The Nation Chronicles Book One

By Wendell Sweet

The wind kicked up along Beechwood Avenue in Seattle's red light district. A paper bag went rolling along the cracked sidewalk: Skipping over Willie LeFray's feet where he stood watching the traffic... thinking. One trick... The right trick... Somebody with money and he could call the night good. Just enough to get a good high... Or enough to get enough shit to get a good high tonight and maybe a good high tomorrow when it all wore off and the jingle jangles set in? ... Maybe, he decided. Maybe. Willie stood watching the cars as the paper bag bounded over his feet and tumbled along the avenue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writerz
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005594558

Wendell Sweet

Wendell Sweet wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He drove taxi and worked as a carpenter for most of his life. He began working on the internet in 1989. He was honorably discharged from the service in 1974.He is a Musician who writes his own music as well as lyrics. He is an Artist accomplished in Graphite, Pen and Digital media.Thank you for purchasing this book. The rest of the series is available at Amazon for the Kindle: This series was begun in 2006 and first published in 2010.All music, lyrics, artwork or additional written materials attributed to characters in the novels, unless otherwise noted, are Copyright © 2009 - 2015 Wendell Sweet.

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The Nation Chronicles: Book One

Copyright 2016 Wendell Sweet all rights reserved.

Cover Art © Copyright 2015 Dell Sweet

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LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author's permission. Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

ABOUT

ONE

June 15th: Seattle Washington

~1~

The wind kicked up along Beechwood Avenue in Seattle's red light district. A paper bag went rolling along the cracked sidewalk: Skipping over Willie LeFray's feet where he stood watching the traffic... thinking. One trick... The right trick... Somebody with money and he could call the night good. Just enough to get a good high... Or enough to get enough shit to get a good high tonight and maybe a good high tomorrow when it all wore off and the jingle jangles set in? … Maybe, he decided. Maybe. Willie stood watching the cars as the paper bag bounded over his feet and tumbled along the avenue.

- 2 -

For Franklin W. Morgan, just Frank to his friends, June 15Th, had been a particularly hard day.

As he sat at the small, scarred, wooden table at Mikes Pub on Sixth Avenue, nursing a shot of gin, his thoughts turned inward, mulling over the same problem he had been mentally chewing for the last several weeks. It always came back, no matter how far away he pushed it. It slipped right back to the front and began to hammer away at him. But today was much worse. It had seemed endless as it dragged on, and he had been able to concentrate on next to nothing. He had avoided the office, and Pearlson, no sense compounding things when he was so close to the truth by chancing a confrontation with Pearlson.

Pearlson was... Pearlson was, a piece of shit, he thought. However, at the moment it wasn't just Pearlson that had him so keyed up and anxious, it was leaving, and, he supposed, that was just as it should be.

The thing that had made it difficult to get through was the pressure and anxiety he always felt when he was on the trail of a promising story. That and the stress associated with the story.

It was not so much the stress his job placed on him; he had always dealt with that quite well. He knew what it was, and what it had been for several weeks now. All of those late night calls to his sources in New York. No sleep, virtually working around the clock; sifting through the information this source or another provided; sorting out the truth from imagination, and getting to the facts, or as close as he could get to them. That, coupled with the fact that he had been the only one, save Jimmy, who believed it, and now Jimmy was apparently missing so he could add the disappearance of a good friend to the growing list of worries that kept him up at night. This was turning into a three ring circus damn fast, and he didn't like. He didn’t like it at all.

He was sure now, or as sure as anyone could be. But, who the hell would believe him? Not his editor, that was for sure. He would not soon forget the day two weeks ago, when he had approached the subject with him either. It had been partly his own fault, Frank realized. He had not been as prepared as he should have been. He had also possessed no hard facts, he reminded himself, and he had speculated far too heavily for Pearlson's taste. Even so, he was just as convinced as he had been then. No. More so now, he amended.

