Nightfall

By Larry W. Stout

Who is Tyler Jackson? The question that was explored in the Hourglass continues in Nightfall. In the year 1967, a teenager from a small town in central Pennsylvania has written a science fair project that baffles the experts. Tyler Jackson, a boy who appears to have become a genius overnight, arouses the interest of the FBI as well as an organized global force of evil that is invisible but tangible. So begins a forty-year journey, as Tyler seeks to stay one step ahead of his pursuers, traveling to every continent on the globe. Jackson recognizes some divine intervention in his quixotic travels as he finds himself at Westminster Seminary where he meets Professor Cornelius Van Til, to LAbri, Switzerland where he encounters Francis Schaeffer, and in Allenwood Prison he is counseled by Chuck Colson. The loner has one friend, an FBI agent named Eric Wallenberg, who forms a strange alliance with Jackson that ultimately brings them together in a dramatic climax that nearly ends both their lives. A philosophical adventure drama that never stops.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491863152

Larry W. Stout

Larry Stout is a pastor, international business trainer, college professor, local government official, and serves on five community boards, yet still finds time to write creative fiction. Stout has a bachelor degree from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, a master’s degree from EHSAL School of Management in Brussels, Belgium, and a Ph.D. from the Liepaja Pedagogical University in Latvia. Along with his lifelong companion and wife, Debbie, he lived in Riga, Latvia for sixteen years before moving back to Montgomery, Pennsylvania in 2006, where he was born and raised. Stout has four grown and married children living throughout the United States. Nightfall is Stout’s second novel, and seventh published work.

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© 2014 Larry W. Stout. 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 02/10/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6326-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6324-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-6315-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902667

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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.

Contents

The First Day

Wednesday, March 15, 1967

The Second Day

Thursday, March 16, 1967

The Next Three Months

March 17, 1967-June 6, 1967

The Middle Years

July 1973-May 1990

The Later Years

January 1991- September 1999

The Last Day

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

About The Author

The times are nightfall,

look, their light grows less

The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;

The times are winter, watch, a world undone:

They waste, they wither worse; they as they run

Or bring more or more blazon man’s distress.

And I not help. Nor word now of success:

All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—

Work which to see scarce so much as begun

Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.

Or what is else? There is your world within.

There rid the dragons, root out there the sin.

Your will is law in that small commonweal…

Gerard Manley Hopkins

British poet and Jesuit priest

The First Day

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15, 1967

9:15a.m.

YOUR NEW ASSIGNMENT—HIS NAME IS TYLER JACKSON. FBI Special Agent Eric Wallenberg did not look up as the thin, manila folder was tossed on his desk. Yet the slightly whimsical tone in the voice of his boss told him that there was more to this file with the heading of Jackson, Tyler typed in dark, bold letters than met the eye.

Looking up at his office chief suspiciously, Wallenberg gingerly picked up the file and quickly scanned the sparse contents. Special Agent in Charge for the Philadelphia District of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, John Clyde Wade, stood patiently in front of the desk, watching the young agent’s reaction with mild amusement.

Wade knew the file, such as it was, contained almost no information at all. There was a short, handwritten note and a two-column newspaper article from a small suburban newspaper in upstate Pennsylvania dated from two days ago.

Wallenberg deliberately dropped the file on his desk with both hands, looked up and asked, Boss, is this for real? You are assigning me to investigate a ninth-grader’s science fair project? He tried to put as much sarcasm as he could muster into the inquiry. It seemed surreal that this would be a legitimate investigation for the world’s leading investigative body.

Wade reached over and tapped the folder while commenting, Believe it or not, we actually monitor all the entries to the National Science Fair in Washington DC. Those are tomorrow’s wizards and we like to get eyes on them early. Anyway, this one looks like it could turn into something, so we need to check it out. I want a full report of your findings on the validity of this project on my desk in 48 hours. The tone of Wade’s voice also conveyed the message: don’t give me any grief about it.

As Eric watched his supervisor walk away, there was one thought in the young FBI agent’s mind. However, his training at Quantico had taught him to remove all four-letter expletives from his vocabulary. He found it necessary to adopt a safe one. Crap. It did not have the same force but it expressed the same frustration. In Eric’s mind, he knew why he was getting this assignment. It is a crap assignment, and I am a rookie, and rookies get the crap.

