Braddock's Gold

by Jay Heavner

  Braddock’s

  GOLD

  By

  Jay Heavner

  Canaveral Publishing

  Braddock’s Gold, Jay Heavner. Copyright 2015 Jay Heavner, All rights reserved. Second Edition copyright 2019

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any mean, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without permission from the author.

  Cover design by

  Fineline Printing, Titusville, Florida

  All of the author’s books can be obtained from Amazon.

  Braddock’s Gold Novels

  Braddock’s Gold

  Hunter’s Moon

  Fool’s Wisdom

  Killing Darkness

  Florida Murder Mystery Novels

  Death at Windover

  Murder at the Canaveral Diner

  Murder at the Indian River

  Dedication

  To my parents, G. Edward and Frances C. Heavner,

  and my wife’s parents, Orval and Bessie Kenney

  Chapter 1

  "Get outta bed, little brother. You told me to get you up when Mom and Dad got up. They're off to work, and you're still sleepin'. Rise and shine, knucklehead."

  Robbie heard a groan from under the covers. "Do I have to?"

  "You told me to get you up so you could go terrorize those fish in the creek."

  "Robbie, I don't feel so good."

  "Is it any wonder? I heard you sneakin' around in the kitchen last night. What did you eat?"

  "A Twinkie."

  "Only a Twinkie?"

  "Maybe two."

  "What else?"

  "A Coke"

  "Anything else, Timmy?"

  "A candy bar."

  "A candy bar."

  "But it was a big Baby Ruth."

  "It's no wonder you don't feel so good. All that junk food you ate. You're not a billy goat. I hope you learned something from this. The fish are waitin' in fear for your arrival."

  "You gonna tell mom, Robbie?"

  "No, I think you've been punished enough already. You're not the first kid who did this, little brother. Now, are you gonna get up or not?"

  "I'm thinkin' about it."

  "Don't think too long, or you'll miss the best fishin' time of the day."

  Timmy groaned again as Robbie left his room. If he had known the trouble his discovery that day would cause, Timmy would have stayed in bed that Friday morn before Memorial Day Weekend in 1995.

  The sun rose just past 6:00 a.m. over the small town of Fort Ashby. Tomorrow, crowds of people would leave the big cities of Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, Maryland, that were a three-hour drive due east of the little community. They and their families would seek recreation over the long weekend. Some would even find their way to the nearby South Branch of the Potomac and other streams that fed the larger Potomac River, as did Patterson Creek.

  Little Timmy Miltenberger would be in the third grade when school started in the fall. Today, he planned to fish early that morn, ride his bike up and down the dirt road, and play in the afternoon. His big brother, Robbie, aged 16, was supposed to be watching little Timmy.

  Mom and Dad would be at their jobs. Timmy had been a shock to his Mom and Dad. It had been eight years since there had been a new child in the home. After five children, the Miltenbergers, good Catholics, thought they had enough, but surprise, surprise! Mary had found herself pregnant with a menopause baby. They loved all their kids, and this one, not planned, would be no different. She and husband Joseph believed all children were gifts from God. They’d laughed how God put them together, yes, Mary and Joseph.

  The family joke had been that they’d name their firstborn Jesus. They did, in a way, Joshua; the Hebrew-English version of Jesus became the elder's name. Timmy and Robby were the only two still at home, the other siblings grown and off making their own lives. It hadn't been an easy pregnancy for Mary, now an older woman. Tim was born early, a preemie and small, which had led to his nickname, Little Tim, as many people knew him. The doctor said given time, he would catch up, but for now, he was one of the smaller kids in his class of 30.

