A young man named John Whittaker sat on the dock overlooking the water, thinking. In his hand he held a metal key and a small scrap of drafting paper onto which was written in black ink: “555-3456”. His fingers traced the shape of the key for the hundredth time as he wondered what to do next.
It had only been three hours since he’d found them, and his mind still raced when that moment came back to his mind. Who would’ve thought to find his old boyhood haunt by the town side of the lake? And more importantly, who would have known to put the key and paper right there in the third knot of the big tree that his school friends used to call “Senator Oak”? Next to the speech he had made at his USC graduation ceremony the previous May, he couldn’t think of any other time in his life when he had been more excited, nervous or down-right scared.
“I’ll bet Jack put it here, but how did he know that I was coming down here today? Haha, I know…Jenny probably put it here when she came back from her trip. Or, it could be one of my old friends from school or, I don’t-“
But he did know.
The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock and...
…to be continued.
Your Turn
On July 2nd, I began the third AIO writing contest. As opposed to the previous writing contests, each of which received no more than four participants, nine members opted to undertake the challenge of writing the conclusion to the story presented above. Their works have been completed and submitted, so now the responsibility rests in your hands. Read the following stories and vote for the one which you enjoyed the most. This poll will run for one week, after which time the winner shall be proclaimed and the authors revealed. In the event there is a tie for first place, I shall make the deciding vote. Prizes shall be named and distributed shortly thereafter.
Last edited by Trent DeWhite on Fri Aug 18, 2006 2:11 pm, edited 11 times in total.
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock and got into his jeep. He started the engine and drove off towards town, he would need his hiking gear. Pulling up to his current home, a swift stride brought him to the door and then inside.
John took the stairs two at a time, occasionally three, till he was at his room. Yanking his hiking pack out of the closet he grabbed his hunting knife at the same time. After attaching the knife to his belt John Whittaker checked to make sure his supplies were still in the pack. They were, and he left the house with a strangely unhurried jog.
Tossing the pack into the back of the jeep, young John flipped the key and drove back to the lake. At his arrival he parked his jeep in an overnight stall and put the cover up, locking it tight. Adjusting his stride to the weight of his pack, he started out past the dock. Taking an old almost overgrown path up the surrounding mountains, his mind eased some with the knowledge he was getting there.
As he walked, his thoughts began to mull over the key and paper in his pocket. He knew what the key belonged to, but the numbers? Maybe, nah, well... had something happened to Ole' man? Shaking his head, he quickened his pace slightly.
Up...up...and farther up. About half way up John turned off the path and wandered through the underbrush, following his memory of the trail. His eyes almost missed it... it was so overgrown. Yet he found it and hurried on. He used his hunting knife now, slicing the larger pieces of growth he couldn't wade through.
A lone bird's call echoed down the mountain side. John straightened and suddenly saw his destination, or rather part of it. The door to the cabin was covered with vines, but as he looked he saw they had been placed there not long ago. Carefully, he approached the door and lifted the vines out of the way.
Locking his hand around the doorknob, he turned it slightly and pulled. The door made a loud groan as it opened, try as he might John couldn't hold back the shiver it sent. Reaching behind him, Whittaker pulled a flashlight from his pack and beamed the light into the dark cabin. As a boy he had hated this place, the cabin having been built into the mountain's side making it dark and scary.
Ole' Man had saved him when young Whittaker had gotten lost hiking up the mountain. Having been brought back here had been the most profiting section of his life, and the most terrifying. Ole' man hadn't really been old, it had just been a joke between the two of them as he wouldn't give John his real name.
John's eyes flitted around the now deserted scene before him. Everything seemed different without Ole' Man here. His flashlight beam rested on the back door. Fishing the rough metal key out of his pocket, John strode towards the door. He had never been allowed in here, though Ole' Man had told him what the key belonged to many times.
Shoving the key into the lock took some force, but it finally caught and the door was opened. The flashlight's beam caught the reflection of metal and John Whittaker saw a safe with a padlock on it. He was confused. Ole' Man had never been so careful as to have two locks.
His quick mind sent him digging into his pocket and he pulled out the draft paper. "5..5..5-3..4..5..6" Whittaker read it and then turned the padlock according to the numbers. Remembering Ole' Man's favorite trick, he filled in 0 for the dash. The lock clicked and John backed up as the safe door swung open.
His flashlight swirled the casement in light and John pulled out a note. Beaming his light onto the paper, he read aloud.
"Dear John,
I have decided to leave and get on with my life, but I've left out this box. Inside is the sum of 29,000 dollars. Save it, use it only for something that others will benefite from, as was our conversation.
For me, I am now at Whit's End in my life, perhaps I will see you again some day. Till then, So long John."
Whittaker pulled out the box and wandered out side. Maybe he could build something for others, probably not. Young Whittaker placed the money in his pack and traveled back towards his jeep. Whit's End. He liked that.
Continued in many years.
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to "Senator Oak", walked back down the dock and went up to the back house of his diseased mother’s cottage. He stuck the rugged key in to the key hole and opened the creaky door.
The instant his eyes made contact with the inside of the house, memories flooded in to his mind. Memories of when he was young and was with his family, all together. He and his brother wrestling next to the couch, while his mother and father played "Pictionary". His sister was up on the top bunk of her bed writing fictional stories of who-knows-what.
Other memories floated in. Of he and Jenny talking at the kitchen table while Jason swam in the lake with his brothers and sisters. Of nights of reading out of the kids’ favorite books or reading stories and lessons out of the Bible. All of these memories had melted away before now.
John Avery stepped inside, very slowly, trying not to disturb anything. As if he moved a single object, all of the memories would just melt away like ice cream on a summer day. He walked over to the phone and dialed the number on the sliver of paper.
A raspy voice picked up, "Hello?"
As John thought over what he was going to explain to the man, a silver tear dropped down his face. "Hello, is this cottage realtors? This is John Whittaker and I have a job for you."
"Yeah? What, are you selling, buying, or leasing?" the raspy voice asked.
"I would like to sell the Whittaker cottage."
"Would that be the cottage that has been around for 75 years and is the hardest one to get a rent to? Alright, somebody will be by tomorrow to scope it and see what it is worth."
"Thank you, good bye." He said as he sulkily hung up. "This is what I have to do."
John Avery walked over to the kitchen table that held so many memories from over the years and put his head in to his shaking hands.
