The Final God

The

Final GOD

A novel by

D.Deuke Eukel

AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2013 D.Deuke Eukel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/21/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4321-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4322-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4320-8 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover Illustration by: Joshua Allen

Contents

Determined

Guidry’s Information

Close Calls

Candace Waters

Cliff Deaths

Digger

Cliff Killer

Kidnapped

Deceptions

Enemies

Detective Mic Riez

Dr. Bariz Raquis

Wake up Call

Dirty Deeds

Escape From Barranquitas

The Flight

Another Banana Tree

St. Croix—Dr. Bennett Handers

Jose Rodriguez

Destinies

Investigations

To Catch an Imposter

Burning Bridges

Jonathan and Candace

Tame Goes—Candace Gone

Police in St. Croix

Converging Paths

Discoveries

The Complex

Pablo Ciealis

Arecibo

Ring of Evidence

Hinson Meets Handers

Does Justice Prevail?

Grant Schofield

Charges and Accusations

Murder in Lockdown

B. H. Files

The Bible and the Scrolls

Justice Paid For—Truth Bent

The Chase

Swaying Beliefs

The Giants

San Francisco Knights

The Scrolls of the Millennium

Arecibo’s Secrets

The Navy Gets a Murderer

Knights on a Ship

Shaulia’s Thoughts

Hurling Toward a Destiny

Forty-eight Hours

USS Pennsylvania

Sheep to the Slaughter

Battle for the Coral Sea

Protect the Family

Meeting the Truth

Race to Deadline

Antilla Island Project

Finding Jonathan Tame

Glitter Gulch

Henry Arrested

Military Alert

Loose Cannons

Washington D.C.

The Cardinal’s Rest

Brenda and Henry

Less than Five Days

War Games

Wildfire Affect

War till the End…

Ultimatum

Janice Green

The Unthinkable

The New Millennia

Captain Stricland

Seat of Power

The Chosen Bride

Sacred Texts

The Bitter Season

In GOD’s Hands

Evil Hours

When a Plan Comes Together

Henry’s Files

Intersections

Transformations

Payback

Revenge

Invitations

Foreknowledge

Predestination

Gathering for the Ceremony

The Arrival

Henry and the Rabbi

Comparisons

Sacred Mountain

Here Is Wisdom…

Recognizing the Truth

Miracles

Bitter Sweet

The Rabbi’s Words

Loose Ends

‘Sixth Day of the Bitter Season’

‘Seventh Day of the Bitter Season’

We Are Not Alone

Dedication

This opus is dedicated to all of those that have loved me, no matter what!

To my wife Kerri; your demonstration of love is the difference between a bet on a long-shot and the victory of a champion. You truly are my split-apart. You have expressed selflessness and an honest spirit, and without you this novel might never have happened. Thank you! Originally, in 1977 the seed of this novel began to form—it expanded as the years went by. I wrote this novel for specific purposes; my children, being number one. I dedicate this novel to them, for their belief and hope that I’d finally finish this task well.

I’m done editing, kids!

To my eldest son, Isaiah David, for his unfailing strength, faith and love—for taking on responsibilities that others might have avoided in the same circumstances; to his siblings; my oldest daughter, Jenaesa Ann; though you have chosen to stay outside, know this, there has always been a place for you near the warmth of an innocent heart; a father who never stopped loving you. To Zachariah John; you are so loved, son, enjoy this tale. Thanks for being there consistently. To Sashia Mary; your big heart and courage kept me going when I wanted to quit—I figured if you could do it, I had to. To my son, Jonathan Dwayne, the next generation fighter pilot, who is as much a part of this novel as he is in my life; to his brother; the late Kyle Carter Cutchall, and to their sister, Tara Renee—for being such a large part of my life. There have been very few experiences as profound. And to Lucas Earl; a son who came to me late in life; I hope you are proud to be part of this family. This adventure is for all of you.

To my Mother, Patricia Gloria Faye Page-Eukel, who has always been a profound influence in my life; her unconditional love, spiritual awareness, generosity, compassion, long suffering, gratefulness, thanksgiving, and joy—and her love of writing, is everything to me; thanks Mom! For my Father, the late, Captain Donald Dean Eukel Sr., whose legacy was for us all to embrace integrity and responsibility, and of course, our love of flying.

To my sisters; Dawna Beth and Dereesa Faye; for your unfailing love and kindnesses; to my younger brother, Donald Dean Jr., whose loyalty and camaraderie has meant more to me than he may ever know. To my oldest brother, the late David Dean Eukel, who sacrificed his all in service for his country with the 199th LIB c-3/7; whose death, during a horrendous battle at the Phu Tho racetrack, at Cholon, near Saigon, (for those of you who were there) at the beginning of the TET Offensive, in February, 1968—you will always be a part of what made who I am. And to my brother Derf Fred John, who has pointed out on numerous occasions that there is much to be learned from the letter of the law and I’m sure he would yet agree that the spirit of the law is even more profound. Special thanks to Mary Ann Irwin, who was there when the seed of this novel took root; thanks Mary, for giving to me the dictionary and encouragement to fulfill a dream, and for the children we both love so much. To Kathy College-Jackowiak; I never forgot that you and yours were always a happy part of my life. To David Kincade, there’s no telling how empty my life would have been without you and yours, as well. Thanks friend. Never forget Ole Dewey! And to Rhonda Renee Groves; who made me acutely aware that adversity is also a large part of life.

There are many others to thank for this book; they helped soothe my soul with music and laughter, and were there whenever GOD asked them to be. For all of you that waited for this day; Today’s the day!

Prologue

"Who is wise and he shall understand these things; prudent and he shall know them . . ." Hosea 14:9

"Some people call these the Last Days. Others say that those who use this term are perpetuating a mythical philosophy, and thus hatred; that this is simply the establishment of the New World Order; a New Consciousness. There is nothing to fear, they say. But we say differently. We believe that the changes that have taken place all over the world are leading to an extraordinary event—one more astonishing than any of us have ever envisioned.