Wallenberg looked back at the folder and read again the handwritten note from the Pennsylvania State Police unit in Williamsport, Thought you guys might be interested in this. Yeah, because even the Pennsylvania State Police knew this assignment was crap.

Eric Wallenberg pushed his chair away from his desk forcefully. He quickly glanced around the room at the other agents to see if any of them were laughing at him under their breath. It appeared the other dozen or so agents were occupied with their own concerns, which in a strange way relieved the disgruntled agent slightly.

Walking to the water fountain, more as an excuse to get away from his desk than to quench his thirst, Wallenberg shook his head in disgust. This was not why he had joined the Bureau. Looking at lab notes of adolescent eggheads was degrading. Eric Wallenberg knew he was destined for greater things.

Wallenberg’s father and mother were criminal lawyers, and they expected him to follow in their footsteps, but while Eric admired his parents, he did not emulate them. He wanted to prove himself in his own field of endeavor. His Scandinavian heritage had given him a tall, strong, well-built frame, and a keen Nordic mind as well. People respected his intellect, and they admired his appearance. He was blessed with a ruggedly handsome face along with a thick head of ash-blond hair. With his natural appeal and powers of reasoning, Eric could have gone into virtually any field he chose.

Eric did not want to admit it to his folks, but he quietly resented the fact that they represented criminals. He did not disparage the lifestyle that he was able to live as a result of their work, but as early as eighth grade, he decided that he wanted to go to college on an academic scholarship so he would not have to use their money to get his degree.

Wallenberg worked hard and was able to receive a partial academic scholarship from the University of Virginia. Eric took a job working evenings at a department store in downtown Charlottesville to supplement paying for his tuition, books, and housing. The Wallenbergs offered to help him numerous times, but he quietly declined. He had to take a reduced course load in order to work more so he could afford his bills, and as a result it took him five years to finish his bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. But to Eric, it was worth the extra time. He graduated summa cum laude and debt free to his parents as well as to the savings and loan companies.

Because of the entrance requirement that applicants must be at least 23 years of age, very few individuals go directly from college to the FBI. But because Eric had taken longer to graduate, he was eligible, and was delighted when he was selected on his first attempt. Unfortunately for Special Agent Eric Wallenberg, he soon discovered that the real world of the FBI was very different from its well-established public persona.

No organization had better public relations through its formative history than the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Taking down notorious but colorful criminals like Al Capone, John Dillinger, George Machine Gun Kelly, Baby Face Nelson, Kate Ma Barker, and others like them, had made the FBI legendary. Celebrated in film and fiction, the G-men of the FBI were literally larger than life.

Much of this legend was built around their director, J. Edgar Hoover. Under his leadership, the FBI developed the world’s largest data bank of fingerprints. It had the largest set of files on known criminals. It had an arsenal equipped with every kind of pistol, rifle, and machine gun in existence. Under Director Hoover, the FBI set the world standard for criminal investigation methodology. This was what drew young men such as Eric Wallenberg to work there. The opportunity to use state-of-the-art methods to capture and bring to justice the criminals of American society was a cause worth dying for.

And some agents had, in fact, died. Just the year before, an agent had been killed on duty during a disastrous operation in Pennsylvania. As a result, all new agents were currently kept close to the field office and only sent out on what were considered, safe assignments. This was why Eric Wallenberg found himself spending day after day writing dirty letters.

Most of the rookies entering the Bureau were assigned to the counterintelligence program known as Operation COINTELPRO. Unlike counterintelligence as it is usually defined: to prevent spies from stealing secrets, COINTELPRO was aimed at subverting America’s subversives.

Started in August of 1956 and aimed at Communists, it attacked hundreds and eventually thousands of suspected subversives in the United States with anonymous hate mail, tax audits, forged documents—really anything that could sow or fertilize seeds of distrust among various factions. It worked so well that it was later enlarged to target members of the Socialist Workers Party, and even the Ku Klux Klan.

Eric Wallenberg was a team player, but he also wanted his team to play by the rules. After all, wasn’t the FBI motto: Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity? It was during one of the quarterly sessions where a member of the senior staff from Washington DC visits the field office that Eric decided to ask that very question.