  It was about 7:30 a.m. when he got out of bed. He dressed slowly in his clothes. His tummy still felt funny, but there were fish to be caught. No hand-me-downs for him. The other siblings had those, but he got new, having no one close in age. Into the kitchen, he went, got a bowl for corn flakes, poured in some milk, and ate it. He grabbed a banana for a snack, went out the door, and stood on the porch. There, about 40 feet away and down a moderate hill, was his delight, Patterson Creek, or just “the crick” as it was known locally. The old house cottage had been there a long time, seen many floods, and had water one foot deep in it back in the 1960s. Then came the great flood of 1985 that one broke all-time records on many streams in the area.

  Fortunately for the Miltenbergers, back in 1981, their insurance company had required for them to have continued coverage, they must raise their home. The house must be elevated eighteen inches per new government regulations mandated for homes in flood plains. It had been hard times economically for the last few years, and times were still difficult. Mr. Miltenberger contacted several companies for prices. He settled on the contractor that offered to raise the house an additional six inches over the new government requirements for no extra cost, and it was a reasonable price too. Regulations could change again, he said.

  This would also move the house to the so-called thousand-year flood level and give more insurance savings. Only once every thousand years was a flood expected at this new level. Joe was glad he did. The flood of 1986 crested a mere two inches below the floor. The pink fiberglass insulation in the floor joists was ruined, but otherwise, the house was unharmed. He replaced it before winter and considered himself lucky compared to what many others in the area suffered, but little Timmy knew none of this. He was born several years afterward, and in his lifetime, the creek had behaved itself and remained within its banks, mostly. Last fall when the water had gotten high, the family left for higher ground with relatives, but the stream only threatened, never getting in the house.

  He walked over to the shed and opened a wooden box full of decaying leaves, dark soil, and nightcrawlers for fishing. They went in an old can with some of the moist dirt. He stuck the banana in his hip pocket, grabbed his pole, and headed for the creek. It was warm enough for swimming now, but Momma had forbidden it unless someone was there with Timmy, and he listened this time. The stream was a little milky today. His daddy would have said something about it raining upstream, but here, it had been a little dry. He noted some shoe prints in the mud along the creek bank that were quite large. He wondered who had made them this early in the morning.

  Probably that strange old man, Dan Phares, who lived on the neighboring farm. Timmy was scared of him the first time he'd seen him. His dad had assured him Ole Dan was harmless, though he looked frightening. His dad said Dan had a disability.

  Little Tim was not sure what a "disability" was, but he knew he did not want one. Dad also told him he couldn’t catch Dan's disability, and that made him feel better. He’d seen Ole Dan walking along the creek several times since then and had spoken to him. Ole Dan seemed a lot smarter than he looked and also a good guy once you got past his weird looks.

  Timmy baited his hook with the nightcrawler and threw it in the water. Good cast. He liked to go out at night with his flashlight, usually after a rain, and catch the worms. Find one with the light, wal
k slowly closer, and grab the part that stuck out of the ground. Don't pull too hard, or you will break it. Hold on, wait for the worm to tire, and then slowly pull it out of the dark soil by the creek.

  By nine, he had a stringer of sunfish, sunnies as he called them, one small bass, and an unknown. Known or not, Momma would fry them up for him. It was time to quit, so he reeled his line in. Oh great. He'd snagged something. Old tires, shoes, and assorted trash he'd caught. With a little jerk, the line came free, and he reeled whatever it was through the water. To his surprise, he had a small muddy cloth at the end of his line. Why, it was a little bag with drawstrings and heavy too. He emptied the contents in his hand, coins. One, two, three, a total of 10 quarters. Right size, but the wrong color, yellow. Must be those Indian dollars his first-grade teacher, Mrs. Wilmot, had shown his class. She had it in her hand in the front of the room, and Timmy sat halfway back, so he didn't get too good a look. One year, she'd passed coins around, and some went missing. She didn't make that mistake again. Ten coins, ten heavy coins.

  Well, he knew what he would do with one of them tomorrow being Sunday. And another he'd cut up with a hack saw for fishing line sinkers. He could get six or eight pieces from it, and that would be cheaper than buying, and he had this to use already. Got to clean the fish and then hide my newfound wealth away in his room. It had been a good day so far for Timmy. He’d wear himself out playing and riding his bike and need a nap later.