There were seven of us when we first learned about an astounding secret; and let me note here, as investigators—at different levels and in different fields, we weren’t novices to the extraordinary. But, what we discovered surpasses anything we’ve ever seen, or known.

The dramatic Changes, in the highest levels of government, from around the globe, took place suddenly. Heads of state changed in just about every country, and all at the same time. Military powers from each of these countries, as you all know, have been turned over to a very powerful and united consortium. The power they wield is incomparable—to anything on this planet. We believe this group has taken control of—well, everything. There wasn’t anything that we could do to stop it.

What we saw first-hand—up on Sacred Mountain, just as many of you did—in sharp, high definition TV–though very few seem to remember anymore, can’t be explained easily. We know that the leaders have control of every resource in the world—including people—through nuclear threat, economic slavery, scientific and technological knowledge that is way beyond what any of you may have thought possible. They’re even using a form of Religion to sway and manipulate the masses. Suffice it to say that there are forces at work with some very serious strength—and they are out to kill us.

Two of Our friends are already dead. One was killed at an airfield in Puerto Rico, because he discovered what was going on up at Sacred Mountain. The other was killed—for just being at the wrong place at the wrong time. We have something they want—desperately—the rest of the pieces to an ancient puzzle. We’ve kept out of their reach so far, and our friend told us not to worry; he told us that soon,  . . . all things would be restored. We believe him. We trust him.

If you see this video, understand something; we don’t know if you’ll believe any of it—don’t even know if you can—it’s absolutely incredible. But we figured maybe if you saw the truth yourself, you might change your mind about—well, who you’re worshipping.

The truth shall set you free."

Chapter One

Determined

Monday

Sunrise on the island’s eastern side brought with it piercing golden lances that cut through warm Caribbean water, and penetrated the vast array of mountains that eclipse the tawny sand beaches of Puerto Rico.

Jonathan Tame shielded his eyes as the shafts of light reached his perch. He stood on a third-story balcony treasuring the magnificent view of the mountains and the calm waters. He looked over the town of Humacao and wondered what mysteries were being concealed.

He was staying in a villa at the Palmas del Mar, a large resort hotel in Humacao that touted pristine beachfront property, three-story views, and luxurious accommodations—all of which were true—it was costing the magazine he wrote for hundreds of dollars a week, plus expenses, but it was a cost he attempted to justify to Frank, only days before.

It’s the only place on the island that has the Internet working, he told him. He was telling the truth—for the time being—there were other less expensive places with Internet accommodations, but those hadn’t reopened yet—after the storm. He had picked the location mostly for the atmosphere. To him it was an unofficial vacation, one he was convinced that he truly needed. Besides, the job, Frank had said, was supposed to be  . . . simple; something you can knock out with your eyes closed. Yet in spite of Frank’s assertions the assignment was developing into something much more than Jonathan planned.

Frank told him to simply gather information about the hurricane and write a piece about the government’s helping hands. It wasn’t his usual directive, but Frank knew that Jonathan was close to burn-out. He’d sent him to the island mainly to relax. He would justify the expenditure to the board easily enough, but he also expected Jonathan back in the saddle after a few days rest—doing what he used to do so well; investigating real stories—stories that had brought some stature to the magazine; admittedly, Some time ago, he’d told Jon. But he and Jon were friends; he would give him as much time as he could. We can kill two birds with one stone, Frank said. You can get some rest while you get us a nice little story.

It was the beginning of his second week on the island and what he’d uncovered so far of the federal government’s participation in a Hurricane clean-up campaign, they called it, had left many unanswered questions. The category-two hurricane swept the South Atlantic several days before and struck the 100 mile-long commonwealth with great force, according to U.S. government spokespersons. One low-level official said, The devastating storm had caused untold misery. But as his investigative juices flowed, others told him what he saw with his own two eyes—the storm had soared by the island without inflicting any serious damage at all.

Officials bellowed about Hurricane Jezebel’s, devastatingly heartless nature, but he knew better. He knew the exorbitant expenses for repairs were blatant misrepresentations, displayed for public consumption. There were irregularities, in cost projections, damage estimates, and actual work invoices, which he’d been privy to. The inconsistencies spewed out by government entities, which he had tried on several occasions to record, were angering. Getting proof of the deception had become an all-consuming objective.

As a journalist, beginning to feel his age, with salt and pepper hair, and a weathered face that gave many the impression he was hard and insensitive, was contrary to his true nature—an affable character—unless crossed, many said. It was conceded that he’d grown more cynical. He’d witnessed just about every form of news-event that could be published or paraded on TV, but this one was different. There was a concerted effort to conceal something serious—some truth that they didn’t want anyone to know about—at least that was the impression he got from the officials he interviewed.

Just when he thought he might get some rest, a story with bullshit from the beast, written all over it—his phrase for government mouthpieces, presented itself. With political posturing, they fed the media with headlines; cover-stories that never told it all. He despised their methods; the trite metaphors slung onto the screen by news broadcasters, and the outright lies. It infuriated him. He made it a point to disrupt their pretense by writing articles that proved the sensational claims were spurious. He ridiculed broadcasters for their journalistic inexperience, and immaturity. He was rarely successful, but when he was, they hated him for it. That didn’t bother him much; in fact he reveled in it. When he started in the business more than twenty years before, it was easier to find stories editors could sink their teeth into. He was trusted; his peers respected him, and his audience looked forward to his many exposés. Now, he gladly spent his waking-days avoiding the melodrama. But this one wouldn’t go away; this one was going to be a quest for the truth, no matter where the chips fell. He was tired of the spin. He began to focus on uncovering which corrupt bureaucrats were behind this latest deception, and he planned to slap them silly in public. He knew the few moments of solitude would be lost, but as he watched the endless waves crash against the island’s natural barriers, the human boundaries set before him both fascinated and motivated him.