Through the many thoughts flying in his mind, he heard a car come up the drive. John had heard those tires so many times that he couldn’t mix them up with any other car; a 1965 Chevy Malibu. And this wasn’t just any Malibu; this was his wife, Jenny’s, new Malibu. She got out of the car and came running up to the backhouse door and rushed inside.
"Whit? Whit? Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you di-." She wasn’t able to finish when she saw John at the table.
With his voice wobbling, he explained to Jenny, "Oh, I had to do it. You realize it’s the only way to get out of debt. We have to."
Jenny came over to the table and sat down with him. She, too, started crying. Suddenly, the door on the newly remodeled Imagination Station opened. This new Imagination Station can change your outward appearance so that you look younger or older than you really are.
"Well, it works." Whit said and walked downstairs. He got behind the counter and started to work. While he was emptying the dishwasher, a young man came in.
"Uh, hello?" he said.
Whit turned around and asked, "How may I help you?"
"I am looking for a Mr. John Avery Whittaker."
"That’s me. Who are you?"
"I’m from Cottage Realtors in Michigan. Did you sell your cottage about 40 years ago, Mr. Whittaker?"
"Yes I did."
"Well, the debt that you paid off using the income from the cottage, that debt didn’t belong to you. Someone stole your identity and used your money. Mr. Whittaker, I’d like to present you with 750,000 dollars and your cottage!" explained the realtor.
Whit was so flabbergasted. "Well, thank you Sir!"
"And a good day to you Mr. Whittaker!"
Mr. Whittaker went over to the phone. "Jason? I have a great vacation spot this summer. You’ll never guess where it is."
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock, and left.
The key to knowledge is wisdom.
It still rang true.
-
The phone rang. Once. Twice. John fidgeted, sitting at his desk and holding the phone to his ear. He was certain no one would pick up after the fifth ring, but then a strangely familiar low voice said tentatively,
"Hello?"
"Hello," John said, rather hesitantly, "Is this Professor Clark?"
"No, I'm sorry," The voice sounded subdued, "This is his daughter, Ellen. Who... is this?" So Professor Clark did put it there. John recognized the same reserved English accent, one that had distinguished his Classical Literature professor from all of his others. It even carried in his daughter's voice.
"My name is John Whittaker. I was... a student of his. I... I would like to speak with Professor Clark, if it wouldn't be any inconvenience."
"Well, I'm afraid..." Ellen paused, "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Whittaker," She took a breath, "He's in the hospital right now."
"Oh."
"Yes, he... fell ill last month with pneumonia." Her voice trailed off, and she hurried to continue. "But I will tell him you called, if you wish..."
"Uh, I was wondering if I could visit him, then." John bit his lip.
"He's in critical condition, Mr. Whittaker, I'm not sure if he's in the right state to have a visitor..."
"Please, it is rather important."
"Well... he's at General Hospital, third floor, room 304." Ellen stopped. "And remember, he's rather ill. The nurses may not allow you to see him."
"I understand, ma'am."
-
Golden light spilled into the deserted mahogany classroom. Floating particles of dust, caught midair by gold, sparked in the late afternoon sunlight. A young man - the student - sat at a desk, but with a manner that any uninformed visitor would imagine coming from a grandson talking with a grandfather. The professor, Ian Clark, sat at the edge of his own large desk, almost done expounding his point.
"You can see that the key to knowledge is wisdom. You can have all the intelligence, all the information, all the words people can throw at you, but if you don't have wisdom, discernment, understanding, all of that is wasted." He stood up and paced. "But wisdom comes from experiences, from the plain truths that having experienced things brings." He stopped, turning back to John. "You have potential. You have the knowledge to do many things. But what does it mean if you do not use that potential wisely?"
He answered his own question, "It means nothing! Nothing at all! The lock of knowledge on the door to greatness is only opened by the key of wisdom. Wisdom comes from learning to be wrong. Wisdom comes from acknowledging what is right, and doing it. It means being willing to do what is right even when it's difficult, even when others are against you. Wisdom."
He turned to the chalkboard, writing a phrase that would sear into John's memory just as it stayed on the board for weeks to come.
The key to knowledge is wisdom.
-
John stepped into the hospital, hot from his walk but unbothered by the sweat that formed on his forehead as he walked quickly to the front desk.
"Is Ian Clark receiving visitors?" He asked in a quiet voice. The small woman behind the desk looked through a white notebook clipped to a clipboard that looked as though it was larger than herself, looking up after a long second and answering in a detached voice,
"Yes, but only until five." It was four fifty. John thanked her, and went for the stairs, pausing to let a serious nurse and a grave doctor step by.
Three flights up and a few more beads of sweat later, John opened the stairwell door into the silent halls. This was what he disliked about hospitals, the joy of living had slipped by the afflicted patients and left behind only solemnity wrapped in silence. The scuffed waxed floors tempted his leather shoes to squeak, as if it were inviting someone to desecrate the hallowed quiet. He tried to look as though he knew what he was doing as he discreetly scanned the numbers on the doors that interupted the commercially wallpapered halls.
307. 305. Aha. 304. John paused before a half-opened door, hearing softly playing music, and pushed it open, knocking quietly to alert the lone occupant of his arrival.
"Come in." A somewhat gruff voice reached his ears. "Ellen?"
John stepped in, closing the door more fully and turning for the first time to Ian Clark, PhD and retired professor at USC, lying back in his bed. He looked whiter than the sheets that lay rumpled around his hospital gowned body, but his brilliant blue eyes still shone, if not less brightly, giving John the impression it was he who was visiting his youthful student.
"No, sir." He gave a nod, "Your student, John Avery Whittaker."
"John." Ian surveyed him from head to whatever he could see past the end of the bed, then reached over and turned off an old record player. "You are familiar with Pachelbel's Canon in D?"
"Yes, sir." John nodded quietly, and Ian seemed to stare off into space before snapping back into reality.
"Lovely music." He pricked his eyebrows up. "Well. Senator Oak still has ways of transporting messages?" He gave a wan smile, showing teeth as white as the hair around his ears.
"Uh, yes, sir." John took in a breath. "But why didn't you call me? And how did you know I was-"
"I had my daughter place the key and the number there yesterday, I suspected you visited there on a weekly basis." He coughed, an explosive cough that John knew was deeper than a normal cough. It seemed to rack Ian's chest, and he took a second to breathe. "I needed to see if you did listen during class." His mouth twisted up in his signature grin, even if it was somewhat weak.
