach me some drums, and warned Cavetto that I knew how to play his keyboard.

"Are we rock n' rolling today?" I asked.

"Can you?" Mathews said.

"I've been playing for hat money since I was five. What do you think?" I replied.

We agreed on an eclectic program of rock n' roll and country western. I stayed on vocals, having the best voice, with Mathews and Ignacio providing backup. Cavetto did some amazing interludes with his keyboard. The audience, numbering around eight hundred, was generous with their enthusiasm, egging us on to try our best. A Palmer media truck recorded the entire event, which lasted about sixty minutes.

"Wrap up?" Mathews asked.

"I've got this," I said, going to the edge of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending our performance. When I was a child, I panhandled at the St. Louis Arch with an old-timer named Old Da. And I loved him. He taught me how to play, and sing, and dance, and I probably wouldn't be here today if not for his kindness. Old Da and I always ended our shows with the same song. The one that brought me to this city on a quest two decades ago."

I started strumming the first few bars, and the band picked it up fast. It was 'New York, New York.' The audience rose to their feet applauding, not so much for the song, but the feeling behind it. I took the guys to Flanagan's to celebrate, for it had been a successful show.

Monday morning, I packed my brand-new suitcase for Denver, wanting to be at the airport early. Fortunately, the FBI had gotten me off the do-not-fly list, for presidential assassins aren't always welcome on commercial flights. The Denver Commerce Association bought me a first-class seat. Dragon, who was working out of the Denver office, picked me up at the airport.

"You're getting around these days," Alberto said, driving an FBI car. But not a black SUV, thank goodness.

"I've been here before. Sort of," I said, admiring the view.

"Yeah, five months in a blue stasis tube while mad scientists drained radiation out of you," Alberto recalled. "But that was Colorado Springs, not Denver."

"It wasn't so bad," I mildly protested.

"Alex and I visited you every few weeks, watching your comatose body try to breathe. Your hair gone. Skin blotched. Fingernails turned gray. It was god-awful. And we still feel guilty. You were the one who found Khanani. You hacked open that bomb. And we're the ones who became heroes."

"Dragon, you really need to get over this. You and Alex charged into that warehouse. You guys shot Khanani. You shot it out with Tashad, and got wounded doing it. If that's not heroism, I don't know what is."

"We made a good team, didn't we?" Alberto said

"And you still owe me dinner," I replied.

Dragon dropped me off at my hotel, planning to catch up after work. He had criminals to catch. I took my brand new suitcase up to my room, hung my new suit in the closet, put my new socks and underwear in the drawer, and activated my new laptop to check my messages. Then I went downstairs for a drink. It was a fancy saloon, with lots of mirrors and an elk head over the bar. The bartender was wearing a black cowboy hat.

"'About time," a familiar voice said.

"Fowler? What in the goddamn hell are you doing here?" I said, finding him on the barstool next to me. "Not another mission already?"

"Not yet, but there's always another mission, kid. Here to make you an offer. Come back to the Army. It's where you belong."

I glanced around the long room, seeing few patrons so early in the afternoon. An older couple down at the far end weren't paying attention.

"Sir, I really liked helping those children, but I'm trying to make a new life. I have a girl, and a job. Skylla College wants me back next semester. I might even buy a house."

"Son, I know how you feel. Once had a fantasy like that myself. But it's not our world. Never will be. Now we've got a new mission coming up. The militias in Syria are getting desperate, trying to reclaim lost territory. The United Nations is arranging for peacekeepers. Small units, lightly armed. Mostly helping towns with security. Setting up refugee centers. They need doctors, teachers, food and clean water. All that good guy crap you like. You can be part of it."

I worked on my drink for a while. It was the kind of crap I liked, but did I really want to return to a war zone?

"General, I think I've had enough of that for now. With respect," I said. "I was barely eighteen when I joined the 144th, and now I'm in my thirties. I've never had a life of my own. If I don't try now, I may never get the chance."

"The offer stays open," Fowler said. "One of these days, you're going to be knocking on my door."

Fowler slapped me on the shoulder and strolled out, leaving me to pay his bill.

____________

My presentation that evening went well. The subject was assimilating ex-convicts back into the work force, and I spoke for an hour with authority. Not only had I been a teacher, but also a recruiter, cheerleader, an enemy of drugs, a negotiator with gangs, and ultimately, a reluctant role model.

