Braddock's Gold

by Jay Heavner

  The sheriff looked at Tom thoughtfully. "Tom, you scared the living heck out of me. I found you bleeding and in a daze."

  "Acute stress reaction the doctor called it," Tom stated.

  The sheriff started, "That's what he told me too. He said you may never remember what happened or maybe just bits and pieces. Do you remember who shot you?"

  Tom shook his head no.

  "Why were you there at the farmhouse on the hill?" inquired the sheriff.

  Tom shook his head. "I don't know. I can't remember."

  "Who were the two dead men? the sheriff asked. "We are waiting for the results on fingerprints."

  Tom thought for a long minute. "You need to check out the names Alan Grey and Mike Levy. Those names seem familiar for some reason."

  "We will, and Tom, we know you had nothing to do with the killings." The sheriff continued, 'The crime scene guys checked your hands for gun powder residues. Nothing."

  Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Do you remember anything else that might help us?" asked the sheriff.

  "No, it's a big fat blank from the time I left the office two days ago till I woke up here."

  "Well, thanks," said Sheriff Wagoner. "We'll see what comes up under those two names. If you remember anything more, even something small and trivial, call us. It may be the clue we need to solve this. I've been a cop for a long time, and this one has a strange smell to it. You know what I mean?"

  Tom nodded.

  The sheriff got up to leave. "If you remember anything, call me immediately. Hey, gotta go. They're probably speeding out on Route 28, or hot rodding on Route 46. Don't forget, call me." The sheriff said this as he held his hand up like an open phone next to his ear. "Anything, call me."

  Tom said he would, and the sheriff left. Soon Joann reappeared.

  "I called the Padre. He said he'd be here soon," Joann said.

  Tom said he couldn't wait to see him, but by the time he got there, Tom was sound asleep again.

  The doctor told Joann and the Padre that it wasn't unusual. Acute stress will wear a body out, and Tom would sleep another twenty-four hours straight before waking up.

  Chapter 45

  Tom awoke, and it was still dark. He looked at the clock on the dresser. Soon it would be getting light. He eased out of bed to not awaken Joann. It had been his best night's sleep since the shooting, almost two weeks ago now. In the kitchen, he put the coffee on to perk. He dressed quickly, poured the now ready coffee into an insulated bottle. Chock Full o' Nuts, great coffee, the nectar of the gods. Tom wrote a quick note, "Honey, went to my thinking place," then very carefully and silently, walked out the back door. It was still dark, but Tom knew the way like the back of his hand.

  From out of the darkness came Tom's two dogs, a Chow-German shepherd mix, named Wolf, and a beagle something mix he called Gipper after Ronald Reagan. Tom felt he was the only good president he could remember. They were happy to see him. He shushed their barking. He didn't want them to wake the wife. Let her sleep. After giving them some water and dog chow, he told them to stay at the house, though he knew there was only a 50-50 chance they would listen. They loved to be with him. The dogs also were his nighttime security around the bottling facility. The beagle mix had the better hearing and usually alerted the two to anything needing investigating. The larger dog looked like he could tear your leg off, but actually was the friendlier of the two, but strangers didn't know that and didn't need to. He went around the bottling building, and next to the old barn stood Nacho the donkey. He began braying loudly when he saw Tom. "Nacho!" Tom tried to yell quietly, "Be quiet!"

  He continued to bray till Tom got to him and rubbed his head. "Quiet, Nacho. People are trying to sleep," said Tom.

  Tom continued to scratch Nacho behind his ears. A satisfied noise came from the Jerusalem donkey's throat. He sure looked better now than when he came in. Tom could remember the call from Sheriff Donnie Wagoner. "Hey Tom, I got a donkey here. I need to find a temporary place to keep him. We took him from a man who was neglecting him. He was cooped up in a shed with little to no food. I thought about putting him down. He's in bad shape, but maybe he's savable. What do you say? Can you keep him till we can find a good home?"

  Tom asked, "Same pay as last time?"

  He could hear the shrug in Donnie's voice, "Yeah, I'm afraid so."

  Tom knew what that meant, the same pay he had gotten on the other animal rescues, nothing. "Yeah, bring him over. I'll see if he's savable."