  "Hey, where you been?" Robbie asked.

  "Right here, just got done fishin’," and Timmy held out his catch.

  "I thought you’re never gonna get out of bed. Looks good. Stay out of trouble." With that, the older brother turned and went back into the house.

  Yup, looks like it's gonna be a good summer though nothin' excitin’ ever happens 'round here.

  Chapter 2

  Tom rolled over in his bed and looked at the clock, 4:00 am. Why it just seemed only half an hour ago it had said 3:59. Time was moving at a snail's pace tonight. It was about the fifth time he had awakened from a restless sleep. He knew there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. He couldn't. Carefully he slid out of bed as not to waken his wife. He had kept her up with his tossing and turning, and now he just wanted her to get some restful, refreshing sleep. He dressed in jeans and a WVU t-shirt and headed quietly into the kitchen. Tom put the coffee on to perk. Love that Chock Full o’ Nuts brand.

  Not only was it great coffee, but the company founder, William Black, had also established the Parkinson's Disease Foundation. Tom's late father had that dreaded disease. Tom was always thankful for people that had been blessed with money who used it to help humanity. So many were like Scrooge and hoarded their wealth. He grabbed a bowl, some granola with milk, and attempted to eat, but his appetite was lacking. Finally, the coffee’s done, he thought. He poured a cup and sipped. Ah, good to the last drop. He loved the flavor and motto, even if it belonged to another brand. Tom took the half-finished bowl of cereal and put it and the man-sized spoon in the sink. Finding a large piece of paper, he wrote a note, "Honey, couldn't sleep. You know why. Off to the usual place. Be home... Tom."

  He walked out of the house, being careful not to slam the door and opened the door to his pickup truck. Good old faithful truck, he thought, 181 thousand miles and still going strong. Should be able to get 300 thousand out of her if the rust from the winter road salt didn't get her first. He started her up and barely touching the gas, quietly eased her down the driveway to WV Route 28, Bloody 28. The crooked, winding road had claimed numerous lives and maimed many others. The local people had gone to the state capital in Charleston to try to get the state to improve the road. Little had been done. Lack of funds they always said. Tom suspected there was more than that as to why so little had been done. And now as the area’s population grew, the problem was getting worse and worse. There were so many people trying to escape the taxes of neighboring Maryland.

  He eased the truck onto the highway and headed toward the sleepy little community of Short Gap. He saw a car still parked at a local watering hole. Probably a drunk sleeping it off. Better he did that than try to drive home. He passed Rt. 956. The road turned south and followed the small stream called Turners Run toward Fort Ashby. Somewhere along the stream in the mid-1700s, Colonial soldiers had skirmished with a small band of French troops and their Indian allies when this area was still the American frontier.

  The moonlight reflected off the mist along the valley floor. For a moment, Tom was back in the Ia Drang valley in Vietnam on that horrible day that changed his life forever. The truck's rear-wheel drifted onto the dirt shoulder. Tom woke from his terrible dreamlike state. He pulled the truck back onto the asphalt, but it fishtailed as he did. On he went past the closed-up Sunoco station with the huge flag painted on the block front, then by the Catholic Church. A light was on in the priest's quarters. Looks like Father Frank was up early. Must be going somewhere. Monday was his day off, and he usually slept in unless he had something special going on.

  Tom slowed the truck as he neared Siple's Turn, site of many accidents over the years. He knew of mothers that still warned their adult children to be careful on the turn, even the ones that had been around it hundreds if not thousands of times. His headlights pierced the darkness that the streetlights of Fort Ashby hadn't chased away. Over Patterson Creek on the new bridge, to the one traffic light in the town, wait for a car before turning left, probably someone heading to work, and down Dans Run Road, past the volunteer fire department, the Methodist Church, the old building that had seen many uses over the years and now served as the Community Center. Tom's small congregation met there on Sunday. He was the Pastor.