Before coming to work for Frank, typical franchise publishers, which he dealt with often, exploited vulnerable victims to sell their publications. He’d counter their propensity for sensationalism by hammering home the human-equation, he called it. It accounted for most of the reasons previous publishers pointed him to the door. They considered his philosophical approach, fodder for bleeding hearts, and no longer bought his pieces. He continued offering his services to one publication after another. Having been turned away so many times, he had come close to quitting the whole racket and going back into his previous career-security. All he could think about back then was going home, kick back on the sofa, tug on a few drinks, listen to music, and forget that there was a world out there; a world full of news events and plenty of lies. That was until he came across a magazine produced in California, called the Alameda Pioneer.

While perusing the magazine’s content he discovered that the publisher was the man he’d met in the war, the man whose life he’d saved on a very chaotic night, Frank B. Hinson.

After an exultant reunion with Frank, nearly twenty years before, he was offered a correspondent’s position. And now here he was in a tropical setting, writing one of those politically-correct cub reporter articles, about America coming to the rescue, or so he thought it was supposed to be. Instead, and if he could find the rest of the pieces to the puzzle, it promised to be a story with much more substance. There were very few clues as to what was being covered-up, but he knew that the data pointed to something very captivating. He was sure it wasn’t just another numbers game. He was witnessing a deception that he believed came straight from the top of the federal government and wondered if Frank had known more than he’d told him initially.

He had indeed observed some water damage, and saw some minor structural destruction—in isolated areas, but as one victim described it, The storm was nothing more than a small bag of wind and a bucket-full of water. It was obvious the disaster was less severe than reported by the feds, and the information pointed to persons, so far unknown to him, that exploiting the natural disaster for all it was worth, seemed to be the main goal.

He reasonably assessed that the millions of dollars in repair, and lately he was hearing, billions of dollars, that government sources said were needed, was to say the least; highly suspect. His knowledge of construction along with all the data he accumulated, told him that the ambiguous reports were more than slight fabrication, there was something very big being concealed—what it was, he didn’t know yet, but he was determined to find out. It would be the crux of his expanding exposé. However, without something more convincing, more tangible which supported his assertions, his pitch to Frank on this latest controversial subject, might fall on deaf ears.

He looked at his watch and saw he’d been staring out over the bay for more than ten minutes. He walked back into the room and began checking the items he’d laid out on the dresser the night before: an old Pentax-1000, which he rarely used anymore, but carried anyway, Just in case, he told Frank on numerous occasions—who in turn suggested that he, Join the 21st century, and purchase the newest in digital cameras.

He picked up his Sony recorder, which the Associate Editor, Susan Slater, said was old-school. You’re stuck in the past, she told him, and made other comments meant to get him to react to her subtle accusation that he was, Beyond his usefulness. She had friends that wanted his job.

At strategy meetings, she’d dig at his slower methods. Frank tolerated her remarks and listened to her many opinions, but in private, though he thought she was a gifted writer and could keep the staff on task, he told Jon, She seems to believe that anyone over 40 is a dinosaur and she didn’t know when to shut up. Frank never told him why he didn’t override her arrogance at the meetings. He figured he was just that kind of person—amenable, maybe even pliable—too much a nice guy. But he was his friend, for life.

He didn’t know how old Susan was, maybe close to 40—which contradicted her opinions, but he never asked, and she never said. He did admit to Frank once that she was a good journalist, and not bad-looking either, he’d said. But his interest in Susan was primarily a means to an end. He had to be nice to her just to be kept in the loop, something he always craved.

He confirmed the Sony was working: It’s 6:00 a.m., Monday, October 13th; I’m heading south this morning, to Las Piedras and Guarabe. There has to be more about this hurricane. So far, I haven’t seen much damage… curious why the feds keep saying this island was wrecked… I’ll add more later, he said to the machine. He grabbed a couple of notepads, extra pens, and made a notation in his private journal, then replaced it inside a hidden compartment in his well-worn brief case, one he also carried more for sentiment than its practical use.

He put together his notes from the official and local sources—sources that indicated he was on the right track, and stuffed them all into the case. He didn’t carry a lap-top, for him the recorder and notes were all he needed.

Officials exaggerated the numbers and the locals, who were called, surviving villagers, by some of the idiot bureaucrats he’d talked to, told him just the opposite—there was little, if any damage at all. The challenge was to decipher why the various agencies were escalating the numbers.

He had an interview later that afternoon which promised to yield information from an inside source; Norman Guidry, the owner of a commercial construction company based on the island. According to several records he was getting the bulk of work. Guidry promised to meet with him days before, indicating that he had figures no one else had. The appointment was set for 3:30—at Guidry’s main office in Bayamon. He descended the stairs leading to the main floor and went over to the telephone on the bar. Intermittent success of the hotel’s message service made him wonder how many calls he’d missed so far, because once again there were none. He snatched his rental-car keys from the Wicker-framed glass table that charmed the living room and left the villa.

He drove nearly three hours, making stops in Las Piedras and Guarabe, and every village in between. He talked to various business owners and residents; recording man on the street commentary. Much of his questioning related to his personal observations. The responses solicited curious answers from business merchants. Residents were indifferent to the storm. One man told him that he believed reporters really didn’t want the truth. Jon assured him that he did. When he asked about the Fury of the storm, one stout man answered what he thought he might; What fury? This is fury, the man said, pointing to the many trees and structures unharmed. This hurricane only spit on us, he said, then turned away disgusted.

Some citizens attributed the lack of destruction to "providence. Others said the storm was turned away by magic spells, cast by Sacred Mountain Priests." He had no idea what that meant. In areas near Juncos, he found contractors installing blue tarp, which FEMA seemed to have in abundant supply. The tarp was being installed on homes with little or no damage.

At several sites, he was able to get a look at lists that quantified large numbers of materials purchased, though none were actually applied. Foremen on these jobs shrugged off the curious looks and questions, saying they were only following orders given by the Corp of Engineers, or FEMA, or Puerto Rico’s bureaucrats. One contractor told him, FEMA just wants to see a shit-load of blue tarp from the air.