  When the truck with the donkey arrived, Tom could see why Donnie considered putting him down. He was nothing but skin and bones. Tom gave the credit for the healthy animal that stood behind the fence to Miriah, Joann's daughter. She loved animals and had done the impossible with Nacho.

  "Nacho, you be quiet. I got to go. I'll bring you some apples when I come back," said Tom. He scratched the donkey and walked up the old steep road. The donkey followed silently and stopped at the fence at the end of the pasture. There was no more braying. The trail led to the old hayfield and orchard in the hollow area between two of the hilly knobs that helped give Knobley Mountain its name. The old road didn't get much use now. Some years ago, when times were really tough, a group of people that like to hang glide had paid him to use his property on the hill behind the house for this. Tom had watched them jump off the cliffs on the Maryland facing side. He thought they must be crazy, but they seemed to enjoy it.

  "Come on," they said. "We'll show you how to do it."

  Tom had politely refused. They usually soared over the Potomac and landed in a field by the river in Maryland. One day when conditions were right, he saw they were flying like birds, hundreds of feet above the top of Knobley.

  He hiked up the road, now little more than two rutted paths. Tom made his way in the dim light upward. It was along this road he had shot his first squirrel, one of the rites of passage into manhood for a county boy. He'd bagged many bushy tails among the oak and hickory trees on this hillside. After ten minutes, he was at the old field, and dawn was breaking. He loved this time of day and this place, his piece of almost heaven, West Virginia. A noise to his left started him, and a deer ran by quickly. "I wonder what spooked him?" thought Tom.

  He’d shot his first deer up here, a 6 point buck. Soon his dogs appeared. They wagged their tails when they saw him, though he could tell they knew he had told them to stay at the house.

  Nevertheless, Tom was happy to see them. He murmured to them and petted their heads and backs. The dogs were delighted for the approval of their master and licked his hands. He sat down on a log with his four-legged companions. The sunrise was beautiful, but he knew that someone had tried to kill him two weeks ago, and he still could not remember who or why. It was still a total blank from the time he left the office until he woke in the hospital. The bandaged wound on his head would scar, a reminder for Tom and all to see. Would the memories come back? He was not sure he wanted to know, but he had a feeling this was not the end of this matter. As Hans Solo in the Star Wars movie had said, "I got a bad feeling about this."

  Chapter 46

  Tom on Knobley Mountain

  Tom had been up here many times to think. It was so peaceful on the mountain top. To the east, the sun shined over the horizon. With the arrival of cooler weather, the leaves were turning colors. The oaks were various shades of red, some crimson, some vermillion, and some fire engine red. The maples and poplars added yellow and orange. The hills of West Virginia were being painted by the Master's hand. It was here in this meadow that Tom, after the deaths of Sarah and Brian, had cried out, why to his Lord. It was here the still small voice spoke to him. "For such a time as this," It said. Tom still hurt, but he knew God had a plan, and God had not forgotten him. Just like Esther in ancient Persia, he was where he was supposed to be.

  Today Tom had come up for the solitude and to ask why again. Why had someone wanted to kill him? Why was there so much suffering? He almost wished he had been killed and was at peace with his s
on and wife. Why Lord? Someday it would all be clear, but now it was like looking through muddy water. And there were still holes in his recent memories besides the time of his getting shot. He sat on the log and petted the dogs. The beagle mix scratched at an itch, then got up, and sniffed at something close. Tom took a look at what he had found. Scat, bear scat. Well, here was the answer to the question. Does a bear chip in the woods? Yes, indeed, and it looked like he had been eating apples. It sure wasn't apple sauce after going through the bear. The smelly mess reminded Tom of what became of his tax dollars. Put good stuff in one end, and what do you get out the other end? Nothin'.

  More time passed as Tom continued to enjoy the quiet and aloneness on his mountain. The sun was now up higher, and it was time to go. Tom grabbed some fallen apples for Nacho. He found one still hanging from the tree. Tom bit in, and it was still good and tasty. An apple a day keeps the doctor away; Mom had always said. He headed through the damp meadow to the old road down the hill. It was a lot quicker going down than coming up. Nacho was patiently waiting, and Tom gave him the apples which he ate. He heard noise up the old road, and here came the dogs. They ran toward the house. Guess it's breakfast time for all God's creatures including me. I'm hungry.

