August Pearl

August Pearl

By Thomas L. Reilly

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Thomas L. Reilly
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-8847-4

Chapter One

In the spring of 1968 two men walking across the campus of the University of Wisconsin wearing ties and trench coats and sporting short haircuts tend to stand out. After all, the local student population was actively engaged with chaotic protests against the war in Vietnam, and anything representing the so-called "establishment" fueled suspicion. Many of the university's gray pony-tailed tenured professors actually encouraged the student protests by espousing their own anti-establishment beliefs both in and out of the school's lecture halls. The atmosphere on the campus was charged with collective hostility against the government, coupled with the newfound sense of "doing your own thing."

The two trench coat-clad men announced their representation of the government as loudly as if they were using bullhorns. Nevertheless, they kept walking in a determined manner along a popular student pathway leading from the main campus, past Observatory Hill, and in the direction of the student dormitories. At three in the afternoon this part of the campus was busy with students coming and going between classes. The two men in their late thirties contrasted vividly with the younger longhaired and unkemptly dressed students. They shrugged off the occasional sneer with an attitude of professional indifference.

I was one of the students who noticed the mysterious duo. I was walking in the same general direction on another pathway about forty yards to their right en route to my dorm after completing my last class of the day, physical geography. In another seventy-five yards or so their path and mine would merge before going through a wooded area just before the men's dorms.

Only a few minutes earlier, before these two aliens from another galaxy caught my eye, I was casually strolling along thinking about graduation that was now only five weeks away. It had been a difficult four years of studying, but now it all seemed worthwhile. At twenty-two years old I would be graduating from college with a degree in psychology. But before seriously testing the job market or considering graduate school, I was going to reward myself by traveling in Europe for six weeks following graduation.

I rationalized I had earned such an extravagant gift, not only by studying hard enough to graduate with honors and be on the Dean's List, but also because I had worked full time the last three summers at a local paint factory in Madison, and then at another part time job during the school year delivering pizzas several nights a week. A nice, although frugal, vacation to Europe was necessary before settling into a more serious adult life. But now my thoughts were a bit distracted by seeing the two hatless Dick Tracy look-a-likes walking in the same direction.

I increased my gait, wanting to be in front of the men before the two pathways merged in the event something happened, like them being hassled by a group of students or vice-versa. I had only a short time to get to my dorm, drop off my books, and catch a bus downtown for my pizza delivery job on State Street.

Even though geometry was a weak subject for me, my planned angle and speed along the converging paths worked. I was able to get a few yards in front of the two men when entering the same path leading through the wooded area. Now I could forget them as a distraction and continue my more blissful daydreaming about graduation and the excitement of the planned trip to Europe as I walked the final quarter mile to Kronshage Hall.

I could see the front entrance to my dormitory, a stoic old stone building resembling a mutation between an ivy-league dorm and an asylum.

My roommate, Ken Waters, was just exiting the dorm and heading towards me with a bag of books over his right shoulder. He was an engineering major and I knew he was off to the main library for an evening of statistics and logarithms. Not only did Ken like those kinds of things, but he took a certain sadistic comfort in knowing he would probably make a lot more money than me someday because of the long nights he spent memorizing formulas and charts. But he was a good friend and had been since we attended the same high school together in upstate Wisconsin.

As he approached Ken called out, "Hey Tim, are you working tonight?"

"You know I am. I suppose you want me to work it into my schedule to drop by the library about seven-thirty so we can split an extra pizza I just happen to have in the oven of my delivery car, right?"

"Gee, that's a great idea, really glad you offered! And why don't you bring along some of those garlic bread sticks and a Dr. Pepper? You know the pop machine never works at the library."

"I wouldn't know about that Ken, I don't live there like you do. But since you're the damn engineering whiz, why don't you fix the machine?"

"Because free delivery is easier," Ken responded with a grin.

Our mutual good-natured ribbing was cut short as I saw Ken look over my shoulder with a strange expression on his face.

"Who do you figure those guys are?" he asked quietly.

I looked back just to see the two men in trench coats approaching, still walking in a determined manner. I had forgotten about them until Ken brought them back to my attention. Before I could say anything, the pair split up, swerved around us, rejoined and continued towards Kronshage Hall.

"Who are those guys?" was all I could say inquisitively to Ken.

Neither of us had an answer as we watched the two strangers walk up the steps and enter our dorm through the heavy wooden door.