In Jon’s mind, there was definitely a money game being played and the more he learned, the more he was convinced there was a larger purpose. If the money was being spent, according to official records, where was it actually going, and just who was gaining from all this exploitation? He was aware that contractors received enormous benefit from the assistance program, but what they were being paid was a drop in the bucket, compared to what was reported by the Feds. He’d seen official documents, supplied by Red Cross, and government agencies, and none of them seemed to tally. Officials did agree on one thing, the project was going to cost millions, maybe billions of dollars… he had been told.

He was sure they were not telling the truth.

A contractor he had befriended not long after he arrived in Puerto Rico, might confirm that notion, he believed, and he wanted to visit the old-rooster, again anyway. He pulled his cell phone from the belt case and punched in the numbers. A few seconds went by before the gruff sounding man answered. Ola, the man said.

Hey Digger, how are you, amigo? Jon said pleasantly.

After a few moments trying to decipher Digger’s words, he added, Listen, if you’re not too busy this evening, I’d like to come up and visit, he asked.

In his mind, Digger was especially helpful. He had an island-wide heavy equipment business in Ciebo and could be looked to as an honest weather vane—pointing to the alleged damages inflicted by the storm. Digger was what he considered a personal reference, one that could be added to in his short list of truthful sources. The contractor was generous with his booze, and also had four gorgeous daughters—one in particular Jonathan found quite exciting. With his slight comprehension of Spanish and Digger’s broken English, they managed to communicate well enough. Jon was heartily invited for dinner.

I will have Maria, prepare a fine meal, he told him. Jon smiled and thanked him and promised he’d call if there were any changes.

Chapter Two

Guidry’s Information

At around 2:00 that afternoon he started on his westerly course toward Guidry’s office. He was sure it would take less than an hour to drive, plenty of time he thought, to dodge the heaviest delays that began around 4:00 in the afternoon. That’s when all 2.5 million people would be on the highways, he imagined.

As he drove off Highway 22 and onto the exit for Bayamon, he looked at his watch for the third or fourth time. It was 2:55. He thought about all the factors that his article entailed; U.S. Government agencies, stacking the numbers, spending a lot of money, at least on paper, and all in a U.S. Commonwealth that was being claimed as the victim of a Devastating natural disaster. But the facts he accumulated, proved otherwise. Where was the money going and who was benefiting the most? Those were the questions he needed answered. He believed the interview with Guidry would shed some light on the subject.

He managed to find the address and again looked at his watch. He pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the building and noted a green U.S. Forest Service truck parked near a rear entrance. "I’m at Guidry’s office in Bayamon; it’s 3:20… there’s a U.S. Forest Service 4x4 here; I wonder if this is Guidry’s inside information," he said aloud, sure the small recorder had picked up his voice.

As he walked into a plush outer office, an attractive woman greeted him politely with a southern accent he recognized. Good afternoon sir, may I help you? she asked, smoothly.

Yes, I have an appointment with Norman Guidry. I’m Mr. Tame, he answered.

She fingered her calendar and the notation: JT @ 3:30, which lay on a spacious mahogany desk, situated in the middle of the room. I’ll let Mr. Guidry know you’re here, Mr. Tame, the five foot-four, brunette said, punching a button on her desk telephone. Your 3:30 appointment is here sir, she said into the mouthpiece. She was silent for a moment and then put the telephone down. He’ll be right with you, she said, getting up to walk into a small kitchen next to the office.

He thought she was beautiful. She certainly would have been suitable as a model, he thought, and the one thing that struck him most, was how she reminded him—somewhat, of Renee. He assessed her quickly as she ambled over to a counter, complete with a coffeepot and ingredients for making cappuccino and other hot fluids. She asked if he wanted coffee or something while he waited. Jon indicated he was okay for the moment and watched her blend a concoction of items that resulted in some kind of brownish-colored liquid.

Miss, he said, walking toward the woman. What did you say your name was? he asked.

I didn’t, but for the record, it’s Julie Ann Bell, she said, setting the mug on her desk.

Did you just get here on the island? I don’t remember seeing you around here before, he said. Although he had never been in Guidry’s office, his hunch that the beautiful woman was new to the office was confirmed by a slightly embarrassed smile.

I just started last week. Mr. Guidry’s temp service brought me over from the West Texas office. I’ll be assisting him—temporarily, she said in a lilting southern drawl then added, His vice president had to go out of town; family business, I heard. He’s such a personable man, isn’t he? I just love this island. It’s so beautiful and I get to work on my tan for free, she said, smiling widely. Jon returned the smile, enjoying the woman’s enthusiasm and appreciation of the island, but he wondered just what duties Guidry had her doing, seeing her desk so uncluttered.

He noticed that her long straight hair was actually more auburn than brunette, and the thought crossed his mind that Guidry may have hired her for other reasons than her professional skills as an office technician. He dismissed the sexist thought immediately. Well, I think Norman made a wonderful choice. You’re a compliment to the business, he said, smiling as charmingly as he could.

"That’s such a sweet thang to say, Mr. Tame; thank you," she said, exaggerating her drawl, just a bit, he thought.

That’s me, Mr. Sweet—and hey, call me Jon, he answered. And may I call you Julie? he asked.

Jule is fine, she said, pausing a moment then asked if he lived on the island. He frowned for a moment, wondering why she didn’t know. I’m here temporarily, he said. By the way, where did the vice president go; what was his name? he added, feigning forgetfulness.

"You mean, her . . . Brenda? she said. I think she went to New York… I heard she was planning to get married next June to a lawyer in some big law firm in New York, but I hear there were problems; I’m not sure about all the details, she whispered. She had to travel a lot. She and Norman were on the go constantly—to places all over the Caribbean. I think Anthony got upset over that. Have you met Anthony? she rambled. No? she said, seeing his blank-faced expression. Well, anyway, Norman’s people brought me over when she left. I hope I don’t have to do all that traveling too, I’m afraid of flying? It was okay gettin’ here and… well, you get to meet all sorts of interesting people," she said, winking at Jon flatteringly.