"But," Professor Clark continued, "The key is something greater, now."
"Really." John's eyes watched Ian's.
"Yes. The key opens a strongbox to my last will and testament." Ian looked at John steadily. "John, I am leaving you the grand total of fifteen thousand dollars."
John's eyes grew wide, and he stammered out something that sounded like an inquiry as to why.
"I have one daughter who gets ninety-five percent of my estate. This is money for you. I want you to invest it in beginning a foundation for education." He coughed again, reaching for a glass of water at his bedside. "But there is one stipulation."
"Yes, sir." John had barely recovered from this initial shock.
"It must publish books. Textbooks. Schoolbooks. Hone your literary skills. You have a way with words, John. Use it well."
"Sir..." John looked quizically at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying. "You want me to start an educational foundation that publishes books? I can't, I don't have business or administrative experience, I don't know how to..."
"John, the key to knowledge is wisdom. And..." Ian seemed to stare at John in a new light. "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. If He tells you to do it, obey Him. He will provide the way. He provided the means."
"Sir, I... I don't know what to say." I want to say it's impossible.
"Do it when you feel the time is right, John." Ian said simply. He looked away, out the window into the Pasadena sunshine, and coughed harshly.
The room was silent.
"I shall do my best to honor your wishes, sir." John said quietly. "I promise."
"Good. Good." Ian smiled. He put his head back and closed his eyes. "I know you will."
A knock on the door startled them, and a young woman stepped in, her clipboard tucked under her arm. Her dark hair was tied back.
"Sir, visiting hours are now over." She said in a hushed tone, her eyes moving from Ian's closed eyes to John's.
"I understand." He took a breath. "Thank you, Professor Clark."
Ian's eyes opened. "You're welcome, John."
"God Bless you, sir."
"He has, son." His eyes closed. "He has."
John stepped for the door behind the nurse, looking back one last time. He could have sworn Ian had whispered, "The key to knowledge is wisdom. And the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom."
That was the last time John saw Professor Clark, PhD, alive. Two weeks later Ian died of complications from pneumonia-caused buildup of fluid in the lungs. John attended the funeral - as did hundreds of students. His fiance, Guinevere Morrow, was also a student of Clark's. He was dearly loved and missed.
6 years, a beloved wife, and two children later, John Avery Whittaker started the Universal Foundation Press, a publishing firm, based in Chicago. This organization published many books of Christian authors, as well as many books John wrote, one being the biography of his beloved Classic Literature Professor Ian Clark. This he entitled, 'The Key'.
To those who can't: The key to knowledge is wisdom. And the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock, and knelt down as he examined the old, rotten boards.
Which one is it? Is it the third one? No wait, that isn't it. It's the seventh one. He thought to himself. John Whittaker, hereafter known as Whit, gently placed the key and paper beside him and pulled up on the plank, grunting. After a few more tugs, the board came up all of a sudden. Caught off balance, Whit flew backwards and somersaulted into the icy lake water, still clutching the board.
"OH, THAT'S COLD!!!" He screamed once he resurfaced. Whit swiftly hoisted himself back onto the dock. He dragged the board up beside him and peered at the underside of it. Sure enough, nailed on the underside was a small cashbox. Whit tugged at it and pulled it off. He grabbed the key, and with shaking hands inserted it into the lock. It turned smoothly, like it did so many years ago when it was first locked. Softly, he withdrew the key and opened the lid. With a slow creeaak it eased open, revealing the treasures it held.
A small bag of marbles, a few old comic books and an action figure were neatly tucked in there along with a small package wrapped in tissue. Whit picked it up and slowly unwound the tissue from the object. As he did, a flash of gold shone in his eyes from it. It was the Spanish doubloon that he found in Blackbeard's cave so long ago!
Smiling to himself, Whit put the doubloon back and tucked the box underneath his arm. Whistling merrily, he walked to the nearest payphone and dialed the number on the scrap of paper.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" Somebody answered.
"Yes, this is John Avery Whittaker. Listen, I found your number here on a scrap of paper. May I ask who I'm talking to? And what location?"
"Certainly. My name is Rachel McNeil, and you're calling the McNeil residence." Something clicked in Whit’s brain, and he said excitedly,
"Is Arny McNeil there?"
"Yes, he is. Do you want me to go get him?" Rachel asked.
"Sure. Tell him that Whit found the treasure box. Oh, and tell him I said thank you." Whit said, smiling to himself at the warm memories that filled his head.
A moment later, Arny picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi Arny! It’s good to hear from you again! How are things at home?"
"Same old, same old. However, the town’s never been the same since… well, you know."
Whit did know. He remembered it all too clearly in his mind. How Uncle Randy was killed when he unknowingly stepped into the crossfire of a gang war around four years ago. He was only 48 years old.
"Yes, I remember that. Uncle Randy was supposed to be here. We all were. How come you didn’t come? And why didn’t you tell Jack?" He asked.
"We couldn’t get a hold of him, so we had to hide the key near Senator Oak. I couldn’t wait any longer because I just got some bad news from the doctor." Arny said.
"What’s the matter? What’s wrong?" Whit asked, concern in his voice.
"I’ve got a certain type of skin cancer. It’s curable, but it’s going to take some surgery and a lot of chemo." Arny said in a rush.
"Wow that is bad. I’ll pray for you." Whit said. They talked for a little while more, and then Whit hung up. As he walked away with the box in hand, he couldn’t help but think that though it was happy that he found the box, it was also bittersweet.
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock. His casual walk and his smooth, unwrinkled brow hid his exitement and nervousness. His collar was sticky with sweat. He ran to the Grady's General Store on main street.
He opened the grey-green door worn with years of use. Old Man Grady was sitting on a rickety rocking chair in the corner. His son was manning the counter. Old Man Grady looked up from his newspaper.
"Howdy, Whitaker."
"Howdy, Mr. Gard, sir. I'd like to use your pay phone."
"No problem, young'un, jus' go to the back. Make sure you 'ave some coins, though."
"Thank you, sir."
"Yer welcome."
He made his way behind the counter, mouthed a short greeting to Gerald Gard, and dialed Jack Allen's number.
"Hi, Jack Allen here. May I help you?"