The guest that day was Bill Sullivan, chief of the Research and Analysis of the Intelligence Division. Sullivan was old school, a personal associate of J. Edgar Hoover, and a true believer. Though his appearance was often described as somewhat like a shifty-eyed, B-movie detective, he rose rapidly through the ranks because of determination and ambition. Many in the Bureau believed he was being groomed to be Hoover’s successor.

Forgive me for asking this, Mr. Sullivan, Wallenberg stated during the question and answer section, But I find myself seriously questioning the constitutionality of Operation COINTELPRO. After all, is instilling fear, hate, and doubt part of the charter to lead and coordinate intelligence efforts that protect the United States? Don’t these individuals have rights as American citizens that should protect them against these kind of intrusive actions that we are initiating against them?

The tension in the room was palpable. Sullivan was visibly upset. This upstart rookie needed to be reminded that the first word in the FBI motto is fidelity.

Listen, young man, you should be thankful you work here. This is the greatest organization ever devised by a human mind. We are the leading investigative law enforcement agency in the world. We set the standard. Don’t you ever forget that. His voice rose with emotion, If Director Hoover endorses this project, it serves our mission and purpose. He answers directly to the President of the United States and has done so for the past fifty years.

The senior agents in the room knew what the chief would say next. It was Sullivan’s favorite quote. He never spoke without using it at least once. "And remember the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, ‘An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man,’" Sullivan concluded.

That incident had happened just a few weeks ago, and Eric was wondering if that shadow was darkening his path now. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut, he thought as he recalled the cold stare he got from SAIC Wade at the end of the meeting.

Returning to his desk, Wallenberg looked at the file and thought, this is Wade’s way of telling me to not rock the boat. Open your mouth and you’ll end up having to investigate a science fair project by a kid barely past puberty!

He opened the file again and the words, science fair project jumped out from the article heading. It triggered a memory in Wallenberg of his own science fair project when he was in ninth grade. He conducted an experiment on the impact of environmental effects on the gill rate of a goldfish. It sounded very scientific, but in effect all he did was to add small amounts of salt to the water and then count how much faster or slower the goldfish flapped its gills. That was, until he added enough salt that the fish died.

Eric shook his head and quickly tossed the folder to the side of his desk. Crap, crap, crap, the agent muttered, grabbing a yellow pad to start making some notes. Okay, it’s a crap assignment, but the sooner I get started the sooner I will get done. He started to write at the top of the paper, but as soon as he pressed the pencil down, the lead broke. Eric tossed the pencil aside and grabbed a pen. After writing only a couple of words, the ink went dry. At that point, he just put his head down on the desk. He did not like the way this was going.

Okay, the agent told himself, get a grip. Be professional. First, I need to call the school to verify the information. Never know; this might be a hoax. Second, find a road map and figure out how long it will take to drive to Jackson’s hometown. The article is from the Williamsport Sun-Gazette, so he guessed that Montgomery was located somewhere in north-central Pennsylvania. In that remote location, Eric knew he could either take the best roads which would be the Pennsylvania Turnpike as far as Harrisburg, and then cut up PA Route 15, or take a more direct route which would require taking two-lane highways most of the way. Mentally, he calculated that no matter which route he traveled, it would probably take at least three and a half to four hours to get there from Philadelphia, depending on how long it took to get out of the city at this time of day. Crap. Wallenberg made another mental note to grab a travel voucher from the administration office. Given the distance, he knew he would probably have to spend at least one night in the local area for his investigation.

Unable to think of anything else at the moment, Wallenberg lifted his head and glanced at the file on the corner of his desk where he had tossed it. Absently, he picked up the manila folder and read the contents again, this time more slowly. I wonder if this is really on the level? He heard that rookies, like him, fresh out of the Academy were sometimes given fantasy cases just to see how they would handle them. UFO sightings had long been a favorite. Actually, it would be easier to believe in UFOs than what the newspaper article described this kid had dreamed up.

Thinking of rookies, Wallenberg wondered what Boyle and Gatlin were doing this week. The three of them bonded tightly at the Academy last summer and told themselves that they would take any division in the country that was seeking three rookies.