Jonathan chuckled. Yes ma’am, you do meet all kinds—in my business too. Sometimes we hope to enjoy their company a little more often than others, wouldn’t you say? he said, winking back at Julie, flatteringly. Maybe I could show you around the island sometime, I mean when you’re not too busy here at the office? he added.

Oh, I’d love that… Jonathan, she said, which puzzled Jon. He hadn’t told her his name was Jonathan. He’d said, Jon, he recalled. He wondered if it had been written down somewhere, though he didn’t remember doing that either or saying his first name when he made the appointment in the first place. It was curious, but no big deal. Maybe she made an assumption, he thought.

Why don’t you call me at my bungalow in San Juan, she said, as she wrote a phone number on a slip of paper that she tore off a notepad she found in her desk.

Great, I will, he said, taking the slip and stuffing it into his shirt pocket, heartened by the immediate acceptance. Do… Jule said quickly then added, You know I have a friend with a son by that name—Jonathan; he’s just a doll too… I love the name, Jon… she began to repeat, stopping just as Norman Guidry stepped out of his office, interrupting his affectionate secretary.

Mr. Tame, how the hell are you my boy? he said in a boisterous voice; agitated it seemed, and peculiarly familiar, Jon thought.

Guidry walked over, stepping in front of Julie and pumped Jon’s hand as though he’d known him for years. I see you’ve met our lovely Miss Bell! he said.

Yes, we have… wonderful person, Jon said, stepping around Guidry, while smiling broadly at Julie.

Well, good, good. Let’s go on in to my office, shall we? Don’t wanna keep ya too long, he replied and placed a heavy arm on Jon’s shoulder, attempting to guide him away from Miss Bell and toward his office. Hell, whata you think of the remodeling anyway? I had some of the boys do the construction… on their time off, a-course? the executive said, gesturing with his arm.

The walls were furnished with what Jon thought were gaudy lithographs and nick-knacks that might have fit better in a small-time porn-movie producer’s office.

Looks great Norman—and they got it done so quickly! he said, which got a curious look from Guidry and a slight scowl from Julie, he noticed.

As he entered Norman’s office, he was convinced that the decorations exhibited someone obsessed with risqué films. He’d been in a producer’s suite on assignment years before and the likeness was stunning. It was the very opposite of what he thought he’d find in a construction owner’s office. There were several artist renderings of various movie titles on the walls, and posters of more popular movies, and some he’d never heard of. Guidry was obviously obsessed with Hollywood, he thought. Like movies, huh? he commented.

A few, Guidry replied, self-consciously.

He noticed a stuffed manila envelope with U.S. Forest-Service markings lying on top of Guidry’s enormous cherry-wood desk. Guidry saw the look and quickly shuffled it under some papers that were scattered on its right side then glanced at the monitor of his computer and turned it off. Now Mr. Tame, let’s see, you wanted to get some information about where our company is assisting, with this, what shall we call it? ‘Clean-up effort… ‘on the island, is that correct?

That’s right Mr. Guidry. You told me we could be provided with some damage estimates that are more-accurate, shall we say, he said quickly.

Guidry looked around and toward a rear exit in his office suspiciously then answered hesitantly. Yeah, well we got some information… by the way, what paper do you write for again? he asked.

"The Alameda Pioneer, it’s a magazine," Jon answered slightly frustrated.

Oh yes, well… I’ve gotten some information about road repairs, utility needs, sanitation, that kind of thing, but I’m afraid that’s all there is for now. I’m told they’re not finished with assessments. Maybe we’ll have more in a few days. But, here are some of the figures so far, Guidry explained, handing a sheet of paper that he retrieved from near the pile of scattered papers.

The paper was a printout of specific damages from at least one section of the Island, one that Jon recognized from a copy of a document the Red Cross had given to him almost a week earlier. Well Mr. Guidry, I see we have some of the same friends. I was hoping you had something—you know, a little more substantial. I was given the impression you would anyway. Is there a problem we might be able to help with—you know, pressure from the press—that sort of thing, he said, trying to cut to the heart-of-the-matter. He could see Guidry was being subtle, and maybe afraid of something.

No… no, there’s no problem. It’s just that they’re not finished with assessments. Places hard to get to, things like that, Guidry squirmed.

Well I appreciate what you’ve gotten for me Mr. Guidry. I’ll be sure to compare what I already have. By the way, have you slowed the work any—I mean since the hurricane? Jon asked.

No… Not at all; we’ve been busy in several areas of the island, he answered quickly.

What areas are those Mr. Guidry, exactly? Jon fired.

Well I’d have to check with my estimators and foremen on that. They oversee most of the projects. Are you real familiar with the Island, Tame? Guidry asked.

Jon answered cautiously. No, I’m just beginning to get around. But, I’m learning fast, he said, watching Guidry’s eyes.

I believe the eastern end of the island had the major portion of damages. Do you know where Yabucoa is? Guidry asked. Jonathan knew the area well and was quite aware the damage was minimal. Guidry was either going to lie or didn’t know what was actually going on in his business, he thought. No I haven’t been there yet. I’ll look it over sometime this week, he answered discerningly.

I believe we billed FEMA over $40 million for reconstruction in that area. Of course, I’ll have to double-check those numbers. Miss Bell has those invoices—for processing, but I’m sure she can provide us with some specific data. Let me get her on, he said, punching an intercom button. Miss Bell, would you pull up the figures for the eastern project, and give me a billing amount for FEMA please?

After a few minutes, Miss Bell called back to inform her employer that access to the computer files had been denied; It was having problems, she told him.

Well, I’m sorry Mr. Tame. We have more glitches with that computer than we have answers. I’ll get those figures as soon as I can. Is there a number we can reach you at later? Guidry asked, attempting to end the conversation.