The speech gave me a chance for some minor bragging, which I generally avoided. I told of Rafael Martín, who I encouraged to write. And Big Blow Tyree, who won a Grammy, though I was more moral support than mentor. Several students developed writing and acting careers, one getting regular roles on Broadway. And many graduated from technical schools, which bolstered my argument.

"There are no magic ways to read if an ex-felon will be a loyal employee or revert to their old ways," I concluded. "The key elements are motivation, affirmation, and trust. But let me assure you, once you've won that loyalty, you won't regret it."

At the cocktail party afterwards, I hobnobbed with the Denver elite, posed for pictures, and sought polite ways to discourage aggressive women. To be the subject of so much female attention was flattering, but I had a prior commitment. One I wasn't going to risk for a fling.

Toward the end of the evening, Dragon returned with another old friend. One who was unexpected.

"Harry? What brings you way out west?" I asked.

"Business. An old cold case," Harold said. "And don't call me Harry."

I smiled and introduced them around, for the heroes of Thanksgiving Eve always get special attention. And free drinks. I ordered a Manhattan.

"Cancelled your airline reservation," Harold said as we took a cab back to my hotel.

"I have a presentation in San Francisco on Friday," I replied.

"You'll be on time, but we have a side trip first that's long overdue," Harold insisted. "Dragon is coming, too. It's tied to a case he's been working."

"Am I going to be an advisor?" I asked.

"No, Jack. You're the victim," Alberto said.

We flew to Oklahoma City on an FBI jet the next morning. I sat quietly, staring out the window. A pretty junior agent named Michelle Okada picked us up at the airport in a white SUV. Were we undercover?

"Where to, Mr. Rasmussen?" she asked after the introductions.

"Sunny Lane, Miss Okada," Rasmussen ordered.

I had never been to Oklahoma City. Not as an adult. We drove to a broad green cemetery on 29th Street, parking near the mortuary. Reluctantly, I followed Rasmussen and Dragon toward a plot near a small grove of elm trees.

As we walked along a cement path, I recalled the story Alberto and Rasmussen had told me a year before. Though I had run away from an abusive foster home near Dallas when I was five, it turned out I wasn't a nameless orphan after all. I had been deliberately abandoned by an aunt, left without family to grow up on the streets.

"Those are your parents, Jack," Alberto said. "And that's you."

There was a single white marble headstone. William Kenneth Howard 1964-1998. Theresa Romero Howard 1972-1998. Thomas Jamison Howard 1998. Rest in Peace.

"Your Romero grandparents insisted on your name being included, even though there wasn't a body," Alberto explained. "They passed away a year later. Your Howard grandparents were already deceased. With your father being an only child, that made your mother's younger sister heir to their estates."

"You would have been your parents' heir, if Irene hadn't anonymously dropped you off at a Red Cross center at the height of the Trinity Flood," Rasmussen added.

"Hard to prove," I said.

"It's before a grand jury now. We should know this week if they'll bring an indictment against your aunt," Alberto replied.

"Does it really matter? It was thirty years ago," I said.

"After your parents drowned, Irene Romero took her two-month-old nephew to a shelter, and lied about where you were found," Alberto said, angrier than I'd ever seen him. "Then she made a sworn statement to the Texas State Troopers that you died in the river, and that your body was carried away. And then she claimed your inheritance. That's no mistake. It's kidnapping for financial gain. Three years, thirty years, three hundred years--it makes no difference."

"Agent Ruiz has been working this case ever since we found out your real name," Rasmussen explained. "It's been a mission for him."

"Dragon, I thank you for caring. I really do," I said. "But my real name is John Henry Lawrence. It was given to me out of love when the Brothers at St. Mary's took me in. I don't need another name."

"Bill and Theresa Howard loved you, too," Alberto replied. "And the life they wanted for their child was stolen. That needs to be answered for."

"We're the FBI, Jack. It's what we do," Rasmussen agreed.

"I don't question the justice of it, sir," I said. "I'm just uncomfortable having so much old history stirred up. Until you explained this last year, I'd rarely given my birth parents any mind. And until now, we've managed to keep it secret."

"Worried about the publicity?" Rasmussen asked.

"It's a juicy story. Can you tell me dozens of hungry media sharks aren't going to write books on the kidnapping of infant Tommy Howard? Maybe make a movie out of it?" I said. "Until now, my life before St. Mary's has been mystery and rumor. This is going to blow it wide open."

"You knew it wasn't going to stay secret forever," Alberto said.

"Yes, you warned me. Do what you need to. What religion were my parents?"

"Catholic," Alberto replied.