Everyone knew that Philadelphia had one glaring vacancy. On May 17th, just a month before the three men had joined the FBI, Special Agent Terry R. Anderson of the Philadelphia Division had been shot and killed while searching for a kidnap victim. A seventeen-year-old girl, named Peggy Ann Bradnick, had been abducted on her way home from school by a local man who had become obsessed with her. William Hollenbaugh, a colorful character who was also known as Bicycle Bill, was hiding with Bradnick in the Tuscarora Mountains near Shade Gap, Pennsylvania. Finally, after eight days, the girl was rescued following a deadly shootout. Agent Anderson was hit when Hollenbaugh took potshots at his pursuers, and Anderson eventually succumbed to his injuries.

The rising crime rate in America justified an increase in the FBI budget, and there had been a push to get more agents on the payroll. Philadelphia was a high priority. Eric Wallenberg, Jerry Gatlin, and Zeke Boyle were assigned per their request to the City of Brotherly Love, right after they completed their FBI Academy training in October of 1966.

Wallenberg looked over at Jerry Gatlin’s desk and saw he was out, but Zeke Boyle was busy trying to hit his trashcan with an overhand hook shot. His shot hit the rim and bounced to the floor.

Need some practice there, Zeke, Eric remarked. I’ve got to run to a hayseed town upstate and could use some company. If your workload is up-to-date, I think I could get JC to approve it. It is a quick in and out, but I think we could still work in time to get in a little one-on-one.

Boyle rolled up another piece of paper, leaned back and tossed it at the can. It went in dead center. He smiled, Sure you can handle the competition? I give up eight inches in height to you, and I still have to spot you points.

Wallenberg bounced up from his desk and grabbed a piece of scrap paper at the same time. He bobbed and weaved toward the trash can while crushing the paper in his hand. Boyle jumped up and sought to guard him. The other agents looked up and acted as fans, cheering on Wallenberg and Boyle.

The excitement was loud enough to carry into Wade’s office, and he decided to check it out. He watched with amusement for just a moment, and then cleared his throat loudly. All heads turned, and the fun and games quickly ended. It was back to work.

NEARLY FIVE HOURS LATER

2:00p.m.

FBI, MA’AM, WE WOULD LIKE TO SEE ONE OF YOUR STUDENTS, TYLER JACKSON. Harriet Casey had been school secretary almost since the day she graduated from what was then Montgomery-Clinton Public School, which was so many years before, she had lost track. A simple woman, Harriet only knew a few things but she knew them well. She took pride in her position, keeping an immaculate office and a very strict routine. Every day, without exception, she would complete her daily attendance report and hand it to the principal at precisely 10:00a.m. At the end of the day, at precisely 2:15p.m., she would complete her schedule of appointments or meetings for the principal to attend the following day and give it to her boss, Mr. Benson.

It was now 2:00p.m, so the presence of these federal agents was disconcerting to Harriet for two reasons. The first was that she immediately realized she would not meet her self-established deadline. And secondly, in her decades of service, she had never had anything close to something like two FBI agents asking to interview one of the students. For the first time in a very, very long time, Harriet Casey was not sure what she was supposed to do.

Both agents were identically dressed in standard Bureau neutral gray business suits. Neither had a briefcase or anything else in their hands. One was noticeably taller than the other, and it was he who volunteered, Perhaps we could speak with the principal?

Harriet jumped up immediately and nodded her head quickly. This she knew how to do. Yes, yes, of course, please, just ah… I will go… ah, have a seat and I… She continued to mumble and gesture toward the chairs while walking backward toward the inner office door marked, Mr. Benson, School Principal. She knocked, quickly entered, and closed the door behind her.

Theodore Benson was busy reading the newspaper at his desk, and looked noticeably disturbed that he was being disturbed. A short, unassuming man, he actually strived to keep his life mundane and boring. He had held the office of school principal for less than two years, but had found administrative work much more satisfying than the daily grind in the classroom. He loved to joke that his job was putting out fires, the ones coming from boys smoking in the bathrooms. One look at the expression on the face of his secretary, though, and he knew that something more serious than cigarettes was on her mind.

Harriet rushed up to the front of his desk and leaned forward as far as she could, pausing to catch her breath before finally stating with great solemnity, Mr. Benson, it is the FBI, and they want to talk to Tyler Jackson!