I’m not sure the system is up and running yet, Norman. They keep telling me the weather has messed up the phone system. I’ll check when I get back to the hotel and call your secretary. By the way, was that a U.S. Forest Service truck I saw parked in the lot out back? Jon asked subtly.

Guidry hesitated then answered. It may have been… uh, I think Miss Bell has an admirer. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Brought her over to do the books… you know, keeping track of data, customers, answering the phone, that sorta thing, he said quickly and obviously to Jon, skirting the subject. Guidry glanced over at the rear door once again.

Jon smiled and acted as though he hadn’t noticed the look. Of course, who wouldn’t be interested in Miss Bell? he said, continuing the charade. But you know Norman, you don’t mind if I call you Norman, do you? Her boyfriend must be awfully shy. I didn’t see him even go near the young lady—his loss, huh? Jon shot at the contractor, enjoying the volley he’d so aptly slung.

Guidry didn’t say anything, in words anyway, but the look he saw in his eyes said volumes. Guidry was hiding something; maybe an affair with the woman, maybe something else, who knew? Yet, he wondered why the man was hesitant about such simple information. ‘It wasn’t that big of a deal, was it?’ Jon thought. The truth was that even if the government was stacking the numbers, how was he going to prove it? It was easy to see that from his point of view, the hurricane had provided the Feds with an elaborate shell game, but that didn’t mean anyone would find the pea. His instincts told him to keep a close watch on Guidry.

Mr. Guidry, I want to thank you for your time, and I hope we get a chance to talk again—real soon. Let me give you my card, in case you get more for us, he said slightly sarcastic.

It has my cell number, which doesn’t always work either—towers I guess. I wrote the number of the hotel on the back. Let’s touch bases later on this week, okay?

Sure… yeah… I wish I could have been more help; maybe they’ll come up with something new in a few days. I’ll make some calls in the mean time, he said apologetically.

Great… I’ll probably be here at least another week then back to the States—no rest for the weary, know what I mean, Jon said.

Sure do… Guidry answered quickly. Well Mr. Tame, it was a pleasure meeting you, we’ll talk soon, he said extending his hand then clasping Jon’s, much like a candidate for public office, then hurriedly escorted him to the door.

Jon stepped out of the contractor’s office and fished into his pocket to retrieve another business card. Guidry closed the office door, a little hard, Jon thought. He walked slowly over to Miss Bell appreciating her form as she sat at her desk shuffling papers for no apparent reason that he could see.

Jule, I want you to have a number where you can reach me… in case you find some time you’d like to tour the island with someone that appreciates it as much as you, he said.

Miss Bell looked at the card and smiled, You can count on me using it—very soon, she said in her sweetest southern accent. He returned her smile then walked out the door and glanced at the back lot. The Forest Service truck was gone.

When he got near his car, he shut the recorder off.

Chapter Three

Close Calls

Jon thought it was still early enough to survey other so-called damage areas of the Island, before he drove back to Humacao later that evening. He wanted to see Caguas, and Juncos then travel south to Las Piedras, before heading back. He’d skip Arecibo till the next day; wasn’t much there, except overgrowth the last time he attempted an evaluation, he thought.

He began his trek toward Rio Piedras, where the highway intersected south. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the small town of El Minao heeding his fuel gauge’s flashing red light; it showed, nearly empty. He began looking for a station and a place he could get something to drink; coffee, maybe even some Brandy to go with it, quickly shunning the idea he might be an alcoholic, as Renee, his ex-wife had accused. He could quit anytime, he told himself, he just didn’t want to—yet.

He passed two mud-textured buildings that must have been gas stations once; rusting gas dispensers lay in front of dilapidated islands of mud and asphalt. Wooden billboards with the name, Esso, and touting prices of 26-cents per gallon, decayed near the property; reminders of forgotten years past and of prices not seen in more than 40 years.

After searching the town for another five minutes, he spied an old Shell sign that pointed to a fairly modern structure which sold food, gas, and according to another sign elevated along a small drab-colored building, liquor as well. He pulled into the lot and parked near a pump.

Two attendants, standing near the front entrance, smoking rolled-cigarettes, began moving slowly toward his car.

Speak English? he asked. Both men looked over at him and gave a slight frown.

Si, one of them said.

Fill it up will you—and check the oil too, please… I’ve been doing a lot of driving? he said, reaching for the brass handled front door.

As he walked into the small building, he immediately noticed a young boy, reading a Superman comic book, standing on a crate near the chest-high counter.

Buenos Dias, the kid said.

Yeah, how are ya, kid… hey, take credit cards here? he asked. The boy nodded yes, without taking his eyes off the multi-colored pages before him. Jon placed the card on the counter and started to ask about liquor, when he saw the adjoining structure that housed the bulk of the beer and stronger drink, sold at the place.

He walked inside and began surveying the liquor shelf.

He didn’t find Brandy, but his favorite booze was in abundant supply—Southern Comfort. A pint ought to be enough, he thought—for the time being,’ he reminded himself.

He walked back over to the counter and set the bottle down then looked at the boy, wondering if the kid was running the place.

The boy glanced up quickly, then over at the gas pumps, then picked up Jon’s credit card and slid it over a dispenser that had been hidden under other comic books. He shoved the slip in front of Jon and waited for him to sign.

Gracias, the boy said automatically, after Jon had scribbled his name on the carbon copy, then tore the slip apart and pushed the customer’s copy in front of him then immediately went back to his comic book.

As he walked outside, he overheard one of the attendants say the word Aparición and something else about the last time he had been on Sacred Mountain. He tried to recall where he’d heard the term, Aparición before, and remembered something about ghosts, but could only guess what the men were talking about. For a moment he thought about going back into the store and asking the kid, instead, he shrugged and went on to his car.

He slid into the driver’s seat, started it and moved out onto the two-lane highway. As he sped down the road, he put a CD in the player and relaxed. As the music and cool evening air rushed through the open window, he studied the landscape.