"Hey Jack, it's Whit here. I'm back home, and I found it."
"You did?"
"Yes, it."
"The it or the it to it?"
"It's the it's it to find it."
"What do you want from me?"
"Are you free, Jack?"
"Well, yes. I took a week off the antique store to....ah, I see. I'll be there. Did you invite Jenny?"
"No. But can you do that? I will make the accommodation arrangements. Don't worry. I will tell you more details of it later. Bye."
"Bye."
John Whitaker hung up the phone and smiled to himself. It was going to get interesting.
He dropped by the hotel and booked two extra rooms along with his. He called Jack from his hotel room phone and told Jack about the rooms. The rest of the day was spent sleeping and eating. John Whitaker, of which we will refer to as Whit from now on, was sure something would happen that will drain his sleep and appitite from him.
The next morning, Jenny and Jack were already in town. They were eating, or swallowing, their breakfast down. After the customary "how do you do" they went to the local library and talked about, well, it.
"So, um... Whit?" Jenny asked, "What's this all about?"
"You know," Whit explained, "it."
"I don't understand." Jenny replied.
"Let me explain," Jack broke in. "When Whit was young, he often spent his summer holidays as a boy here. His family would rent a cabin. Now Jenny, we used to come here too, remember? Your family came, my family came, it was a sort of resort."
"I remember that," Jenny interupted, "Your family had the cabin by the lake, my family had the cabin in the woods behind, and Whit's family had the one over the hedge from mine. Then there was the large wonderful mansion behind the woods, and a few more cabins."
"Exactly." Jack patiently explained, "Now we used to explore the woods. So one day, I dared Whit to go explore the house. Whit went, on condition that we went with him. So we followed him, remember Jenny?"
"Yeah..." Jenny replied.
"Well, as I said, we followed Whit in. We climbed the wall, and looked around the garden. There were weeds everywhere. No plants, no grass, just mud sprayed with weeds. Then we stumbled upon a large letter. It was sightly torn, and muddy. Oh, and it was very, very old. It was written with black ink on draft paper. There were letters on it, somthing like English, but it made no sense. So we left it there and..."
"Wait, " Whit broke in, "It's still there? We left it there?....Oh yeah, we did. Hmmmm.... Do you think..."
"Of course!" Jenny exclaimed, banging her hands on the table, "IT'S STILL THERE!"
They went off to see the letter. Finding it in the same spot they left it, the letter was proved to be strange. Several letters looked English, but they made no sense. Then the proberbial lightbulb enlightened their minds as they togather exlaimed:
"IT'S IN GREEK!!"
Jenny knew Greek, which she learned for an extra-curricular course in university. She translated it, while Jack copied the translation down in his notebook.
"The Last Will and Testament of John Rogers Garden, " Jenny began.
"So it's a will!" Whit exclaimed.
"Yeah, I suppose," Jack said.
"I have nothing of which is to leave behind, " Jenny continued, "nor many to leave it behind to. But I leave what I have to those closest to me. To my eldest son Robert Elgar Garden, I leave my property in charge of, in condition that he take in his sister's child, Rosemary Geraldine Falls, and pay for her safety and recovery. "
Whit, Jack, and Jenny found out that Rosemary was deprived of her inheritance and restored things to their proper placement.
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The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock, and headed back into town.
After all this time...what does she want? Whit thought as he crossed the street leading to his apartment. But of course he knew. Curiously, he glanced at the key once more before stuffing it into his pocket. When he entered his apartment, the first thing he did was to grab the phone and dial the number.
~
Cal had been expecting the phone to ring, but not so soon. She was in the kitchen, easing a pie from the oven. When the phone jangled noisily to life, she yelped and simultaneously hit her head on the top of the oven, dropped the pie, and scorched her wrist on its flame. She yelped again, and clutched at her aching wrist as she dived for the phone.
“H-hello?” she said, forcing brightness into her voice as she tried to rub her sore forehead and throbbing wrist at once.
“Hi,” came a voice she instantly recognized. “This is John Whittaker. Calamity Bradle, right?”
“Whit!” Cal was suddenly happy, so happy that she forgot her aches and almost dropped the phone. “Am I glad you called! And remember, call me Cal!” She lowered her voice. “So you got my note.”
“Yes.” There was an awkward pause. “Why’d you leave it in Senator Oak?”
Sighing, Cal probed her reddening wrist and glanced at the clock. “Listen, how about we meet at Wade’s in an hour, okay? I’ll explain there.”
“Right.”
“G’bye, Whit.” Cal didn’t wait for an answer; she just hung up and went to douse her wrist in cold water.
~
Cal showed up five minutes late. With a radiant smile, she burst into Wade’s and made a beeline for Whit’s table, disregarding waitresses and patrons who crossed her path. Whit felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as she slumped into the booth across from him. She looked happier than he’d ever seen her; her gray eyes practically glowed under her wild bush of brown hair. She was wearing a bright wool sweater and a smooth gray skirt.
“Ooh, that hurts,” she muttered, gently patting her bandaged wrist. Looking up at Whit, she grinned again. “Glad to see you again Whit.”
“Mutual, I’m sure.” Whit eyed Cal warily. The two had mutual acquaintances during high school, and had been (very) uneasy acquaintances in college. After Cal had been expelled, she and Whit hadn’t stayed in contact.
“So, um, what’s this all about?” Whit asked as the waitress approached.
After the waitress had left with their orders, Cal flashed Whit another bright smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Johnny, so I just wanted to...talk.”
Uh-oh. Whit tensed. During high school, Cal had only wanted to “talk” when she was trying to enlist her friends’ help in one of her crazy ideas. Whit didn’t know why her parents had named her “Calamity,” but sometimes he felt the name suited her too well.
“It’s about us.” Cal’s eyes grew bright; it was almost frightening how she seemed to control her own radiance. Leaning across the table, she pressed her hand on top of his. “Remember what I told you after graduation? In high school?”
An inadvertent twitch shook Whit’s hand, and he quickly took it off the table. “Yes,” he said quietly.
Cal continued. “I told you that I’d never like another boy the way I liked you. That I’d never even dream of marrying someone if that someone wasn’t you.” She tipped her head to one side and smiled. “I still think of you that way, you know. And I was hoping that, now that you’re out of college, that we can start thinking about being together.”
