The Return of Elliott Eastman
A.K.A The Occupy Wall Street Manifesto
by
Ignatius Ryan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Return of Elliott Eastman: A.K.A. The Occupy Wall Street Manifesto
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Copyright © 2012 Ignatius Ryan All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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Published by Telemachus Press, LLC
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ISBN# 978-1-937698-35-5 (eBook)
ISBN# 978-1-937698-36-2 (paperback)
Version 2012.03.27
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
About the Author
To Elliott.
I hope you’re out there.
We need you.
Chapter One
Dr. Paul Yates’ cell phone rang. Lifting it from the end table and setting down the medical journal he’d been reading, he studied the number for a moment.
“Hmm,” he murmured, recognizing the number as that of his radiologist, Ellen Hartmann.
“Why would she be calling so late?” he muttered to himself as he pressed the miniscule green button on his phone and said, “Hello, Ellen.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I thought you would want to know. Is your computer on? I can e-mail the x-rays to you.”
“I can turn it on, but why the urgency? What’s going on?”
Ellen hesitated, then spoke in a leaden tone, knowing the impact her words would have on the esteemed surgeon. “It’s Elliott Eastman. I thought you would want to see them for yourself.”
“Oh, yes, please send them over right away.”
Dr. Paul Yates rushed to his computer. Five minutes later he was struggling to stifle a sob, staring horrified at the images on the screen.
Immediately he picked up his phone. He hesitated for a moment to be sure he could phrase this properly, then pressed the speed dial button.
A moment later a voice said, “Master Eastman residence, how may I help you?”
Dr. Yates recognized the deep bass tones of Maurice, Elliott’s butler and said, “Maurice, its Paul Yates. Is Elliott home?”
“Why yes he is Dr. Yates. Would you like me to inform him you are on the line?”
“No, no Maurice. Just tell him I’m on my way over.”
“Yes, Dr. Yates.”
As the Doctor drove, struggling to stay under the speed limit, he brushed the occasional tear from his eyes, recalling the first time he’d seen Elliott Eastman. The tough Master Sergeant had been hit by a road side bomb, fought for an hour and a half against the Afghani insurgents who had ambushed his command, then been rushed by medivac helicopter to the field hospital. When the soldiers brought him in on a stretcher and laid him on the table, the good doctor had carefully removed the bloody bandages, taken one glance at the wound and said, “That leg has to come off, right above the ankle.”
Elliott looked up and said calmly, “I thought so. I’ll flip a coin. Heads, you take it off, tails I do.”
“Relax soldier. That’s my job. You just enjoy the pain pills.”
“No pills,” Elliott growled. “We’re still too close to the kill zone. They reduce my awareness of our surroundings.”
For a moment the doctor studied the camouflage painted face with the piercing green eyes, the stubble of beard and the close cropped black hair. A trickle of blood, probably from a flying rock, dribbled from his right temple. “Whatever you say Sergeant,” the doctor quipped.
“No pills.”
At the time the young Dr. Yates thought the comment strange. He assumed the moment the saw touched his leg the soldier would cry out in pain demanding relief, but he’d not made a sound as the leg was removed just above the ankle. During the ensuing months of recuperation, the doctor had gotten to know Elliott Eastman and realized there were few people in the world like him. That was over 35 years ago. Since then, Elliott’s parents had died leaving him quite well off, but he’d taken that money, invested it in a software company and tripled it. He’d then started his own global investment firm and over the years become one of the one hundred richest men in the world. He’d never married. In spite of his wealth he’d s
tayed in touch with the men of his platoon, helping them with financial or family issues when needed. They were his family, and they adored him.
As Dr. Yates drove through the enormous gates, over the quarter mile long gravel drive and up to the sprawling French provincial style mansion, he steeled himself to the news he must deliver. He promised himself he wouldn’t break down while performing this hideous task.
Maurice, the butler answered the door and with a sweeping bow allowed Dr. Yates to pass through.
“Please follow me, sir. He’s in the study.”
Dr. Yates followed the servant past an enormous dining hall with twenty foot ceilings and a fireplace as big as a rail car. The winding hallway led alongside a cavernous living room towards the study, which was yet another huge room with floor to ceiling book shelves, a river rock fire place with a roaring fire and a twelve foot long desk stacked high with papers and manuscripts.
“Paul,” Elliott greeted his old friend warmly, extending a hand and then gripping the doctors out stretched hand in both of his.
“Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? This is later than I generally receive guests, but as I have often said, my door is always open to you.”
“I’ll take a brandy if you have some,” Dr. Yates replied softly, wondering how he was going to break the news.
“How about a 30 year old Napoleon brandy?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“I believe I’ll join you.”
“How’s the leg?” the doctor asked.
“Still missing,” Elliott replied over his shoulder.
Dr. Yates smiled.
As Elliott moved over towards the glass shelving of the bar, the doctor studied him. Despite his prostheses he held himself perfectly straight and moved with a certain grace. The shock of white hair atop his head framed the rugged and deeply tanned face. It was hard to imagine this towering powerful figure of a man, a master sergeant, two-time United States Senator from Colorado and champion for the poor and for peace, did not know the future he faced.
With a brandy snifter in each hand Elliott turned from the bar and crossed the several paces of plush carpeting to where the doctor was seated. As he handed him the glass he said, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? It can’t be chess. The last time we played you vowed never to play me again.”
Paul allowed himself a brief smile and decided to get right to the point. That was what Elliott would do if their roles were reversed.