"At least I haven't disappointed them," I said with a sigh of relief.

I knelt down, praying for several minutes at the gravesite, wondering what sort of life I'd have had if my father's car hadn't got caught in the flood on that cold May night. Would I have gone to college? Played sports? Been loved?

We would be staying in Dallas that night, but Agent Okada gave us a tour of Oklahoma City first. I saw the apartment where my parents lived. The building where his former insurance company was located. The elementary school where my mother taught 5th grade. We passed a park where William and Theresa might have showed off their newborn baby.

"What are you thinking?" Rasmussen asked over a cold beer at Mazey's Grill. "This must be a lot to take in."

"I don't know what it means," I confessed. "It's like having an alternate reality revealed to me. There are so many might-have-beens that it makes me dizzy."

"You should give Dr. Livingston a call," Alberto suggested.

"So she can write another book about me?" I asked.

"It wasn't a book. It was a paper for the Oxford Medical Journal on post-traumatic stress. And she never mentioned you by name, only case number," Alberto defended.

"Relax, Dragon. I've known Sandra longer than you have. I'll call if I need her."

We flew to Dallas, headquarters of the regional Federal Court. I saw the Trinity River from the air. The temporary Red Cross center where I'd been abandoned was long gone, but records had been kept. Dragon had found them.

"I presented the original witness statements to the grand jury," Alberto said. "I can't disclose the contents, but the evidence will soon be in the public record. Samantha Watanabe, the 5th District U.S. Attorney, will be wrapping up her presentation tomorrow."

"What does the press know?" I asked.

"Nothing yet. Grand jury proceedings are secret," Alberto reported.

I had no memories of Dallas. The foster home I'd run away from was in Fillmore, thirty miles outside the city, and even that was just a vague impression. The Texas accents were familiar, but I'd heard those in the Army, too.

We took a cab to the Earle Cabell Federal Building on Commerce Street early the next morning, having breakfast at a café filled with lawyers and clients. Ironically, we were just a few blocks from Dealey Plaza, where another assassin had murdered a president sixty-eight years before. Dragon wanted to visit the 6th Floor Museum but I declined.

As we approached the courthouse, several reporters recognized Dragon, and belatedly recognized me.

"Mr. Ruiz, is there a big case here today?" a reporter asked.

"No comment," Alberto said, brushing past her.

"Sarge, why are you here?" they asked me.

"Traffic ticket," I replied, hurrying to keep up.

I walked through the metal detector without problems. Rasmussen and Dragon had to check-in due to their sidearms. The courthouse was busy, but tended not to have as much riffraff as the city courts.

"They have one witness left to call," Alberto reported after speaking with the clerk. "They're giving your aunt a chance to testify."

"That's unusual," Rasmussen said.

"How so?" I asked, for I'd only been involved in one trial, where I'd tried to plead guilty to a murder I didn't remember committing. Judge Smart had seen through my scheme.

"She can't have an attorney, but the subject of a grand jury probe may offer a defense," Rasmussen explained. "She probably doesn't know how much evidence we've gathered. Or that her long-lost nephew has been found."

"That's her now," Alberto said, pointing to a group of people waiting at the far end of the hall.

I hadn't expected to care one way or the other, but it suddenly struck me that this was my mother's only sibling. Family, by blood, if not in spirit. She was a slender woman in her early fifties, nicely styled dark brown hair, and a conservative blue suit. Her motions were graceful, if nervous. She glanced briefly in our direction, revealing large brown eyes, a round nose, and ruddy coloring. She wore white pearls around her neck.

With her for moral support was a husband, Bradley Houser, tall and trim, probably about sixty years old, with a full head of white hair and a bushy mustache. He'd had a long successful career as a corporate lawyer in Kansas City.

And there were my three cousins, as Alberto had described them. The oldest, Marigold, was twenty-eight. A graduate of U.C. Berkeley. She was married to a sociology professor and had a four-year-old daughter named Amy, who wasn't present. Next was Thomas, twenty-five, a strapping former college quarterback and now an assistant coach at the University of Kansas. Bringing up the rear was Theresa, named after my mother. She was petite, twenty-two, attending Yale, and quite attractive. Long reddish-brown hair hung down to her shoulders. She smiled in our direction.

"Should we introduce ourselves?" Rasmussen asked.

"No. They have no idea how much their world is about to change," I said. "I don't want to be held responsible."

"What's going to happen is your aunt's fault, not yours," Rasmussen insisted.