Oh, no. Cal had always been too straightforward for Whit’s liking, and now he was sweating. At the time, he’d partially ignored Cal, hoping that she’d forget about what she’d said and start thinking about other guys. He hadn’t really said that Cal’s feelings were mutual; all he remembered was something like, “Um...okay. I-I’m flattered, thanks. Uh, I...I need to go talk to my mom.”
Now, he thought of Jenny, and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Cal was still watching him expectantly with glittery-gray eyes. Whit cleared his throat...and found that his tongue wouldn’t work. He took another deep breath and opened his mouth.
Thankfully, words came out. “Cal...Calamity, listen. After you got expelled from USC, well, I met someone else.” He almost stopped when he saw her shining face darken, ut he decided that since she’d been straightforward, he might as well be the same. “Her name’s...Jenny. Jenny Morrow. We’ve been dating for a couple of years now, and-”
“What?!” Cal’s outburst made Whit jump and startled a waiters into nearly dropping the platters he hoisted. Whit wanted to slide through the floor as Cal leaned across the table. Her face had turned dangerous.
“You...you picked someone else...over me?” Her voice started low, and rose to end in a pathetic squeak. Whit could only nod.
“I can’t believe this!” shrieked Cal, so loudly that many in the restaurant turned to stare. “Why?”
Whit laid his hands on the table. “What you told me...I didn’t take it seriously. I’m sorry, but I didn’t. I thought you were already seeing someone else, so I left it at that.”
“B-but why?” Cal looked close to tears.
“Well, for one thing, all our conversations consisted of was arguing. And...well, you’re not a Christian. You told me so yourself.”
“So?” Cal sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
“I can’t even think about marrying someone without first knowing that they share my beliefs.” Whit gave a weak smile. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
Cal sulked, staring gloomily at the table. Whit felt like he was reasoning with a three-year-old.
“Come one, Cal, you don’t need to b-”
Cal jumped to her feet so abruptly that Whit jumped all over again. She extended her hand towards Whit, and her voice shook with anger. “I want my key back, then.”
Whit had almost forgotten about the small metal key, which was nestled safely in his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it over. “What’s it for?” he asked as she stuffed it into her skirt pocket.
She eyed him with teary, dark-gray eyes that still managed to make him feel guilty even though he knew he was right. “It was supposed to be the key of our new apartment,” she muttered. “I was talking to a few landlords, and one of them was nice enough to give me the key to a vacant apartment so I could look it over with my...fiancé.”
Then without another word, she stalked from the restaurant, once again ignoring anyone who got in her way.
Whit was both embarrassed and relieved when she was gone. He felt bad about saying no, but he knew that saying yes would’ve made him feel a whole lot worse. He was just glad that it was all over. Calamity and calamity had both (hopefully) been averted. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed.
But how was he to know that many years later, living as a widower in the town of Odyssey, he would have a similar experience with mayoral candidate Margaret Faye?
Check out our interview with Paul McCusker, author and director of Darien's Rise!
The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock and thought to himself of the glory and majesty of the Middle East when he had spent a semester there during his time at USC. He had met some influencial men there... powerful men. Little did he know at the time, but they were people who would shape the rest of his life.
And now, here he was. A note, a key in hand. It had to be... them.
They had contacted him, as promised.
Racing to the nearest pay phone, he dialed the number. A think Middle Eastern accent greeted him… stating one simple thing.
It told him only three things.
The closest international airport.
A locker number.
Come alone.
A fond farewell to his lovely Jenny, and to the airport John Whittaker went. He made his way to the lockers, where he found the appointed one the voice on the other end of the line had indicated. He slipped in the key he had found in “Senator Oak”, turned, and opened the locker. Sitting before him was simply an airline ticket. He read the departure time.
“No time to prepare…” mused Whit. Thirty minutes to departure on a flight to Rakistan.
The flight was long. Boring, but uneventful all the same. Whit spent the time in prayer, and Bible reading, knowing he had to do everything he could to prepare himself for the trials before him.
Upon landing, Whit made his way through the airport, clutching his carry on bag, the only thing he had brought with him. Soon, he was approached by a man wearing all black.
“John Avery Whittaker?” asked the man—the same voice Whit had talked to on the phone.
Whit nodded.
“Come with me.”
The duo left the airport, and traveled by jeep deep into the desert. Finally they reached a small town composed of mostly shacks. Into a common shack they entered, greeted by two armed guards. They slip aside a table, revealing a stairway leading underground. Beneath the earth’s surface laid a gorgeously furnished compound.
The man led Whit into a room, advised him to sit down, and exited.
Whit looked around the room nervously. Would this be as he was promised back during his college days?
Finally, the door opened again. A cloaked figure entered.
“John… Avery… Whittaker.” He stated slowly, his voice dry and wheezing.
“Yes, sir?”
“My time grows short on this earth…” the man coughed. “…but what I have founded here… must continue. And you, John Avery Whittaker, are the key to Red Scorpions survival.”
“Shall I lead, sir?”
“You will not be the leader in name… you must never be traced to us.”
“You know I would forsake my life in America to serve Red Scorpion here in Rackistan, oh leader.”
“And your dedication to our cause is why I have summoned you here on this day, Whittaker. But no. That is not for you. In order for Red Scorpion to prosper… it must branch out. You, Whittaker, will be that branch. You will bring us Western influence. You’re an intelligent man, Whittaker. Your investments will finance us. Your scientific research will aid our causes. You… will lead Red Scorpion into its rightful place as savior of the world.”
“Whatever you ask will be done,” stated Whit, slipping from his seat and boring before the cloaked leader.
And this the tale of how, all those years ago, John Avery Whittaker was forever tied to Red Scorpion. As the years went by, Whit founded the Universal Press foundation, whose assets would go to aid the many exploits of Red Scorpion all over the world. He would also go on to provide Red Scorpion with instruments of biological warfare, such as the Ruku Virus, due to his scientific expertise. The state of the art technology used in the Imagination Station was created initially to aid in training simulations for Red Scorpion troops. Aiding him in spreading his technology over the globe to various Red Scorpion outposts, Whit created the Missions Board, so messengers could be sent to all corners of the globe. Mostly keeping tabs on his beloved Red Scorpion from Odyssey, Whit had to spend a few years back in the Middle East, aiding in the most internationally visible Red Scorpion excursion to date, as well as temporarily managing the organization after the tragic demise of Mustafa, before Davari Hassan was placed into position.