  Tom got the big bag of dog food out and fed the canines that wolfed it down. Tom walked into the house and looked at the clock, 8:30 AM. He put another pot of coffee on and grabbed the bag of muesli cereal and some milk for his breakfast. He found a note on the table from Joann. It said, "Call Sean Frazee ASAP, important."

  Joann had left for Sunday school at the church. Tom had wanted another week off before returning to church and work. Tom picked up the phone and called Sean's cell phone. Sean, the pastor of Calvary Chapel Morgantown, was scheduled to lead the services this morning at Calvary Chapel Fort Ashby that met at the town Community Center. Sean's phone range twice, and then he picked it up. "Hello, this is Sean. Tom, is that you?"

  "Yes, it's me. What the emergency? You are still gonna make it today for services at ten, right?" Tom asked.

  "That's what I needed to talk to you about. I've been sitting on the Cheat Lake Bridge on I 68 for the last forty-five minutes. A big rig lost its brakes coming down Chestnut Ridge and wrecked just before the bridge on the east side. The Interstate is closed, and I'm stuck on the bridge. It's going to be several hours before traffic is moving again. Sorry, Tom, there is no way I can make services at 10:00," Sean said. "I know you were counting on me, but I'm between a rock and a hard spot, well actually a Toyota and big rig. I really hate to let you down."

  Tom said he was glad to hear that Sean hadn't been involved in the accident, and he would have to come up with something between now and service time. What now, Lord? I know you say to be ready at all times to present the Good News, but I was hoping for another week of downtime. I guess you had other plans. I do the services today, or it doesn't get done.

  The trip from his house to Fort Ashby was a blur to him. Tom still had not decided on what to teach on. The people at the church were all glad to see Tom. He never believed he could be hugged so much and still survived. What would he do without his church family, his friends? At ten o'clock, services began with Mary Barrett singing and playing guitar. Tom had always loved her singing, but today, her first three songs were a blur. And then they began to sing an old song, "My Jesus, I love thee" written by William R. Featherston in 1864.

  My Jesus, I love thee, I know thou art mine.

  For thee all the follies of sin I resign,

  My gracious Redeemer, my Savior, are thou:

  If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

  The last line roused Tom, "If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now." Where would I be without you, Lord? You are my rock, my anchor.

  I love Thee because Thou hast first loved me,

  And purchased my pardon on Calvary's tree;

  I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow;

  If ever I loved Thee, My Jesus' tis now.

  Thank you, Lord, for sacrificing yourself to pardon a mess like me.

  I'll love thee in life; I will love Thee in death,

  And praise Thee as long as thou lendest me breath;

  And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,

  If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus is now.

  Tom now knew what God wanted him to speak on today.

  In mansions of glory and endless delight,

  I'll ever adore Thee in Heaven so bright,

  I'll sing with the glittering crown on my brow,

  If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.

  After this, Mary placed her faithful guitar in its upright holder and took a seat near the front. Tom got up from his chair and went to the front of the church. About forty pairs of eyes looked back at him. It was a good crowd today. Most of the smiling faces he knew. There were a few visitors and a classmate from high school Tom hadn't seen in a while, and this was his first time here.

  Tom said, "Good Morning."

  The congregation responded, "Good morning."

  Tom continued, "I wasn't expecting to be here this morning, but God had other plans. Our guest speaker, Sean Frazee of Calvary Chapel Morgantown, is stuck in traffic out on Interstate 68 and won't be here. Most of you know I was taking some time off. I had an accident."

  He pointed to the bandage on his head. "I got shot. A man tried to take my life about two weeks ago. I didn't know what I was to speak on till we sang the last song. The words, 'I'll love thee in life, I will love thee in life or death and praise Thee as long as thou lendest me breath' says it all. Psalms 144:4 says, 'Man is like a breath. His days are like a passing shadow.' Another place says, 'Man is but a vapor, gone by mid morn.' Life’s very short, and it can end at any time. Why God has me still here is a mystery to me. I could have died in Vietnam, many did. Several other times, I have felt death's cold breath on my neck. I should have been killed by a gunman's hand on a ridge near here. I still can't remember any of it, but I have this as proof it happened," and he pointed to the bandage on his head.