The sun was setting, and the panoramic view looked like a post card somewhere. Wisps of flame extended across the clear, brilliant-blue sky. Sailing winds drifted above the mountainous region, swooping low over the lushly-covered valley below. The gracefully painted canvass reminded him, from somewhere deep, that ‘GOD was a talented artist. It was some place,’ he thought, taking a pull from the pint of sweet whiskey and raising it skyward, in salute.

Fifteen minutes later he was approaching Caguas, hoping the quaint town had a good place to eat. There seemed to be little harm to the area. Here and there, sloping Tabonuco and Ausubo trees, sunk low over the road, and seemed to represent the oldest of the Island’s natural senior citizens. They bowed to the wind and rain, but as far as he could tell, Caguas was nearly untouched by the hurricane. He made another mental note.

He began searching for a restaurant, when he remembered his dinner date with Digger. He tried his cell phone but it still wasn’t working. He’d call him as soon as he found a phone. He downed more of the golden liquor when he spotted what looked like a cantina of sort; complete with a screened porch, small wicker tables, and dusty stools. A partially lit Budweiser sign hung in one of the small windows; beckoning patrons to quench their thirst. Sifted dirt and sand surrounded the stucco-patched building, where vehicles would have parked, if there were any customers. Only a rusty, beat-up Ford pick-up truck; rotting wood railings, and dented doors, with holes big enough for pigeons to nest in, was parked out front. The clientele wouldn’t be wearing suits, he figured, his kind of place, he thought.

Jon parked next to the truck, retrieved his well-worn brief case, locked the driver’s door and started for the entrance.

Suddenly, he heard tires squealing near by. He looked back at the highway and saw headlights shining directly in his eyes. A large shape was moving toward him. For a second, his reaction was slow. Realizing the vehicle was coming straight at him, his instincts took over. As the truck swerved, he dived out of the way and onto his stomach. The driver sped past him, moving left to right down the highway, away from him and in a hurry.

Damn drunk! he yelled, straining to discern the make and model of the vehicle. But all he could see were taillights and clouds of dust. Crazy son-of-a-bitch, he added, getting off the ground and dusting himself off.

A patron stepped from the cantina entrance watching him. Jon shook his head.

A drunk driver, he said aloud, still wiping the dust away. The man laughed and turned back to the door. Jon followed and walked into the unappealing establishment, found a table with a view of the road and sat down. He could see the kitchen behind the large counter and a man with a long scruffy beard, flipping meat patties on a grill.

He picked up what he assumed was their menu, which was a sheet of yellowing paper with several pictures, hand-drawn, of various plates of food, none of which could be determined.

A frail, older woman came to the table, and silently waited for his order.

Enie, meeny, miny, mo, he said, chuckling then pointed to a picture of what he thought was a hamburger, with fries. Cervasa too, por-favor, he said.

The woman said nothing, obviously not finding his humor amusing and strode slowly to the counter. She said something in Spanish then disappeared around a corner. Seconds later she brought a large mug filled with beer. He didn’t ask her what kind.

He picked up his briefcase, checked the combination, which had not been changed since the last time he’d used it then clicked the latches open. He grabbed one of the notepads and set it on the table and began writing.

Within minutes he had forgotten he was in a restaurant. Twenty five minutes later the older woman arrived at the table carrying a small tray. On it, a plate of scrambled eggs and what looked like an oversized chicken-fried-steak covered a soggy bun. He started to say something about his order, but thought better of it, shrugged and thanked the woman, who promptly turned away and again disappeared around a corner.

As he drank his beer he contemplated what his article might contain and how it would be presented to Frank. He’d known Frank for over twenty years, and not always from the publishing end of the business. He knew Frank wouldn’t accept anything that didn’t prove credible. Lately though, Jonathan thought, Frank had begun to accept articles from freelancers that lost their opulence . . . Frank would say often. Standards had gotten lax and that bothered him as much as it did Frank. But what can we do? Frank would say, never expecting an answer. There are less experienced journalists around, plenty of college kids that would be better in the marketing department; great sensationalists, but they don’t do their homework, he said, several times then would moan as if it gave him physical pain.

When Frank was handed an article that quoted unnamed sources, he’d go through the roof. Susan Slater would try to calm him down by claiming that accepted new methods for gathering information allowed for such attribution. But Frank wasn’t persuaded. Inevitably the argument would come to a head, with Frank telling Susan to, Get her writers squared away. She in turn would accuse him of also being old-school.

It was true, he and Frank were old-school, but Jonathan never thought it an alarming thing. In his mind, being old-school was more reasonable—more appropriate. Susan hadn’t learned that yet, he felt. The influence by so-called, new age thinkers and liberal-leaning politics seemed to suggest that the older generation: the Boomers, she’d say, and the Dinosaurs, had errors in thinking, about social interaction, raising children, and how business was conducted." She seemed to believe they had nearly every gamut of society’s value systems skewed. But what the hell did Susan know, he thought, she was born listening to computers talk.

He’d met Frank in Vietnam.

Frank had come to the Southeast Asian country to see for himself the cause and effect of the so-called police-action. Jonathan’s role with the Navy’s Seventh Fleet—conducting evacs—of hundreds of what the military brass called, South Vietnamese VIP’s, had disheartened him.

Initially, he signed up to get revenge for his brother’s KIA at Bien Hoa in 68’. But after witnessing some of the horrific destruction that took place there and watching the subtle chess game, which Russia, China, and the U.S. played unendingly-over rubber-tree plantations and rice as the prize, and much of the other despicable practices of politicians and wealthy overlords; he soon looked for a way out and away from any government interference. It didn’t take him long to know that the Asian threat, was little more than government propaganda. The real threat was from government and business entities that thought more about economic security for themselves than human beings. Frank Hinson was in Vietnam covering the American withdrawal, and met Jonathan under less than optimum circumstances.

While most of the troops were already gone, there were many still, in-country and it was a thorn in the enemy’s side. The North Vietnamese Army regulars (NVA) and Viet Cong (VC) had other ambitions, and nothing was going to get in the way. But Jonathan’s outfit was in the way. At around 2:30, that July morning, the VC ran into the wired perimeters around a Special Forces camp just north of Saigon. Several Clamors went off simultaneously.