"Harold, I've come so close to death so many times. In the war. With First Responders. Other times. If I'd died before Dragon started his investigation, none of them would be standing in this corridor today. And what if Irene hadn't taken me to that relief center? What if she'd thrown me in the river instead? She wouldn't be worrying about a grand jury."

"You think she deserves credit for not murdering you?" Alberto asked.

"It sounds worse when you say it," I conceded.

The clerk emerged from the grand jury room and motioned to Irene. She received hugs from her family, adjusted her knee-length skirt, and went inside.

"Does she know what charges she's facing?" I asked.

"Only that her nephew's inheritance is being investigated," Alberto replied.

"Maybe we should get a cup of coffee somewhere," I suggested.

"Too late," Alberto said.

Cousin Theresa was rushing towards us, already too close to ignore. She was casually dressed, as college students often are, in a dark blue pullover and black slacks.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lawrence? I'm Theresa Houser," she introduced, her dark brown eyes reminding me of my own. "I'm such an admirer of yours. My whole family is. Would you please come meet them?"

"I'm here on official business, miss. Maybe another time," I declined.

"Please? It will only take a minute," she begged, daring to take my arm.

I was literally dragged down the hall, stopping a few paces back as they all turned to acknowledge me. Thomas reached to shake my hand, offering a firm grip. He seemed like a bright young man, but no genius. The others were polite, though not so star struck as Theresa. Dragon came to my assistance, and being famous himself, was able to be our spokesman.

"You should tell them," Rasmussen whispered in my ear. "They're going to find out soon enough. The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

"I don't know how," I said.

"Ruiz or I can do it," he offered. It was tempting.

"Mr. Lawrence, have you come to offer evidence?" a surprised voice asked. "Victims generally offer statements if the case goes to trial, not the grand jury."

I turned to find a young lawyer standing behind me wearing a sharp blue suit, ugly purple tie, and a short haircut. His nametag pegged him as an assistant U.S. Attorney.

"No, sir. I have nothing to offer," I replied.

He nodded and a clerk let him through the door carrying a thick folder.

"Victim? What happened to you?" Marigold asked. She was taller than Theresa, broad-shouldered, and formally dressed in a white wool suit.

"This hearing they're having. I understand it's about me," I hesitantly replied.

"How can it be about you?" Mr. Houser inquired, sounding very lawyerly. I couldn't answer. I had never actually uttered my birth name, only had it told to me.

"John Lawrence isn't his real name," Alberto said, losing patience. "He was born Thomas Jamison Howard, son of William and Theresa Howard, in Oklahoma City."

"That's impossible. Little Tommy died with his parents decades ago," Mr. Houser said. "I've seen the death certificate."

"The death certificate was based on your wife's perjury, sir," Alberto responded. "And after she gets done lying to the grand jury, she's going to prison for a long time."

"My God," Bradley said, looking at me, then Dragon, and then back at me. He rushed for the courtroom door, pushing the bailiff back. "Irene! Irene! Don't say anymore! Come out!"

There was commotion in the corridor. Commotion in the courtroom. Various people were dashing back and forth, and then Irene emerged, looking flustered.

"Bradley, what is this? What's going on?" Irene asked.

"Don't say anything, honey. It's a set-up," Bradley said, grabbing her around the shoulders.

"I don't understand," Irene complained.

"This is Jack Lawrence. They're claiming he's Little Tommy," Bradley said.

I don't know what I expected to happen. An acknowledgement? An apology? An expression of family? Irene stared at me, trying to decide if it could be true. She must have wondered, from time to time, whatever happened to her nephew. Had it never occurred to her that he might be found someday?

"He's a fraud," Irene finally said, scrunching her brows as if I was an enemy. "Tommy died in the Trinity River. I held his dead body in my arms before the current took him away."

"For God's sake, sweetheart, don't say any more in front of witnesses," Bradley urged.

"Good advice," Alberto coldly said.

Two burly bailiffs and a U.S. Marshal burst into the hall, followed by U.S. Attorney Samantha Watanabe. Watanabe was small and conservatively dressed, but full of fire.

"Irene Houser, pending notification of the grand jury, you are being placed under arrest for child abduction," Watanabe announced. "You will be taken into custody at this time. The U.S. Marshal will read you your rights."

And just like that, my aunt was led away, followed by her husband urgently offering advice.

"That was two years in the making," Alberto said with satisfaction.

"You can't believe this is true?" Marigold protested, her voice deep and harsh.