  He hit the turn signal, though there was no one on the road to see it, slowed, turned at the old fort, Ashby's Fort, from which the town got its name. Then he drove up the one-lane paved road to where it got steep. There he gave it some gas, climbed the hill, got to the top, turned right, pulled the truck onto the gravel, and turned off the engine. So quiet. So dark. So still. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dark. The sun would be coming up soon. It came up early at this latitude in midsummer. He could already see a hint of light in the east behind the hill.

  A dog barked somewhere in town, followed by another answering. There was no breeze, another hot one today. Summer had arrived early this year. And then in the dark, his mind focused on why he had come here today to the Fort Ashby Cemetery. It was the fifth anniversary of his son's death, Brian, his eldest son. He had taken a gun and shot himself in the head. He’d done this a year to the day Sarah, Tom's first wife, Brian's mother, had been killed by a drunk driver on Bloody WV Route 28. She was the one that could always reach Brian through the madness. And then, as he had done, oh so many times in his old truck, Tom broke down and wept.

  Chapter 3

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  There it was again. Tom slowly awakened and looked around. Where was he? And then, Tom remembered. He'd done it once more, fell asleep on the bench seat in his truck.

  Tap, tap, tap. He looked to where the sound was coming from and saw a familiar face.

  “Hey, Tom, wake up!” the female voice said.

  Tom sat up, rolled the window down, and spoke to the voice, “Hello, Jenny. Looks like I done it again.”

  Tom remembered the first time he had met Jenny. It had not too pleasant. She had found him asleep in his truck when she came to work. She was the caretaker of the cemetery. She thought he was a drunk sleeping it off and didn't care to get too close, so she had called the cops. It has been the Sheriff that had awoken him that day, Sheriff Wagoner of Mineral County. One thing about living in a small town, everyone knows everyone, well mostly. Sometimes that's good; sometimes it's not. Today it was good. Tom went to school with Donnie Wagoner. Tom remembered that morning well. "What the Sam Hill are you doin' here?" Donnie had woken him with a start.

  Embarrassed, Tom explained how he hadn't been able to sleep and had
come up here to where his son and wife were buried. He still grieved for them. They had walked over to the little office, had coffee, and talked. People in small towns still have time to listen to each other. That's how he met Jenny. And now today, just as she'd done several times, she had tapped on his window.

  “Beautiful day, still got that morning coolness to it,” Tom said to her.

  “Yes, a good morning to you. Still missing your family?” she asked.

  Tom nodded, "Don't know if I'll ever get over it, Jenny."

  "Yeah, I know, Mom's been gone about ten years now, and I still miss her. Sometimes I go over to her grave over there and have a little talk with her. It's kind of one-sided, but it still makes me feel better," Jenny responded sympathetically. "I see a lot of regulars come up here and do the same. Oh, your wife called, said you'd be here. It seems the Padre wants to have breakfast with you over at Cindy's. You better get moving."

  Tom looked at his watch, just passed eight o’clock. Good, Father Frank wouldn’t have been waiting too long.

  "Thank Jenny. I'll be going. Till next time?" Tom answered.

  She smiled and waved as he drove off, off to Cindy’s Restaurant, just a short drive. He kept to the twenty-five mph speed limit and thought of events since his son’s death. Undiagnosed schizophrenia, how many more were out there? How had everyone missed it? It all seemed so clear now. Tom had taken classes with NAMI, National Association for Mental Illness. It was hard to believe to him that it often takes ten years to get the right diagnosis from the professionals. His son had always been difficult as a teen. ADD, ADHD they said. Why was it so hard to see what was wrong and get treatment? Still, from what he learned from the classes, it was a wonder any of us was walking around upright. Billions and billions of cells in the brain, each with up to 50 connections to each other, and they all had to be working right. Amazing the creative design behind all this.