Tame remembered the occasion well.

It was a sweltering summer night, in the middle of the monsoon season. His division was spread out, inside the bob-wired compound unevenly spaced, when the explosions rocked the night. Automatic gunfire erupted immediately. Mortar shells began falling all over the camp. Eight men from a supporting attachment out of the 199th were killed instantly. The enemy had approached the camp completely undetected. Orders in Vietnamese were screamed out as the enemy stormed the camp and immediately, counter orders in both English, and the enemy’s language, were yelled. The counter orders seemed to confuse the VC, and Americans immediately regrouped and took the initiative.

Within minutes, American soldiers had encircled the NVA. The move was brilliant.

Some soldier in the 199th, speaking with authority and in a convincing Vietnamese dialect, had managed to undermine the enemy’s intentions. Though the VC and NVA had successfully entered the camp unobserved, they were now suddenly attempting to break out and away from the camp—and the pursuing Americans. Soldiers chased and scattered the NVA into the jungle. It was one of those battles few journalists witnessed. What Frank Hinson saw was up close and personal.

Jon was running around a stack of sand bags, firing an M-16 toward a knot of fleeing VC, when he heard a scream coming from his left. A crazed NVA soldier was attempting to cut some civilian’s throat with a knife. He fired a burst from the M-16—into the enemy’s ribcage, dropping both the knife and the soldier—over the civilian’s body. The man yelled and cussed, trying to get the VC’s bloody mass off of him, to no avail. There wasn’t time to help the beleaguered man at the moment, he remembered, as he continued to chase the enemy’s fleeing forces toward the surrounding jungle.

When all was said and done, 32 Americans had died that night, eight were wounded. The VC had lost 112 men; two were taken prisoner.

As the fear began to wear off, Frank sought out and found Jonathan sitting near a clump of trees, writing in a journal, which rested on his lap. Frank introduced himself then thanked him for saving his life. You’re the guy who was about to get his throat slit, huh? Jon asked.

That’s me, Frank had said, and added how thankful he was that Jon had been there at the time. Jon allowed the journalist to talk—releasing a stress that he knew was the normal reaction to the horrifying incident. Frank talked about small things, then about a bigger picture; how the war was viewed from soldiers, compared to the anti-war rhetoric and speeches that proliferated back in the States. His views were intelligent and there wasn’t much to disagree with. They thought alike, in most areas, and their relationship grew warm quickly, but Jon kept a distance, wary of too close a friendship. He liked the man; thought he would actually look him up—after the war, but he’d already seen too many die and the pain would be long in disappearing. He wasn’t ready to add Frank to the list.

As they neared the completion of the operation, Frank would seek him out and talk with him about various subjects and when it came time to part company, Hinson had told him that if he ever needed anything—at all, he was to call.

It was years later before he did.

While scanning a newspaper rack at a San Francisco airport, waiting for a long flight back to New Orleans, he recognized the picture of Frank on the inside cover of a magazine called the Alameda Pioneer; the rest was history.

Chapter Four

Candace Waters

He knew Frank would listen to his report about the government’s deceptions in Puerto Rico, but he also realized that exposing a governmental agency had to have some real meat behind it; airtight evidence. It was the only way Frank would publish.

Getting the evidence was the fun part, Jon thought. For the time being all he had were a few facts and much speculation. He wondered why Guidry was holding anything back.

"What was the big deal?" he thought again.

It was getting late, and he had downed the remainder of the Southern Comfort and several beers. He thought it best to reschedule his dinner date with Digger. He found his number and tried his cell. It didn’t work. He walked over and asked to use the restaurant’s only phone.

Maria answered and Jon slowly apologized, trying to hide the fact he was feeling no pain. He told her he’d have to decline their generous offer of dinner, but asked if he could take a rain check. She told him that it was no problem, and he’d still be welcome the following evening, if he could make it. He said his good-byes and hung up, paid his bill at the cantina then left.

After arriving at the Palmas del Mar and parking in the lot near his villa, he wearily climbed the short concrete stairs leading to his door and walked inside, noticing immediately the blinking light on the phone, indicating; he finally had calls. After punching the appropriate numbers he began to receive his personal messages, and according to the recorder—had two.

The first one was a woman’s voice.

Jonathan, I need to talk with you as soon as possible. It’s in regard to your recent inquiries. If you would please call me at… and a number was given that he recognized as the one Julie Bell had written on a slip of paper at Guidry’s office earlier that afternoon.

The female voice, which didn’t include any southern accent, left no name, but he was sure he recognized it. He pulled the slip of paper from his shirt pocket and confirmed that indeed, it was the same number. It made him even more curious. He dialed, and after several rings with no answer he hung up then punched in the code for listening to the other message.

It was a man’s voice. It’s in your best interests to leave this whole thing alone, and go back to where you came from, the voice said viciously.

What was that supposed to mean? Jon wondered aloud. He listened again to ensure he’d heard it right. The menacing, cold voice, told him to  . . . leave the whole thing alone.

Leave what alone? He hung up the receiver and decided to call Frank. He hadn’t spoken to Frank since he’d contacted him when he first arrived on the island. He needed a photographer anyway; there were shots he wanted, and only a pro could get them while he continued his interviews. He dialed Frank’s number and within three rings, the man answered.

Frank, I was hoping I’d catch you there. How goes the battle? he said.

Well Jon, I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Finished playing in the tropics yet?

Not exactly Frank; I think I have something here; might be more to the story, as we say. Seems our good government is jacking up the costs for road repairs, tree removal, and installation of blue tarps, supplied by FEMA, among other things—I also need you to send Mike out here. I need some pictures of places I don’t have time to get to… you know, some of those wonderful shots of palm trees and buildings that are still standing. It’s all bullshit Frank! There’s not near the damage they say it is,