"Well I'm out of here!" Ken exclaimed with a somewhat nervous wink at me. "I warned you about those overdue library books; now they're coming to get you," he chuckled as he walked away, obviously not wanting anything to do with the two strangers.

"Yeah sure, go ahead and run. You're the guy who borrowed the Bunsen burner from the chemistry lab just to heat your damn coffee in the mornings. They're coming for you pal, not me," I mused, still wondering what business the two guys really had in our dorm.

But what the hell, almost two hundred guys lived in the three-story building; they could be there for anyone. I dismissed any pangs of real or imagined guilt and continued into my dorm so I wouldn't be late for work.

As I reached the landing on the top floor and rounded the corner to proceed to my room halfway down the hall, I was amazed to see the guys in trench coats walking directly towards me. I immediately started calculating how much an overdue library book would cost with nearly four years of compounded interest. Maybe now I couldn't afford my trip to Europe!

"Do you know Timothy Ryerson?" asked the taller of the two men.

"Ah, yeah, I know him," I answered the man, trying to stall for something, anything, while wondering what in hell was going on. These guys seemed awfully official.

Just then the other guy reached into his inside breast pocket with a curious look on his face, the first display of any emotion by either of them. He removed a paper bearing a copy of a small photo. He looked at the photo then turned it to show me.

"Is this Tim Ryerson?" he asked with just a hint of a devious smile breaking one corner of his mouth. The picture was a copy of the same passport photo I had taken a couple months earlier and sent with my application in preparation for my trip to Europe.

"How did you get that?" I slowly asked feeling very, very caught, but for what I had no idea.

"Well Tim, that doesn't matter. We just would like to talk to you," the taller guy said.

Something told me this wasn't about overdue library books, or even the occasional handful of maraschino cherries I would cop from the pizza restaurant's storeroom.

"So ah, how long do you need to talk to me `cause I was just on my way to work. I deliver pizzas a few nights a week," I said looking for a reason to squirm out of this unexpected, albeit curious, interruption in my life.

"We know where you work Tim. In fact, that's why we came to meet you here at this time. Perhaps we could give you a ride to your job and talk along the way," the taller man said in a strange mixture of control coupled with a slight bit of warmth.

These guys, whoever they are, really know a lot about me! They know my name, where I live, where I work, and even my schedule! But why, and more importantly, who are they? I was much more curious than frightened by this time.

"Well gee guys, I really appreciate your ride offer and all, but my mother taught me a long time ago never to accept rides from strangers; and right now you guys are pretty strange to me," I said attempting to sound cool.

"Fair enough, Tim, fair enough," answered the guy who had been doing most of the talking.

With that both men automatically reached inside the tops of their trench coats and produced folded black leather cases looking like flat wallets. By now I was expecting to see a shiny badge or the letters F.B.I. when they opened the cases, but I saw neither. That would have been far too simple.

Rather, I saw an unsmiling photo of each man next to an embossed emblem of an eagle encircled by stars. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA was printed in large letters across the top of each man's ID card, with a couple of lines of unreadable smaller print at the bottom.

"Hope these credentials make you feel a little more comfortable, Tim. I'm Agent Morris and this is Agent Henderson," the taller man said with a more relaxed, but still official smile. I supposed he assumed everything was now kosher between us since they had officially identified themselves.

Just then the main door to the dorm several flights down could be heard opening and then closing. Several other students were coming up the stairs.

Upon hearing the noise below both federal agents snapped their credential cases closed and quickly replaced them inside their breast pockets.

"Perhaps we could leave now, that is, if you're ready to go to work?" Morris impatiently asked as the arriving students were rapidly ascending the stairs.

I still wasn't sure exactly who these guys were, but their credentials did say something about the federal government, and their stoic demeanor certainly did fit the stereotype of a federal agent, so I decided to go along with them. At least I didn't feel threatened in any way. By now my curiosity was beginning to command my thoughts and actions.

Fortunately, the students coming up the stairs stopped on the second floor instead of continuing on to our level.

"I just have to drop these books off in my room; then we can go."

"Good, go ahead, we'll wait here for you," Agent Morris said in a friendly tone.

His statement and the manner in which he said it went a long way in helping me relax over the situation. But it piqued my already raging curiosity even more. I rationalized that if I were in some kind of trouble or was about to be arrested for something, the two feds would not have let me out of their sight by letting me walk down the hall and into my room alone. They didn't seem to have any interest in escorting me or seeing what my room looked like inside.

