CHAPTER

18

 

Journey dropped Andrew at Carpenter Center Middle School in the morning and stopped to talk for a moment with the special education teacher. The school was small, and Andrew was the only child with autism in the town, so there was no dedicated autism class, just a generalized special education classroom. Journey had fought for and won a personal assistant for Andrew, however, who had specialized training for children with autism. She was good with him, and he trusted her. After his experience with Amelia, that was rare for him, when it came to other people and his son.

He drove to the office and made it just in time for his eight thirty class, the jam-packed undergraduate section of U.S. History to 1877. He sleepwalked through the lecture and talked with a couple of students afterwards. Back upstairs, he went into his office and closed the door, wondering when Margaret Tolman—or someone like her—was going to get in touch with him.

He started to work on the jewelers. Of AAJE’s 108 member companies, seventy-two had Web sites. Of those, Journey eliminated forty as not being in business long enough. Then he started making phone calls.

He called all thirty-two that remained. He reached two voice mail messages, three disconnect notices, and spoke to twenty-seven. None said the elliptical pin with G.W. engraved on it sounded familiar.

Journey went back to the AAJE Web site and started on the list of thirty-six companies that did not have Web sites. He would have to call every one of them, finding out how long they’d been in business. He started down the list.

The twenty-first jeweler was Detheridge and Company, with an address on West Forty-seventh Street in New York. A woman answered the phone, and Journey gave the now well-rehearsed speech.

“My name is Nick Journey. I’m a professor of history at South Central College of Oklahoma. May I ask how long your company has been in business?”

“Our longevity is our guarantee, Mr. Journey,” the woman said. “We are one of the oldest family-run jewelers in the country. Detheridge and Company first opened in 1850.”

“That’s quite impressive in this day and age.”

“Indeed it is. How may I help you?”

“I’m trying to trace a piece of jewelry to its manufacturer. Two pieces, actually. There’s an older one that dates from around the time of the Civil War, and a newer one, very recent.”

“Can you describe them?”

“They’re both gold pins, with the kind of clasp that could go on a shirt collar. They’re round, and have the letters G.W. engraved on them.”

“Can you hold a moment, please?”

In less than a minute, the woman was back. “I thought it sounded familiar, but had to check with Don on the exact letters. Yes, we’ve been making those pieces for quite a long time.”

Journey’s hand tightened around the phone. “For how long?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have details on the account, but Don is our senior engraver. He started with the company in 1953, and he remembers doing them every year.”

“Do you … Do you know what the G.W. stands for?”

“Here, sir—I’ll let you talk to Don.”

In a moment, a whispery old man’s voice said, “Don Ferguson.”

“Mr. Ferguson, I’m asking about the G.W. pins that you’ve worked on over the years.”

“What about them?”

“Do you know what the G.W. stands for?”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Nick Journey. I’m a historian from Oklahoma, and I’m—”

“Why do I want to talk to a historian from Oklahoma about some jewelry pieces? Let’s say I don’t want to. Let’s say I have other work to do. You could be anyone.”

“True,” Journey said. “Does anyone else ever ask about those pieces?”

“No, never,” the old man said a little too quickly.

Journey waited a moment, listening to Ferguson’s wheezy breath. “You’ve been working on them for a long time.”

“Hell of a long time. Have you seen any of them?”

“Yes, sir.” Journey thought of the man in the parking lot, shooting at him, and how he’d taken the pin from his shirt. “One of them made its way to me not long ago. You do quality work.”

“Damn right I do. New one, or an older one?”

“Fairly new.”

“You have one?”

“It’s in my hand right now.”

“Turn it over. Tell me what you see on the back.”

“You mean the little AAJE notch?”

“I’ll be damned,” Ferguson said. “Guess you do really have one of them. I never know what happens to those once they leave here. I never see any of the usual paperwork. Whatever member of the family is currently in charge comes down to me once a year and tells me how many to make. When I finish with them, I give them right back and that’s it. No invoices, no work orders.”

“The family? What family?”

“The Detheridge family, of course. We’re still a family business. Little Gene Detheridge is in charge now. Every year, along about April, he comes down and tells me to make more of those pins, and tells me how many. Been that way as long as I can remember.”

“Do you know what the letters mean?”

“See, that account’s been active for as long as I’ve been around, and I’ve been here since Truman was president. Now that was a president, not like this dumb-ass Harwell in the White House now. Well, I took over that job from Ralph Detheridge himself. Members of the family used to do the actual work around here back then. Little Gene, he’s not a jeweler. He just signs checks, doesn’t do any real work. But he brings that G.W. order down to me every spring.”

Journey felt like screaming.

“So,” Ferguson went on, “Ralph used to do those pins, and he’d done them every year for thirty years or more. And you know, I asked him about those letters and he told me it was none of my goddamn business. His exact words. But I used to go out and drink with Ralph on occasion, and it didn’t take much to get him talking. He told me that his father, Alden Detheridge Jr., and his grandfather, Alden Sr., made those pins, too.”

“And?”

“One night when Ralph was loaded up on single-malt Scotch, I asked him about those pins, he said everything was going to be different when the Glory Warriors took over.”

“Glory Warriors.”

“G.W.—Glory Warriors. That’s what he said. Of course, he was in his cups, and he never went drinking with me again after that. I think it was some kind of veterans’ group. I’m a veteran myself. U.S. Marines, Korea, 1951. Semper fi. I belong to all of them, the VFW, the American Legion, and I never heard of these guys. Maybe it was just for officers or something. I don’t know … the family keeps bringing me orders and I keep making the pins, though I’m going to have to turn the job over to someone younger one of these days.”

“Glory Warriors,” Journey said again.

“Don’t know how Little Gene Detheridge is mixed up with them. He was never in the service, that’s for sure. Hell of name for a bunch of old officers, don’t you think? Like they never figured out the war was over. But then, look at this country now. I guess in one way or another, a war’s never over, is it?”

Journey thanked the man and hung up. His heart was pounding again, and he felt a fringe of perspiration along his hairline. He realized he’d forgotten to take his blood pressure medication this morning. He fumbled around in his backpack and found his pills, then dry-swallowed two of them. He sat back down and tried to center his thoughts.

Glory Warriors.

G.W.

“Dr. Journey! The document, now!”

He’d been on the phone for over three hours, and hadn’t checked for messages. He flipped open his phone again to see if he’d missed any calls. There were none.

He checked his e-mail again and copied down Meg Tolman’s number, then called it. He heard the voice mail lead-in again: “This is Meg Tolman in the Research and Investigations Office. I’m away from my desk…”

Journey hung up. He thought again of the group whose name he now knew, and of the man from whose shirt he had torn the pin.

The Glory Warriors.

He felt very much alone.