“No Elliott, I’m afraid it’s not chess. As you know, you were in for a check up a week or so ago. I received a phone call from my radiologist earlier this evening and, well I’m afraid the news is not good.”
“How so?” Elliott replied, thoughtfully sipping his drink and sitting down on a rust colored over-stuffed leather chair.
“It’s primarily pancreatic, but it’s metastasized. It’s wide spread and probably moving quickly throughout your body.”
Elliott did not respond. Not even a shadow crossed his face, so the doctor continued.
“I probably didn’t say that as properly as I might have. We can do dye tests, remove the tumors in the pancreas, and they have the radiation injection that can stop the damn stuff right in its tracks.”
“You’ve never been a good liar, Paul. I can tell by the look in your eyes you don’t believe a word you just said.”
Paul studied the floor and whispered, “You’ve got six to eight months, maybe a year at the most. I’m sorry Elliott. I wish I had better news.”
“Oh hell, let’s look on the bright side of things. Not too many men get the chance to know the date of their death,” Elliott said gruffly, standing and turning towards the fireplace. Paul stood as well. “Look, we can fight this thing. There are experimental drugs …”
Paul fell silent once he noted Elliott’s upraised hand.
“Do you believe I’m the type to be bedridden for a few months, watching myself slowly waste away and then die in delirium from a morphine drip?”
The two men fell silent for a moment.
“What will you do?” Paul asked. “You have no heirs. You never married. You have no children and your parents are gone.”
“Do? Oh, there’s a lot I can do. More than you know. There is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. And as for heirs, maybe I’ve got a few hundred million heirs right here in the good old USA.”
Dr. Yates was puzzled by the statement, but decided not to press the issue.
“I’m going to consult with some specialists over the next few days and we’ll come up with a treatment plan,” he said as he stood and shook Elliott’s hand.
“Good, thanks Paul. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Once the good doctor left, Elliott turned back to the fire and sipped his drink. He sat staring into the fire for a long time. There was so much he still wished to do with his life, but now he must pare down the list. Near midnight Maurice entered the room. “Sir is there anything else I can do for you before I retire?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is Maurice,” Elliott replied moving over to the mahogany desk. “Please come and sit down.”
Maurice complied with this strange request and took a seat on the edge of the chair.
“Maurice, you will not be in my employ much longer. As my way of saying thanks I’m going to provide you with some money, but before I let you go I would like you to do a couple of things for me.”
“Is there something wrong?” Maurice asked, his voice tightening. “My service has always been prompt and discrete, hasn’t it? We’ve been together for more than twenty years. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Elliott looked up to see the fear in his faithful servant’s eyes.
“Maurice, you have been my friend for more than twenty five years. Did you think this is the way it would end, with a summary judgment and swift boot out the door in the middle of the night?”
Maurice smiled. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you hand out some pretty swift justice to some pretty tough customers.”
Elliott laughed, “True, but we won’t let that story leave this room.”
As Master Elliott spoke he was writing in his check ledger. When he was done writing, he tore out a check and presented it to his trusted friend. “I want you to take this one million dollar check. Take it down and open an account in your name at Dallas National Bank. If there are any questions, talk to Jim Arnold and tell him he’s welcome to call me. In return I want you to accept stewardship of this estate until the time of your death when you will see that it is deeded to St. Jude’s Hospital. Thirdly, I want you to mail these twenty envelopes first thing in the morning.”
Elliott handed the butler a packet of faded letters held together by ancient rubber bands.
“What’s wrong sir? Are you feeling alright? I can’t accept this.”
“I feel fine. I’m thinking very clearly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“As far as you’re to know I’m going to live out the last of my days at the ranch in Colorado, my friend. Now stand up and give your old boss a hug.”
Both men stood and embraced for more than a minute. Then without a word, Maurice strode from the room.
Chapter Two
Once he completed his daily three-mile run, Eddie Kelley checked his mail around three in the afternoon. As he walked up the driveway to his ranch house flipping through the bills he noted a postmark from Dallas, Texas with the return address to one ‘Elliott Eastman.’
Sitting on the front stoop he swiftly tore open the letter. The writing was clean and crisp.
Dear Eddie,
Your presence is requested at 1958 Eastman Road, Fairplay, Colorado on May 5th, 2018. Your travel expenses are covered. It’s time for Operation Anvil.
Sincerely, Your Friend,
Elliott Eastman
‘That’s three days from now,’ Eddie thought. Marching into the family room where his wife sat reading a book he announced. “The Master Sergeant has called a meeting in Colorado i
n three days. I’ll be packing and leaving in the morning.”
She knew when the Master Sergeant sent word there was no discussing the matter. He had helped Eddie on many an occasion, both financially and otherwise.
“Are you driving?” his wife asked.
“Yes, it’s a little over a days drive from here.”
“When will you be back?”
“A few days, no more.”
“Let me wash up some clothes to take and I’ll pack some snacks for the drive,” she said, setting down the book.
The following morning she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Have a safe trip.”
Nineteen other men received the same letter.
Chapter Three
The meeting was held in the great hall of the main house at the sprawling Eastman ranch on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Wagon wheel chandeliers hung suspended from thick hand hewn pine trusses thirty feet above the floor. An enormous Kodiak bear head snarled down from where it was mounted on a floor to ceiling river rock fireplace. Along the rear wall, a series of French doors with clerestory windows above them gave the guests a panoramic view of the snow-covered Rockies. There was laughter and friendly ribbing between the men who had all served together under the Master Sergeant in Afghanistan and Iraq, but hadn’t seen each other in many years.
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