Then I remembered I had seen them coming from the room I shared with Ken, so I couldn't help but quickly scrutinize my living quarters upon entering. We never locked our doors, but I didn't think they were in the dorm long enough to search for anything. Nothing seemed to be out of place in my area or Ken's. I actually took a few extra minutes while doing this inspection just to see if they would come down the hall to see what was taking me so long. Satisfied the two agents were not interested in me being out of their sight, I grabbed a jacket for later and left the room. Both guys were still standing at the end of the hall talking quietly until they saw me coming their way.

"Ready to go, Tim?" Agent Morris asked nonchalantly.

"Yup, let's do it," I answered feeling better they had allowed me out of their sight for a few minutes.

The three of us descended the several flights of stairs and exited the main entrance of the dormitory. I was relieved nobody else was entering or leaving the building at the same time.

"Our car is waiting for us in the back parking area," Agent Henderson said as we exited the dorm.

His statement about the car really caught my attention. When I first saw them, these guys were walking from the main campus towards the dorm. It seemed unlikely they would park their vehicle behind my dormitory, walk all the way to the main campus, and then back again.

As we rounded the corner of the building I immediately saw a very plain looking dark blue four-door Chevy Impala parked in the red-curbed fire lane. The engine was running and the driver's side window was open about halfway. A guy in his late twenties with a similar short haircut and wearing a drab business suit was behind the wheel reading a newspaper.

It certainly didn't surprise me to be led to this particular vehicle. Everything about the car and its driver screamed government. It looked out of place in the student parking lot that was temporary home to an assortment of used vehicles and motorcycles of all kinds, most of which were abundantly decorated with decals and bumper stickers proclaiming peace, free love, legalizing marijuana, and ending the draft.

Agent Morris, who by now I decided was definitely the man in charge, ushered me to the back door on the driver's side and opened it for me. At the same time he told the driver we were ready to go. Then he and Henderson walked around and got into the other side of the car, Henderson up front and Morris in the back seat with me.

Once we were all in the car the driver looked back over his shoulder at Morris and asked if he was to proceed directly to the pizza place on State Street. He totally ignored my presence in the vehicle as he pulled the government car out of the unauthorized parking stall and onto Campus Drive.

"That's right, Jack. I'll talk to Tim as we drive, so take your time; we have plenty of time to make it to his job, and you don't need any more local speeding tickets," Morris chuckled to the driver, a laugh that was also shared by Henderson in the front seat.

"You see Tim," Morris explained turning to me, "Jack is a great agent, but he has a bit of a problem with a heavy right foot at times." All three of the men laughed again but all I could do was give a slight smile. The others all seemed to be more relaxed now that they were back in their car's controlled interior. I, however, was becoming more nervous again, and they could tell.

"Who are you guys?" I asked rather impatiently in an effort to make more sense out of what was happening. In addition to being more nervous now that I was in their car, I was also feeling both confusion and excitement swirling around in my head and permeating down to my toes.

"As you could see from our credentials, we are from the U.S. government," Morris said as the last remnants of humor over Jack's driving faded from his face.

"But what do you guys want with me?"

"Well that's why we wanted to talk to you privately. Don't worry; you're not in any kind of trouble so you can relax," Morris said with a reassuring yet professional tone.

"Tell me, Tim, how well do you know your uncle, Robert H. Ryerson, or should I call him Rob Ryerson for you?" Agent Morris asked with escalating concern in his voice.

Now all this was beginning to make more sense!

Chapter Two

The very mention of Robert Ryerson, or Uncle Rob, as he was called by most of my family, immediately conjured up an aura of mystery and alleged intrigue. For that very reason Rob had always been my favorite relative, even though I had only met him a few times.

Uncle Rob was my dad's younger brother. I guessed his age to be about forty at the time, give or take a year. He was a very shadowy figure compared to the rest of my conservative and conforming Midwestern family. His name or the announcement of one of his rare personal appearances at some family gathering was always accompanied with raised eyebrows and hushed whispers, especially by the females of the clan. The hard-working men of my family usually reacted by either saying nothing, or simply shrugging him off as if he were some sort of alien they preferred not to know.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from August Pearlby Thomas L. Reilly Copyright © 2009 by Thomas L. Reilly. Excerpted by permission.
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