"I know it's true, Mrs. Smith. Mr. Lawrence's DNA is a match, and we found his footprint among his father's documents," Alberto bragged. "Jack Lawrence is your first cousin, which you would know, if your mother hadn't sent him to a foundling home and stolen his inheritance."

"It must be a mistake. What do you think, Mr. Lawrence?" Thomas asked.

What did I think? My entire life, I had pretended family didn't matter, only to realize how I'd been deluding myself.

"I hope your mother rots in hell," I muttered with clenched fists.

"That's not very generous," Theresa scolded.

"If your mother had expressed remorse, I might have forgiven her. But she chose to call me a fraud," I replied, angry enough to punch someone. I almost walked away, not wanting to say too much. But then I turned back.

"Because of what she did, I was sent as a nameless orphan to a foster home, where I was abused when I was five," I said. "I ran away and spent the next nine years living on the streets. Sleeping under bridges. Eating scraps from trashcans. I didn't go to Berkeley or Yale, or play football for Kansas, as my father would have wanted. How generous am I supposed to feel?"

"It's terrible, I know, but we can work through this," Marigold pleaded.

"Let's go, Harry. We're done here," I said, walking rapidly for the exit.

I didn't stop until I was in the street, gasping for a breath of fresh air. Rasmussen joined me. Alberto still had business with the grand jury.

"Jack, are you okay?" Rasmussen asked.

"You're still my legal advisor. Can I sue them?" I inquired.

"The inheritance is certainly yours, plus interest," Rasmussen said. "That could easily be seven or eight million dollars."

"Would I file the lawsuit here, or Oklahoma, or Kansas City?"

"Oklahoma City, I assume. That's where the fraud occurred. We can contact a firm there," he answered.

"Good, but I'm not interested in seven million. Sue them for a hundred million."

"A hundred million?"

"I can be in Oklahoma City a few weeks from now on my way back from San Antonio," I decided.

"Jack, come on. A hundred million? That's not like you."

"How do I even know who I am?" I replied.

_________

I flew to San Francisco the next day, my first trip to the West Coast. The city was filled with steep hills. I caught a Giants game at their ballpark, glad to see them lose to my beloved Phillies. I visited Alcatraz, thankful the institution had closed before my years as a Federal prisoner. I went to Chinatown, disappointed to find very few Chinese, and ate in a restaurant that had a Maltese Falcon on the awning.

The news broke as I predicted, with Irene Romero Houser the new face of evil in America. Baby Jack Lawrence, kidnap victim! Tragedy on the Trinity River! Left on the streets to die. Inheritance stolen by malicious aunt. The Houser family was soon reported in hiding, running from a relentless press. I wanted to feel sorry for them but couldn't.

Owing Daniel Palmer a few favors, I issued a vague statement through his media outlets, expressing confidence in the criminal justice system. I did not mention my aunt or my personal circumstances.

Without admitting guilt, Irene's lawyer pointed out that she was barely eighteen at the time of her nephew's disappearance, and in shock from losing her beloved sister in the deadly flood. Couldn't Baby Tommy have washed up on an embankment and been turned into the Red Cross center by someone else?

Despite all the controversy, I still had commitments to keep. I appeared before the Society of International Medicine, reviewing first responder techniques in a war zone. It brought back some uncomfortable memories. And portions of my talk proved too graphic for some listeners. As it turned out, most of the audience weren't even doctors, but curiosity seekers who paid high prices to see me speak. I made sure they weren't cheated.

Afterward, many wanted to talk about the latest Jack Lawrence scandal, but I declined comment, citing legal reasons. Which wasn't true. I just didn't want to talk about it.

By Saturday afternoon I was in Atlantic City scheduled to play a concert with the 144th Band at the Crystal Palace Casino. It wasn't sold out, but enough seats were filled to make a profit, and this time I kept my 20% share. I left for New York City right after the last song for I had neglected to tell Jenny anything about Dallas.

"All this time, you had family and you never told me?" Jenny complained back at her apartment.

"They aren't my family," I replied. "The Housers are strangers."

"They are your blood," she insisted. "Your aunt. Your cousins. This is huge."

"About a year ago, Dragon told me the kidnapping story. Until then, I had no clue what my birth name was. And I didn't care. I still don't."

"Family is important. Isn't that what you told me and Bobby? Don't give up on them," Jenny pressed.

"I'll be seeing the Housers again," I promised.

* * * * * *

This was chapter five of ten originally published 10 years ago. I am using this opportunity to repair typos and tighten the narrative. For readers who are enjoying this story, please give it your support. Thanks.