Benson sat stunned for a moment, then quickly gathered the newspaper and stuck it inside his desk, as Harriet also voluntarily straightened some papers and threw away an empty candy wrapper. He stood up, straightened his tie, and gestured for her to ask the men into his office.

With as much formality as she could muster, Harriet opened the door and addressed the two men, Mr. Benson will see you now, gentlemen.

The agents walked into the room with an air of those who command and demand. They strode directly to the front of Benson’s desk and the taller agent stated in an expressionless manner, FBI, sir, we are here to question one of your students, Tyler Jackson.

Trying to act more composed than he felt, Benson asked, This is about that science fair project, isn’t it?

The two stoned-faced men briefly exchanged glances. Again, the taller agent acting as the spokesperson responded, We can’t talk about that, sir. We do need to talk to this student right now. It did not sound like a request.

Of course, of course, remarked the principal, pushing the office intercom button, Miss Casey, could you please look at the class schedules to find where Tyler Jackson is at this moment and page him to the principal’s office immediately? He was too flustered to add his usual thank you.

He turned to the FBI men, Please, gentlemen, take a seat. You can use my office for your interview if you would like. After saying it, he immediately wished he had not, because it suddenly occurred to him that the interview might take much longer than he wished, and he liked the refuge of his office. However, the two men seemed pleased by the gesture, and nodded that using the office would be fine.

There were three chairs available to visitors, curved around the principal’s desk. The short man took the middle chair and placed it in the center of the room, and then moved his chair to directly face it, as the taller man did the same. Once the chairs were positioned, they sat down and stared straight ahead. They did not appear to be in the mood for any small talk, so Benson decided against trying. He went back to his desk and discreetly tried to find something to do that would make him look important.

MR. WILSON, PLEASE HAVE TYLER JACKSON REPORT TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY, the disembodied voice squawked out of the small speaker in the front of the classroom. All eyes lighted on Tyler, who at that moment was standing in the front of the room, completing his lesson on some background to the Gettysburg Address.

It had become standard practice for about half of Tyler’s teachers. They found that there was a lot of valuable information to be had in what had become known around the school as the Tyler Talks. The phenomenon had begun almost immediately after the new school year started last September. Tom Wilson remembered the first time it happened. He had just given the setting for the Continental Congress adopting the Declaration of Independence in 1776. Tyler Jackson raised his hand and asked if he could add a little something to the lesson. Wilson tentatively agreed, and Tyler immediately launched into a story about Delaware’s vote. He noted that each colony cast one vote, but the colony of Delaware was split between two of its delegates: Thomas McKean and George Read. Caesar Rodney, the third member of the delegation, was in Dover, Delaware at the time of the vote. To break the deadlock, he rode eighty miles through a thunderstorm on the night of July 1, 1776. He dramatically walked into Independence Hall (then the Pennsylvania State House) on July 2nd, just as the voting was about to begin. He cast his vote for independence—ensuring passage of the Declaration of Independence.

Tyler was a great storyteller, adding some dramatic flair to his account, and Wilson took note. In the ensuing months, it seemed that no matter what subject came up, Tyler could always add an amusing anecdote, a fascinating backstory, or a link to the present time. Surprisingly, the other students did not begrudge Tyler’s knowledge, as he made more than one class period come alive. And if the truth were known, they were not only entertaining to the students but also absolutely engrossing to Mr. Wilson.

Of course, Wilson was curious how Tyler had suddenly become such an expert on early American history, but he never got a satisfactory answer to his inquiries. Tyler always gave the same cryptic response, I like to read. His interjections in class were not just appreciated by the students but even resulted in better test scores, so Wilson decided to take advantage of this valuable resource. It reached the point where Wilson was giving Tyler more and more class time. It relieved Mr. Wilson’s guilt to learn that he was not the only one that was doing this—his math teacher, Mrs. Gaye, and his science teacher, Jay Miller, had also discovered and were utilizing this valuable educational resource. Others, however, saw this precocious know-it-all as an embarrassment to their own knowledge, and Tyler kept his peace with those teachers.

Today, Mr. Wilson told his class they were to learn to recite the Gettysburg Address, and with that, he turned the lesson over to Tyler. Immediately, the fourteen-year-old student walked to the front of the classroom and began with an intriguing comment that the speech was almost ignored at the time it was given, and it was not until twenty years later that it was recognized as being a great speech.