Two additional weeks of digging into it, with Jimmy's help, had produced a wealth of information, and it was no longer just conjecture as the old man Pearlson had said, but a steadily growing stack of cold hard facts.

Pearlson had still laughed, and told him he should try writing fiction for a living. But there had been something else lurking just behind that laugh, hadn't there? Perhaps a hint of nervousness maybe?

Pearlson had also suggested that just maybe Frank needed a vacation, and, things being the way they were Frank had taken him up on the last suggestion.

Screw him, Frank thought as he sat at the table and drained the last of his drink... Just screw him.

That was what had made his days so long and his nights so sleepless, he reasoned. Churning around in his head was all of that knowledge... Along with fear, fear of what that knowledge may mean.

But did he actually know anything? He asked himself, and could he actually prove what he did know? Yes, Dammit... And just as suddenly, probably not. He couldn't prove all of it yet, at least not entirely, he admitted.

Not for much longer though, he told himself, the proof part of it was about to change. He had made plans to go to New York. Directly to the source, so to speak, and find out just exactly what was going on. No conjecture, no guessing, no screwing around at all. If Pearlson wanted facts, Frank would get them one way or the other, he had decided. And the suggestion to take a vacation couldn't have been a better cover for him to go under, he reasoned.

No, he decided, it wouldn't be much longer at all. Two weeks in upstate New York and he would know for sure. Frank saw no way that Pearlson could kill the story then. Not faced with cold hard facts.

But Pearlson could be an idiot, what if he still rejected the truth even after the facts were presented, he asked himself. Well, if he did, Frank reasoned, that would open up a whole new set of problems. Maybe Pearlson was involved somehow... Maybe not, but the whole thing had smelled of a cover up from the start, and if Pearlson cut the story loose, if he still placed no faith in it, then there had to be a reason, and maybe... And maybe shit! If it turned out that way, then maybe it would be time to move on.

He rose slowly from his chair and fighting his way through the crowded table area, made his way to the bar.

Another Gin, Mike, he said, once he had gotten the old man’s attention. On second thought hold the ice , just straight up. He stared miserably at the jukebox in the corner that blared incessantly, and silently urged it to fall silent as he waited for the drink. His thoughts, still clouded, turned back to the problem he was constantly turning over in his mind, when a glance at his wristwatch reminded him of how late it actually was.

He turned his attention back to the bartender. Shit! Mike, I've got to go see the kid's and I am already late, he threw a twenty on the bar, that should cover the tab.

What about this? Mike asked, holding up the shot glass.

You drink it, Mike, I truly am late. I've gotta go, Frank replied as he started to turn towards the front door.

Hey? Mike called in a questioning manner. Frank turned back to the bar.

Get some sleep, Frank, Mike said, your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow.

Yes mother, Frank joked, I will.

Frank smiled to himself. They always played this game, and had been at it for the twenty years that Frank had been coming into Mike's. Mike seemed to think it was his duty to mother him, even more so since Jane had died.

See you in a couple of weeks or so, Mike, Frank called as he stepped out the door. He glanced at his watch once again as he did. I'll never make it, he thought, no way.

He resigned himself to the fact that he would more than likely be late, and not for the first time this week. He had already been late three times, picking up Patty and Tim from the sitter.

Cora Pratt, the sitter, could pitch a real fit when she wanted to, he thought. Well I'll deal with her when I get there, he mumbled to himself. Besides, he thought, tonight I don't have to pick them up, just say good-bye for two weeks.

The heat assaulted him as he stepped out of the air conditioned comfort of the bar, and he winced.

Twenty seven years of living in Seattle had not changed a thing for him. He felt about the city as he always had. It was too hot in the summer, what there was of it, and too damn cold and windy in the winter, and it wasn't home. He still thought about it as a place he was only visiting. He never had gotten used to it, and, he knew, he never would.

Frank worked the handle upward slowly, pulling the driver side door of the company car open carefully. He had to as this one stuck if you were forceful, and then he would end up crawling over the damn passenger seat to reach the driver’s side. It seemed to him that he had once had this car when it was new. It was hard to tell though as it was a pool car, and the younger generation of reporters in the press pool beat the hell out of all the cars.