Currently, John Whittaker resides in Odyssey, after his return from the Middle East, where he spends his time managing an ice cream shop, and molding young minds so that they too will be disciples of Red Scorpion, once the ever closer day of Red Scorpion’s rising occurs.
Blesses is the day when Red Scorpion shall rise! Mercy shall be exacted through punishment! Peace shall be brought through war! All will be in order, all will be made right! May this day come soon!
Check out our interview with Paul McCusker, author and director of Darien's Rise!
The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock and made his way towards the home that he and his new wife Jenny shared. “I’ve been gone so long that she’ll start to miss me soon,” he thought to himself jokingly. Almost one beautiful year of married bliss had passed for Jenny and Whit, as his friends called him, though Jenny almost always called him John. Jenny had just returned from a week-long visit to her parents. Whit had originally planned on going with her, but he was so busy with his work starting up the Universal Press Foundation that he found himself unable to get away for an entire week.
Entering the small house that he and Jenny shared, Whit headed straight for the spare bedroom, which held the bookcases that held the majority of their books, including his journals. Finding the right journal, he paged through it until he found the right part, and then read through what he had written down about his experiences at Guadal Canal and Manatugo Point. “I never wrote down that I told him about the Senator Oak, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t, or that he didn’t ask somebody else close to me about a good place to hide something to leave me a surprise,” Whit mused out loud.
“John, is that you?” a voice called from the hallway. Jenny appeared at the door, a bemused expression on her face. “John, are you talking to yourself again?”
Whit laughed. “Of course I am. And you love me anyway.” He put the journal aside to greet his wife properly.
“So, what were you doing when I walked in?” Jenny asked a moment later, picking up the journal that Whit had left lying on the chair next to the bookcase. “Going through one of your journals?”
“Yes, I needed to find something,” Whit said evasively.
Jenny smiled playfully. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” Whit bantered. “Is it something you already know about anyway?”
Laughing, Jenny said, “Wouldn’t you like to know? But that wouldn’t be any fun. Remember last Christmas?”
Whit groaned at the memory, and Jenny laughed again. “You looked so funny, following clue after clue, trying to find your Christmas present! And when you thought that you finally found it and opened that box, only to discover that it was entirely filled with packing peanuts, and nothing else, I was fortunate that I could still breathe, I was laughing so hard! You’re so fun, John.”
“Thanks, dear,” Whit said dryly, laughing inwardly. “At least you finally did give me my present! After spending two hours trying to find it, I was glad that it wasn’t an inflatable life raft or something!” He lovingly patted the bookshelf that held his first edition of “Pilgrim’s Progress.” He had a copy of it already, but that one didn’t hold the same meaning as the precious copy that his wife had found for him. And the search to find it had been fun.
“Well, I’m going to make dinner, John,” Jenny said. “I’ll leave you to your journal. Don’t forget that it’s your turn to wash the dishes!” And with that, she exited the room right before the pillow that Whit threw hit the spot where she had been standing.
“You missed again!” she called from down the hall, her laughter ringing out and filling the entire house with joy. Whit grinned. Life was good.
Turning his attention back to his journal, he thought about his time during the war, choosing not to dwell on it long. The memories had faded, but still not enough. He sometimes wondered if there would ever be enough time to heal some wounds. Making an effort to pull his thoughts away from a dark time in his life, Whit instead thought of Reginald Duffield. “He did say that he would try to get in contact with me in America sometime,” Whit mused. “And he might try to do something interesting like putting the key and the phone number there so I would have to search for him.” Remembering the slip of paper and the key that he had pulled out of the old Senator Oak, he took them from his pocket and examined them again.
“A phone number…I don’t recognize the number,” Whit thought to himself. “I should try it and see who I reach.” Picking up the phone, he then realized that Jenny might be in on the joke. Reggy might have contacted her and had her help him with the joke. Putting the phone receiver down again, he went and closed the door, making sure that he still could faintly hear Jenny in the kitchen, and then went back to the phone and dialled the number.
“Thank you for calling the Van der Laan Medical Centre, Chris speaking, how may I help you?” came a perky female voice.
“Hi, is this 555-3456?” Whit asked cautiously, hoping that he had the wrong number.
“Yes it is sir…how may I assist you? Did you want to make an appointment?” the chipper voice said.
“No, not at the moment,” Whit said slowly, trying to figure out why he was given this number. “Thank you for your time.” Hanging up the phone, he sat down heavily in the nearby chair. Was somebody injured? Why would Reggy give him that number? And how on earth did that help him know what to do with the key? It all made no sense. “I have to think logically,” Whit mumbled. “Maybe Jenny knows something about Reggy’s plans. I’ll try to get her to tell me something at supper tonight.”
Lost in his thoughts, Whit was surprised to hear Jenny’s voice breaking through into his world of worried thoughts and crazy conspiracy plots. “John, dinner is ready!”
“Coming!” he called back, rising slowly from the chair and heading for the door. Entering the kitchen a moment later, he exclaimed,” Jenny! My goodness, did I miss a special occasion?”
She giggled. “No, I just wanted to use our wedding china. Fiona was such a dear about helping me choose the perfect pattern, and I wanted to use it today.”
After helping Jenny with her chair, one of those things that he did because his father had taught him to and his wife enjoyed the attention, Whit sat down across the table from his wife and decided not to think about the mystery during the meal. However, Jenny had other plans.
“So, John, did you find what you were looking for in your journal?” she asked casually.
Smiling, Whit said, “I don’t know – you know better than I do what I was looking for, don’t you?”
Jenny shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. “Well, I might have some small idea…”
Whit, remembering where the phone number had led him, decided that Jenny might be able to help him determine if this was indeed a crisis situation or not. “Jenny, I know that you seem to be having fun with this, but this is serious. I found a phone number on a scrap of drafting paper and a key, and when I called the number, it brought me to a medical centre. Is Reggy okay? Does he need my help?”
Jenny was genuinely shocked. “Reggy?! Who’s that?”
“You know…the British fellow that I met during the…during the war,” Whit said, puzzled as to why Jenny was pretending not to remember Reggy.
“Oh, right. Reginald Duffield…I know that you talked about him and some of the adventures that you two had. I try not to think about that, John. You know that.”
“I know, Jenny,” Whit said, reaching for her hand from across the table and gently patting it to assure her that all was well.