When the intercom had interrupted, Tyler had just gotten to the point of telling the story of John Burns, one of the first persons Lincoln met right after delivering his famous address. Tyler recounted that Burns was a seventy-year-old man and a veteran of the War of 1812, who lived in the town of Gettysburg. Tyler dramatically reenacted Burns’s response when he heard the shots fired on the first day of the battle, July 1, 1863. The student narrated as he imagined Burns putting on his long swallow-tailed waistcoat with big brass buttons, his high black silk hat, and grabbing his old Enfield rifle. His wife saw him and asked what he thought he was doing, and Tyler lowered his voice to imitate Burns’s reply, Just going to see what is going on.

With his standard theatrics on full display, Tyler related how the old man managed to get in the fight with the famed Iron Brigade just to the south of the city. Burns served as a sharpshooter and was more than holding his own. The regiment, however, came under heavy fire, almost two-thirds suffering injuries, and Burns was wounded three times during the battle. The unit was forced to retreat, and the men had no choice but to leave Burns because of his injuries. As the Confederate forces overran the position, they found Burns, and due to his advanced age and his gentlemen’s attire, thought he was a civilian who had been accidentally caught up in the fighting. The rebels believing they had inadvertently injured the old man actually carried him back to his home! Once there, Burns’s wife was ready to rip the hide right off of him. Tyler mimicked old man Burns responding to President Lincoln, who had asked him about his injuries, saying his wife gave him more trouble than the rebels did.

The students were having a good laugh, and Tyler followed up immediately by telling the story of Burns’s statue at Gettysburg Park. As much as Mr. Wilson was enjoying the talk, a couple of minutes had already gone by since the intercom page, and he knew he had to cut it short or he would be in trouble. Ah, Tyler, excuse me, but you heard the intercom? I think you need to report to the principal.

Tyler stood for a moment, apparently frustrated that he could not finish, and then nodded his head in agreement. He grabbed some books from off his desk in the front row and, with a nonchalant wave back at the class, he opened the door and proceeded down the hallway to the principal’s office.

A FEW MINUTES LATER

2:12p.m.

THEODORE BENSON SAT IN HIS OFFICE, TRYING DESPERATELY TO ACT CASUAL while two sober-faced FBI agents sat in front of him. He would give anything to know what was going on. It had to be that damn science fair project, he thought. He glanced at his desk calendar; yes, it was about two weeks ago that he had first heard about it.

Jay Miller, the high school science teacher, came into his office that day after school and plopped a box of typing paper rubber-banded together on his desk. Theo, you might want to have a look at this, he said. The two men had arrived at the school together nine years before, and had become pretty good friends. Miller loved to teach, and enjoyed ribbing the former social studies teacher for celebrating his exalted position—serving as head of a high school with a grand total of 288 students.

Benson made no motion, thinking this was another one of his old friend’s jokes, so Miller took off the rubber bands and piled the papers neatly in front of the principal. Benson looked down at a stack of papers that was as thick as a Sears catalog, covered with a title that took half a page.

I give up, Jay, is this your doctoral thesis or something? he asked in jest.

Miller commented, No, but I wish it was. Actually, Theo, it is Tyler Jackson’s science fair project report, 367 pages worth. He watched as Benson’s eyes grew wider. The principal slowly began leafing through the report. As he did so, he shook his head in disbelief. There was page after page of compound formulas, complex diagrams, and extremely detailed explanations of what appeared to be a level of physics that was way over his head. He knew this had to be a joke.

Benson shook his head. C’mon, Jay, what is this? You and I both know that a ninth-grader could never have put this together.

Now it was Miller who was shaking his head, If it had been written by anyone else, I would have to agree with you. But, you know what all the teachers are saying about Tyler these days. Since last September, he has turned into some kind of whiz kid. No matter what the topic—he seems to be an expert. No one knows what to make of it. Anyway, I know he wrote this paper. We went over it together, and I can tell you he can explain every page of it, if you let him.

Suddenly turning serious, Benson slowly asked, So, what exactly is all this? motioning to the pile of papers on his desk.

I’m glad you are sitting down, Theo. Are you ready? Miller paused dramatically, with a mischievous smirk on his face. Benson liked