Too many hot-rod kid's driving the piss out of them, he said aloud as he keyed the motor and pulled the Plymouth Voyager out into the traffic. He headed out of the city, towards the suburbs and Cora Pratt.

~3~

When he reached the turnoff, from Route 5, Frank slowed the car and swung into Cora's driveway. 

The old farm had been in the Pratt family for five generations. Ira Pratt, Cora's long dead husband, had steadfastly refused to sell any of the land that made up the small farm, and after he had died Cora had adopted the same attitude. So in the midst of suburbia, the old farm house sat on its own eighty acre plot. It was sort of funny to Frank as you could drive a short way in either direction and you would still be in the Wildflower subdivision, part of which was still a respected suburb of Seattle.

The subdivision had simply been built around the property when Ira Pratt had refused to sell. Consequently the farm had become a boundary line of sorts. West Wildflower was the poorer and run down section, whereas the eastern section was well kept and quiet. In the middle sat the farm and Cora Pratt.

Cora was a formidable woman, who, as far as Frank could tell, took no shit at all from either side.

When the uppity bastards, as Cora called them, on the east side had sent a letter demanding that she cut down on the fertilizer her hired man used on the corn field, she had called in John, the hired man, and told him to use just a little more instead. They had of course Taken her to the court's, as she had put it, but to no avail. The court had upheld her Commercial Farm Zoning, and the judge had told the Smart ass lawyer, as Cora had called him that worked for the East Side Coalition, not to bother him with anymore groundless lawsuits or he'd personally report him to the Bar Association.

Likewise, when some of the, Shiftless no-accounts, from the west side had tried to steal some of her chickens, she had filled their britches with buckshot.

Frank knew all this was true because Cora had told him. She didn't want to Mince no words as she had put it, lay it all out on the table, she had said. Just in case you get to hearing things and think I'm a bit funny, I ain't... I just protect what's mine.

That had been her little speech, on the day six years ago, when she had first begun taking care of Patty and Tim, and, Frank had to admit, to her credit, she seemed to be just what she said she was, and no one could have taken better care of his children in his opinion.

Cora waved from the front porch swing as Frank stopped the car, and walked towards the white framed house. The scent of Lilacs in bloom came to him on the light breeze from the porch front, where the bushes marched away in both directions, rail high.

Thought you weren’t coming to say good-bye to your kids, she quipped.

Sorry, Frank replied, I got bogged down in traffic.

More like a couple of shots of gin, she thought but didn't say.

Yep, that traffic can surely be a bother in the summer, that's for sure, she said aloud. Tim and Patty leaped down from the old porch and raced across the lawn. Frank went to his knees and caught them in his arms.

TWO

- 1 -

Frank Morgan flipped the map back onto the passenger seat of the small red Toyota Prius and glanced at his watch. 

He had figured the trip from Syracuse to Fort Drum would take about an hour and a quarter. He hadn't, however, counted on the traffic. The whole day can't be great, he thought. The trip into Syracuse International had gone well. One short connection in route and other than that the whole trip had been uneventful. But now he had to deal with this. Something up ahead was slowing the traffic down, and he was pretty sure he knew what the problem was. Still, if he lost much more time, it would probably be close to dark when he arrived in Fort Drum, and the possibility of arriving after dark, and trying to find the house didn't appeal to him. 

Frank eased the Prius out into the passing lane, and slowly coaxed the car up to speed again. He had been right; the problem was the same as it had been coming off the thruway from the airport to get on route 81. Army convoys, and if you didn't get around them quickly, you could spend forever in the left hand lane. He had learned that lesson the hard way coming off the thruway. Not only couldn't he get around them, at first, but when he did he couldn't get back in for the exit to Route 81 north. He had ended up heading south instead, and had wasted twenty minutes getting turned around