  "David said in Psalms 138, 'I will praise you with my whole heart, before the gods, I will sing praises to you, I will worship toward your holy temple and praise Your name, for your loving kindness and your truth. You have magnified Your word above Your name. In the day I cried out, You answered me, and made me bold with strength in my soul.'"

  "Many of you here know how I lost my wife, Sarah, and my son Brian. I felt like Job. I knew his sorrows. But just like Job, I had to say, 'You are God, and I am not.' As Solomon puts it in Ecclesiastes, 'There is a season for every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, a time to harvest; a time to break down, a time to build up. A time to laugh and time to weep. A time of war, a time of peace.' And today’s time for some of you to give your lives to the Lord. This isn’t a time to hold back. Now is the time, your time to say yes to Jesus. Yes, I need you as Savior and Lord. Yes, I can't live without you. I no longer want this life of sin. I want you as my King, Jesus. Come forward now and receive His forgiveness. Mary, do you have a song?"

  Mary got up and got her guitar and began:

  "In moments like this, I sing out a song,

  I sing out a love song to Jesus,

  In moments like this, I lift up my hands.

  I lift up my hands to the Lord.

  Singing I love you, Lord,

  Singing I love you, Lord.

  Singing I love you, Lord,

  I love you."

  And as she sang, Robert O'Brien, Tom's old classmate from high school, came forward and gave his life to the Lord. In Heaven, the angels danced for joy. And for Mr. O'Brien, the Irishman, they did a Holy gig unto the Lord, a celebration for a lost man come home.

  Chapter 47

  September 1985

  It was a beautiful fall day in West Virginia. The temperature was near 70 degrees. William Kirkendall rode the old green and yellow John Deere tractor with its attached plow up the cow path toward the gate to the fie
ld on the grassy knoll high above Patterson Creek. His family had owned this farm for almost 200 years. At that time, he was unaware that earlier several miles away a man going to work in the darkness had crashed his car into the bridge on WV Route 46. The police had found the wrecked car, but not the driver who had disappeared. Unknown to them, hurt, bloody, and dazed, he had stumbled from his car, fallen over the railing of the bridge, and drowned in the deep water below.

  Two weeks later, his bloated body would rise from the deep and float down the higher than normal waters of the creek. There had been a lot of rainfall this year. His body would be found by two frightened children playing behind their house at the old dam near the VFW. The cops would put two and two together to solve the mystery of the missing man. But at that time, William knew none of this. He’d read about it later in the newspaper. Old Will did know it was a beautiful day to be a farmer. He had turned the farm near the 4H camp, Camp Minco, over to his son William, junior, who most people knew as Junior or just June. Thus had started a long line of William Kirkendalls. There were now four, and William IV's young wife was pregnant.

  The old man wondered what they would name the child. Another William? William V, maybe? It was up to them. Five generations of Kirkendalls all alive at the same time. What a family picture that would make. And men at that. But what if it's a girl? What if it's a girl? What would they name her? Willamina maybe? It was up to them. Boy or girl old William could hardly wait for the new arrival. Susy was due around Christmas. What a Christmas gift that would be.

  William had enjoyed the life of a farmer, but it was tougher today. The old farm was now a second job for his son, who drove a school bus for the county to supplement his income. The old man stopped the tractor, opened the gate, and drove in the grassy field overlooking the creek. Plowing up the field was his job today, and he was glad to be able to do it. Two months ago, Dorothy, his wife of sixty-four years and the mother of his six children, five still living, had died peacefully in her sleep next to him. He had loved her till the end. The last two years had been hard; Alzheimer's disease. He had watched his loving, vibrant wife change into a sometimes vile frail woman who forgot who he was and even to eat if not prompted. Someday he would ask the Lord why things like this happened. But now he knew she was at peace, no more suffering, no more pain. He had been her caregiver to the end. Others, including his son, had advised him to put her in a nursing home, but he had vowed for better or worse. When she got nasty, he'd think that's the Alzheimers talking. That's not my Dorothy.