CHAPTER

10

 

Journey walked along the SCCO common with Sandra, Andrew in between them. Journey held Andrew’s hand, and as always drew stares when Andrew vocalized. Journey was never sure if the stares were because of the vocalizations, or of people’s puzzlement in seeing a child as large as Andrew holding tightly on to his father’s hand.

Few students were on the common on a Saturday. A handful sat under trees with books and laptops. One couple simply lay on the grass next to each other. An impromptu jam session—acoustic guitar, harmonica, and violin—was in progress near Howell Hall.

It was the first time Journey had been back on campus since the night he was attacked, and the college felt strange, smaller. He avoided the space between Cullen and Howell. He’d already taken two blood pressure pills, and was feeling shaky.

“So,” Sandra said, “two things.”

“Two things,” Journey said. “Find out what G.W. means. And find the rest of the document. That means the note at the bottom of the first page. ‘The Poet’s Penn makes the waters fall and causes the strong to bend.’ Penn spelled with a double en.”

“Misspelling or wordplay?”

“I think wordplay. The rest of the page is very precise. The writer was educated. If he knew how to spell conspiratorial, he should know how to spell pen.”

“Good point.”

Andrew whistled.

“I hear you, Andrew,” Journey said.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk to him, when he—” Sandra stopped, looking stricken. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Journey said. “The truth is, we don’t know all of what he can and can’t understand.”

“You’re such a verbal person. It must be … tough.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nick. Everything I say sounds so trite. I don’t mean it to.”

“It’s all right. If it makes you feel better, most people don’t know what to say.”

“You’re so good with him,” Sandra said, then stopped herself. “There I go, trite again. Talking about Civil War conspiracies was easier.”

Journey shrugged. “At times it can be—” He squeezed his son’s hand. “—overwhelming. I don’t always know the right things to do. I see other parents of kids with special needs, and they’re advocates and activists and they know exactly what to do in every situation. Most days, it’s all I can do to get him fed and keep his clothes clean. I don’t do nearly enough.”

Sandra looked thoughtful. “You know what someone told me once? The people who think they aren’t doing enough are usually the ones who are doing all they can. It wasn’t about having a child with autism, but I think it applies.”

“Maybe,” Journey said. “I don’t know. Most of the time, I’m too tired to even think straight, though.”

They walked a few steps in awkward silence. “So … the Poet’s Penn,” Sandra finally said.

“The Poet’s Penn,” Journey said. “It makes the waters fall and causes the strong to bend. What waters? And how do the strong bend? Are the words part of an actual poem? The same person who wrote the rest of the page wrote the riddle. The writing is the same, but it’s not as neat. It looks rushed, less precise.”

“Like an afterthought,” Sandra said.

“He didn’t trust his partners, or they didn’t trust him, so he decided to make it more difficult for someone to get the whole thing. In the top part, it says the clause will not go into effect unless the heads of the three branches of government are removed by ‘conspiratorial means,’ and that the document must be authenticated, including signatures.”

“Whose signatures? Grant and Lee?”

“That’s the implication. It refers to the time and place of Lee’s surrender, and implies that this clause is a condition of the end of hostilities.”

Sandra nodded. “Could they be talking about the Lincoln conspiracy? That was supposed to go much further than it did.”

“It was,” Journey said, “but no one ever seriously thought the Speaker of the House or the chief justice were in danger. On this page, G.W., or whoever it was, seemed to be planning for the likelihood that the highest-ranking officials in each branch of the government would be removed somehow, and their clause would be activated if that kind of crisis came about. They even referred to the Lieber Code article about martial law, which shows they’d done their homework. If Grant and Lee signed off on this…” He shook his head and let the thought hang between them.

They reached the edge of the common. Beyond it were two student dormitories, parking lots, then a beautifully landscaped area and the shores of Lake Texoma. Journey stopped at the edge of the parking area, still holding his son’s hand. “G.W. was involved in this in 1865, and they exist today, and they want this document. Consider this: If they buried this document and the pin, they buried all those weapons.”

“They were preparing for something.”

“Armed conflict,” Journey said.

“But why? They’d just come out of the bloodiest conflict in history. Lee and Grant sat there at Appomattox and agreed to end the hostilities. Why would they be preparing for another conflict?”

Journey shook his head, gazing toward the lake. Andrew wiggled his fingers inside his father’s hand. “Okay, Andrew, we’ll keep walking.”

They rounded the edge of the parking lot. The day was hot, and Journey was starting to sweat.

Sandra glanced at him. He was looking at the ground, shuffling beside Andrew. “My brother teaches English at Stephens College in Missouri,” she said. “He does a section on American poetry every fall. Maybe he’s heard of the Poet’s Penn.”

Journey didn’t look up. “You can’t tell him why you’re asking.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

Journey nodded, still looking at the ground. He squeezed Andrew’s hand, then slowly looked up at Sandra. Her eyes were wide and very, very green. They’d talked in faculty meetings and casual lunches and at various college functions, but he didn’t think he’d really ever looked at her before. Her face seemed older than thirty. Not in an unflattering way, but her face and those eyes seemed to hold great depth and more self-awareness than most thirty-year-olds Journey knew. Sandra’s red hair was pulled back from her face, and she wore a pair of dangling silver earrings in the shape of miniature dream catchers.

“Jewelry,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The G.W. pins. They’re gold, custom-made jewelry. Jewelers are artists. Artists sign their work. Somehow, some way, they sign their work.”

Realization came over Sandra’s face. “If you can find the origin of the pins themselves—”

“Then maybe we can find who or what G.W. is.” Journey turned, pulling Andrew with him. The boy screamed, a keening wail. “Come on, son. You’re okay.”

“I think I’ll go call my brother,” Sandra said.

“And I think I should start learning about jewelry,” Journey said, then turned toward home.