“I am not a child, John. You do not need to patronize me,” she said bitingly, pulling her hand away.
“Jenny, you know that isn’t what I meant!” Whit protested.
Jenny glared at him for a moment, then softened her expression. “I know, John. I’m sorry. You know the way that my temper can flare up sometimes.”
“I know. It’s one of the things that I love about you,” Whit said loving. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
“John!” Jenny said, trying to sound upset but ruining it with laughter.
“You know the way I am when I try to figure something out, Jenny – I wasn’t thinking about the way that talk of my time in the war bothers you. We don’t need to talk about it anymore. I just need to know if the person who left me that phone number is in serious need of help.”
Jenny grinned mischievously. “Actually, the person who left you that number will want you around for the next little while….actually, for forever.”
“Jenny!” Whit exclaimed. “I’ve been totally wrong, haven’t I? Did you leave me that number and the key?”
“Guilty as charged!”
Whit let out a sigh of relief…and then realized that everything was still unexplained. “But why? Why did you leave the note? And what is the key for?”
“You’re so curious…do you think I should just tell you, John?” Jenny said with mock seriousness. “What lesson would you learn then? No, you need to learn perseverance, I think. Remember last Christmas?”
Seeing the expression of chagrin on Whit’s face, she laughed. “Well, I guess I could help you out a bit…why don’t you wait here a moment?”
Rushing out of the room, Jenny returned a minute later, and informed Whit that he was now allowed to walk down the hallway.
“Don’t forget to bring the key with you,” she said impishly, following him as he went down the hallway, looking for some kind of clue. Seeing a piece of paper taped to the door of the spare room, Whit stopped and took a look at it. It was a piece of drafting paper….and yes, the corner was missing. Pulling the phone number out of his pocket, he then matched it with the existing paper, ignoring the various notations on it. It was a perfect match. Smirking at Jenny, he the tried the doorknob, only to find it locked for the first time ever. Pulling the key from the Senator Oak out of his pocket, he then tried it on the door. It worked perfectly. Swinging the door open and turning on the light, he looked around, but saw nothing changed from when he had been in there earlier.
“Well, that was helpful,” Whit commented sarcastically.
“If you would open your eyes so that you can actually see further than the end of your nose, and then come back to the door, that might help, John,” Jenny commented, trying not to laugh yet again.
Whit returned to the door and took a closer look at the paper that was attached to it with a piece of tape. “What is this?” he said, speaking more to himself than Jenny. “Remodelling the room to turn it into a…” Whit stopped speaking, too choked up to continue.
Turning to Jenny on trembling legs, he took one look at her shining eyes and wrapped her in a bear hug, swinging her around and around until they were both dizzy. “Oh, Jenny. How wonderful! I have to call both of our parents right away! They’ll want to know that we’re going to have a baby!”
“I have a little confession to make, John – my parents already know.”
Whit slapped his forehead. “Of course! The Van der Laan Clinic! That’s near where your parents live – I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! I was too busy thinking of other ideas that I never even thought of that!”
Jenny smiled. “So? Was that a good way to find out about our coming bundle of joy?”
“Any way would have been fine, but I should have known that with you, nothing is ever dull!” Whit said lovingly. “Spending the rest of my life with you, never knowing quite what will happen next, but loving every moment of it, sounds perfect to me!”
“Oh John, you’re so sweet. Now come on – we need to stop just sitting here! Get a move on – we have the renovations to do and baby clothes to make and names to pick out! I bought a baby book with only “J” names – let’s go pick out our favourites!”
“Whatever you want, Guinevere Morrow Whittaker. May I escort you back to the kitchen?” Whit said with a courtly bow and a flourish with his arm.
Laughing, she replied, “Why of course, kind sir. And you can call me Jenny.”
And they lived pretty much happily ever after. Not quite, of course, because nobody really does live with no problems at all. They still had years of happiness ahead of them, with some heartbreak thrown in. But they were together through it all, and that is all that either of them ever would have asked for.
Author’s Note: I know that the timeline for the events in Whit’s life that are referred to here may not perfectly fit in with what we already know. But that isn’t the point of my story, so I didn’t worry about that. Hopefully it is enjoyable, whether or not the year that Whit started the Universal Press Foundation fits in with when the story is supposed to have occurred or not!
Check out our interview with Paul McCusker, author and director of Darien's Rise!
The young John Whittaker knew what he had to do. With a determined look in his eyes, he stood up, saluted one more time to “Senator Oak”, walked back down the dock and got in his car. He drove down a certain street in old down town, then suddenly swerved into an alley, and parked behind the back entrance of an old warehouse. He approached the door, said a quick prayer, and went in. Old memories washed over him as he looked over old boxes and crates. He was nearly lost in thoughts about the old days. Then he quickly remembered why he was there, and climbed the metal stairwell that led to some offices above. He came to a certain door, and tried the knob. It was locked. “Well, here goes nothing,” young Whittaker said, as he put the key in the lock. It worked! Heart pounding, he slowly pushed the door open, and poked in his head. For a warehouse that had been unused for five years, the furnishings were surprisingly clean; the desk was polished and the carpet looked new. He shut the door behind him, and walked to the desk. Sitting down in the chair, he almost got lost once again in the memories. But he quickly regained his focus, and picked up the phone. He sighed once, said another prayer, and called the number: “Five-five-five-three-four-five-six,” he murmured, as he punched the buttons on the old phone.
“Hello?” answered the voice on the other end.
“It’s me,” said young Whittaker.
“And?”
“I’m in.”
Two hours later, Whittaker was traveling to the airport in a limousine and being briefed on the way. Sitting next to him was a tall, skinny man with a beard and thin brown hair. McMahon was somewhat of a joker around the agency; however, when the mission priorities came first, he re-focused.
“Well, good to have you back. Here’s how it goes. We have lost an agent to Red Scorpion. He was working as a double agent when he suddenly disappeared. We’ve had no contact until this tape came from Red Scorpion,” said McMahon, as he pushed a tape into the VCR.
A man came up on the screen, saying, “Hello. This is coming from a hostage of Red Scorpion. They want to get simple and to the point: you will find no monologuing on this tape. Red Scorpion has got me here, and they need to make sure that you will not interfere in this matter. I will be held hostage until they carry through with their plan. I will be released once their plan is done. But if you interfere, I will be killed.” And then the tape stopped.
