Chapter Three
“Jason?”
“Uncle Wilson!”
“I thought that was you! Get over here and give your ol’ uncle a hug!” The two men embraced warmly, clapping one another on the back. When they released, Pastor Wilson Knox grabbed Jason Whittaker by his stocky shoulders. “What in the world are you doing in North Carolina?”
“I love coming back to Provenance,” Jason said with a smile. “The place where you and Dad grew up! Uncle Jack, too.” He suddenly looked puzzled. “Wait a minute—what are you doing here? I thought you were a traveling preacher.”
“Oh, I am, I am!” Wilson nodded, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m heading out again next week, in fact. But Provenance is what you might call my ‘headquarters’ when I’m not on the road. It’s a place where I can relax and regroup and refresh.” He looked fondly around the small, shop-lined main street. “It’s . . . home.”
Jason smiled, and his deep brown eyes gazed up and down Main Street. Provenance was a sleepy hamlet that time seemed to have passed by, located between Durham and Raleigh. He remembered the make-believe adventures he and his siblings had when they were much younger and visited Grandpa Harold and Grandma Fiona in their house on Magnolia Lane. And he remembered hearing about the real adventures his father and uncles and their friends had around the town when they were kids. Gold, ghosts, moonshine, and bank robbers! He wondered if adventure followed the Whittakers, or if they created it wherever they went. Probably a little of both, he decided.
Wilson cuffed him on the shoulder, ending his reverie. “So how about you?” the older man asked. “Still working for that government agency? What is it you do there, anyway? Something exciting and clandestine, no doubt!”
Jason grinned. “It’s actually a lot of reading and analysis. Pretty boring stuff, really.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “I see . . . you know, your Dad says the same thing on occasion—usually after he has disappeared for a while and no one knows where he went. I’m not sure I believe either one of you.”
Concern replaced Jason’s smile. “Well, actually, as much as I love Provenance, there is another reason I came.”
Wilson stuck his finger in the air. “Ah-ha! I knew it! Well then, what say we go into Hoops Diner for a slice of pie and a cuppa joe, and you can tell me why you’re really here?”
Hoops was another place where walking through the front door was like being transported back in time—to the 1930s, to be precise. A long wooden counter and stools, not unlike the ones at Whit’s End, lined one side of the room; a row of wooden booths and tables lined the other side. Once Wilson and Jason parked themselves in a booth and ordered slices of berry and apple pie and two coffees, Wilson fixed his nephew with a conspiratorial stare and said, “Well?”
Jason grinned. “Okay. First, why I’m really here has nothing to do with my job. I’m actually looking for Uncle Jack. I got a near-panicked phone call from Dad about him. When Dad found out I was on the West Coast headed back to DC, he asked if I would look in on Jack at the orphanage he ran in Nebraska.”
The waitress arrived with their order and set their coffee and pie in front of them. Jason took a sip of coffee and continued. “But when I got there, they told me Jack resigned and left three years ago to move to Provenance. Only he didn’t leave a forwarding address or phone number. I still can’t find him. Is he here?”
Wilson swallowed a forkful of berry pie and shook his head. “Not anymore. He left about three weeks ago.”
“Left? Where’d he go?”
Wilson shrugged. “He didn’t say. He tried to turn the old Granville Mansion into an antique and historical artifact shop. But as it turned out, very few people around here were interested in antiques or historical artifacts—certainly not enough to keep a business up and running. And then when the shop was broken into some months ago, he decided enough was enough, closed it down, and moved on.”
Jason picked up his fork and poked at his pie. “Someone broke into the shop?”
Wilson nodded. “Even Provenance suffers from crime.”
“Uncle Jack wasn’t hurt, was he?”
“No, no, it happened at night when no one was there.”
“What was stolen?”
“That is what was strange,” Wilson answered, chewing another bite. “Jack said only one thing was taken—a map.”
Jason had speared an apple slice and was in the process of bringing it to his mouth when he stopped and slowly lowered the fork. “Map? What kind of map?”
Wilson took a gulp of coffee and replied, “Believe it or not, it was some kind of map of that town where your dad lives—Oddity?”
“Odyssey!”
“That’s it.”
Jason leaned in. “That’s the map Dad gave Jack right after the Clara incident! It was supposed to be some sort of peace offering!”
Wilson shook his head slowly and muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . .” Then his brow furrowed. “But why would someone want to take that?”
“Yes,” Jason muttered thoughtfully, “why, indeed . . .”
Uncle and nephew sat quietly for several minutes, nibbling at their pie and sipping the remainder of their coffee. Finally, Wilson took a deep breath and said, “Well, I don’t think either one of us has enough information to solve this puzzle. Are you staying the night? I’d love to have you up to my place.”
Jason smiled and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to get back to DC. I have a trip I’ve got to get ready for.”
“Where are you headed, if I may ask?”
“The Middle East. You?”
“Burma,” Wilson replied, “well, Myanmar, now.”
Jason gave a low whistle. “They just had a revolution there, y’know.”
Wilson smirked. “I’m aware. I’m going with a humanitarian aid organization doing relief work at a prison.”
Jason’s eyebrows rose. “San Wing?”
Wilson nodded, surprised. “You know it?”
“Of it. Dangerous place—very rough. It’s one of the worst prisons in the world.”
“That’s why we’re going,” Wilson said. “They need help the most.”
“Be careful, Unc.”
“No worries. You, too. The Middle East is no picnic, either.”
“Don’t I know it! Keep me in your prayers?”
“Of course. And me in yours.”
“Always.”
“So, Jack is all right, then?”
“As far as I can tell, Dad. He didn’t leave a forwarding address or number this time, either.”
Whit sighed into the phone receiver. “Yeah, that’s Jack—always trying to disappear into the woodwork. I pray God keeps him safe.”
“You really should reconcile with him, you know.”
“I know. And we will, if I can ever find him.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on with this map?”
“I can’t, son. Not yet.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Listen, I’d like to keep looking for Uncle Jack, but I’m leaving in the morning.”
“I understand. Agency keeping you busy?”
Now Jason sighed. “You know how it is. There’s always something going on in the world we need to look into.”
“You sound tired.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You can walk away, you know. Even if it’s just for a little while. Come home to Odyssey to rejuvenate. No place like a small town to do that.”
Jason chuckled. “That’s just what Uncle Wilson said about Provenance.”
“He’s right.”
There was a pause, and then Jason almost whispered, “I have thought about it, actually. The timing is not right now, but . . . maybe I will—one day.”
“Soon?”
“Maybe.”
“I love you, son. God bless you and keep you.”
“Thanks, Dad. Love you too.”
The phone line clicked dead, and Whit slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. He said a quick prayer for Jason, Wilson, and Jack, and then his thoughts turned to the map. No doubt one of Blackgaard’s henchmen stole it from Jack. But how did Blackgaard know Jack had the map in the first place? And aside from a means of escape, what would Blackgaard need in the tunnel under Whit’s End? Blackgaard wasn’t the careless type, so it was highly unlikely he dropped the map by accident. Is he taunting me? Whit wondered. The frightening thought returned, but he suppressed it. No sense in jumping to conclusions. He would have to be patient and trust in God.
Whit sighed heavily. This was like an epic chess match, only one where his opponent could see all of his moves, but he couldn’t see any of his opponent’s moves. “So the obvious question,” he muttered, “is which piece moves next?”