“That’s it?” said Whittaker.
“That’s it.”
“That sure isn’t much to go on,” Whittaker exclaimed.
“I know, I know. I think they like it that way. They don’t monologue, so they don’t give us anything to go on. We’re not even positive that it’s Red Scorpion that took him,” McMahon replied.
"Well, here we are," said McMahon, changing the subject.
"Where?" asked Whittaker.
"The airport. Remember?"
"Ah, yes. We have a flight booked for Chicago."
"Correct."
"Maybe we can do a little of our own solving on the way, and then do most of it at the agency," suggested Whittaker, as he opened the limousine door.
"That's what I had planned," replied McMahon.
After they found their seats, Whittaker began to talk about the tape. “Did you notice how the room he was in was not a dump, but apparently wasn’t Red Scorpion officer quarters, either? If he had been in the Red Scorpion compound, he would have been in either (a) a prison cell, in which case it wouldn’t look as nice as it did; or (b) an officer’s quarters, in which case it would have been filled with expensive paintings and other luxurious furnishings. But it wasn’t.”
“Good point,” agreed McMahon. “What I thought was odd was that there was no monologuing. That’s not the Red Scorpion way. They don’t care if we know who some of them are. They threaten with their agents, and tell you with the hostage if they have a hostage.”
“Okay, so let’s assume that it isn’t Red Scorpion,” Whittaker suggested. “Let’s assume it was another terrorist group. Who could it be?”
“Hmmm,” thought McMahon. “The only one I can think of that would be that close to Red Scorpion would be the Liberators. They probably had a double agent in Red Scorpion or they could have had a treaty, although that’s not very likely. At any rate, they probably found our agent in one of Red Scorpion’s compounds and took him for their own purposes, instead of turning him over to Red Scorpion.”
“Do we have any files on the Liberators?” Whittaker asked.
When they arrived, McMahon introduced Whittaker to all the newer agents. Then everyone got to work.
“All right. What do we have on the Liberators?” asked McMahon.
“Plenty,” answered a woman named Anna. “What we don’t know is the identity of any of their agents. They don’t monologue much, and they rarely send videos. What we do know is that they kidnap agents a lot, and use them as hostages, although they’ve never killed a hostage yet. Still, we like to be cautious.”
“Do we know where the Liberators are operating?” asked McMahon.
“We got an anonymous tip that they are working in a high-rise apartment house in London,” Anna answered.
“There are a lot of high-rise apartments in London, “ Whittaker laughed.
“I know, but we got a map showing an approximate location,” Anna explained.
Later, in London, Whittaker, McMahon and Lewis, a British associate, were looking at Valleyway House, a high-rise apartment complex on Pecanwood Street.
Lewis said, “I know the people here. I’ll check it out for you.”
They walked into a nice, homey lobby, containing a few benches and tables, with white flower arrangements here and there. Lewis walked confidently to the front desk. “Good morning, Bethany. Any new tenants?”
Bethany just laughed and said, “William B. Lewis, you’ve never asked a casual question without wanting some information from me. Why don’t you explain while I get you your tea?”
“All right. All right. I really do want to know if you have any new tenants who act rather strange and bring in food every once in a while, maybe?”
Bethany chuckled as she heard this. “Your questions always do end up like this. As a matter of fact, I have been seeing people bringing in food from the drugstore across the street.”
“What’s their apartment number?” asked Lewis.
“That is privileged information,” answered Bethany. “But since I owe you a favor, and you probably have a good reason for wanting to know, I’ll give it to you: it’s number 434.”
As the elevator doors opened, Whittaker, Lewis, and McMahon stepped out into the hallway. McMahon immediately started counting the doors: “Four-thirty-one, four-thirty-two, four-thirty-three, four-thirty-four.” The door was in the middle of the hall among many other doors.
McMahon knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. No answer.
“Do we have the wrong door?” asked Whittaker.
“No,” McMahon assured him. “I’m positive it was this number.”
“Perhaps we should do this,” said Lewis, as he kicked at the door.
The door wasn’t all that sturdy, and opened momentarily. The three men entered, and found a tidy living room with no one present.
“I’ll check the bedroom,” whispered McMahon. “You check the bathroom,” he said to Lewis.
“I’ll check the closets,” Whittaker whispered back.
“I found him!” yelled McMahon.
Soon three men were ungagging and untying one weak, but grateful man. After being set free, agent Walters began to explain. “It was not Red Scorpion. The Liberators captured me. I’ve been sitting in here for a while, now. They’ll be back soon; we need to get out of here.”
Later, in a nearby cafe, Walters was explaining everything. “The Liberators are planning several car bombings here in London, tomorrow at noon. We need to contact Scotland Yard.”
“Why did you say on the tape that it was Red Scorpion?” queried Whittaker.
“Because the Liberators have been trying to gain power. Red Scorpion was in their way. They’ve tried to pin their actions on Red Scorpion, and so they had me say that Red Scorpion had kidnapped me, hoping to lead the Americans to Red Scorpion.”
After Scotland Yard apprehended the members of the Liberators, Whittaker, Walters, and McMahon booked a flight back to Chicago. And all was pretty silent among the three men during the flight.
”John, you sure have been quiet,” McMahon commented.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come back and help us with more cases?” McMahon questioned.
“Yes, I’m sure. You see, my wife is expecting another baby, and now that I’m going to have her and three children to take care of, I’d better take that new job, instead of traveling around the world.”
“Well, couldn’t we just hire your whole family?” McMahon joked. They both laughed.
Check out our interview with Paul McCusker, author and director of Darien's Rise!
Wow, it's wonderful to see so many entries! 9 is definitely more than have ever occurred before! I enjoyed reading through all of them! I must say that the writer of story 7 deserves a lot of credit for ingenuity and evilness. I enjoyed that story a lot, though it throws a disturbing spin on Whit as a person.
Click on the image, you know you want to!
"I was placed in jail during the reign of Regis for double posting and spamming. I felt very naughty." -Danae Doyle "This is the ToO...Not Wikipedia."-COT"I had some really good replies to that, but they were too rude, so I deleted them. Nice going, CoT. You made me be nice for once." -CA "Alas, not even I could perform such a feat."-Trinny
*shall read and vote later!* 
I enjoyed that story a lot, though it throws a disturbing spin on Whit as a person. 
