A Shawn Barton Adventure Book 2
Halcyon
By Robert W. Beard
Published by CyPress Publications
Tallahassee, Florida
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009 Robert W. Beard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
A Shawn Barton Adventure, Book 2, Halcyon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
CyPress Publications
P.O. Box 2636
Tallahassee, Florida 32316-2636
http://cypresspublications.com
lraymond@nettally.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beard, Robert W., 1930Halcyon / Robert W. Beard. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (A Shawn Barton adventure ; bk. 2)
Summary: When New York Times reporter Brian Tanner is assigned to write a profile of a college football player, he does not expect to meet thirteen-year-old boy genius, business mogul, inventor, and Florida State University student Shawn Barton.
ISBN 978-1-935083-08-5 (trade paper)
[1. Gifted children—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Florida State University— Fiction. 4. Tallahassee (Fla.)—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series.
PZ7.B38023Hal 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2009030228
ISBN: 978-1-935083-23-8 First Edition
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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* * * * *
Dedication
To my wife, Sara Lee, my best friend and life companion.
Acknowledgment
I am grateful to Robert Hurst for permission to use a photo he took of Dunleith Plantation in Natchez, Mississippi. Bob has devoted much of his life to preserving our architectural and cultural heritage.
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Brian Tanner was lost. With difficulty he found a parking place and made his way to the courtyard of the Student Union, confronting a scene that struck him as an American version of a Middle Eastern bazaar. Tables decked with jewelry, religious trinkets, used books and movies, miscellaneous clothing items, and things he couldn't identify were so densely crowded he had difficulty walking between them.
He wanted directions to the Physics lecture hall—nothing more. He had never before visited the Florida State University campus, and in fact, this was his first trip to Tallahassee. But responses to his queries were vague at best and useless at worst. He managed, however, to learn from a foreign-looking student with a hardly intelligible accent that he should head west.
He crossed Woodward Street and found himself on a promising walkway. On one side stood the Paul Dirac Science Library, so Brian was encouraged that something resembling a Physics lecture hall lay somewhere in the vicinity.
Ahead of him, a young boy wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and crimson tie strolled leisurely in the same direction. Brian hurriedly caught up and called out, "Excuse me, can you direct me to the Physics lecture hall?"
When the boy turned around, Brian looked into the face of someone surely not older than twelve or thirteen. He smiled and said, "Sure, I'm going there myself."
A few steps later, Brian said, "I'm a reporter with the New York Times. I'm trying to find a football player named Shawn Barton. I'm told he will be attending the lecture, though I'm surprised a jock would be interested in anything so serious."
"I'm sure he'll be there," the boy responded, trying to disguise his amusement.
They made their way into an austere-looking building, climbed stairs to the second floor, and entered through one of the upper doors into a large lecture auditorium. Row upon row of seats filled with students—at least three hundred, Brian judged—descended toward the massive demonstration table in front of the room. White writing boards covered the wall behind the table, and a large projection screen hung from the ceiling.
Brian seized the nearest vacancy he saw—the end seat on one of the aisles.
The boy continued walking down the aisle toward the front, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries along the way. Excitement rose as students in the auditorium recognized him.
An attractive young lady sitting next to Brian turned and asked, "Do you know him well?"
"Who?"
She looked puzzled. "The person who came in with you, of course! He's giving the lecture today, though I don't expect to understand a word of it."
"The kid I came in with is giving the lecture?"
"Don't you know? That's Shawn Barton."
* * * * *
Chapter 2
He bent over his computer keyboard, researching a topic on the Internet. As the large man passed his desk, the familiar deep guttural voice barked out, "Brian, come to my office."
When the editor spoke, Brian Tanner obeyed. He stood, grabbed his notebook and jacket, and fell in behind him. Twenty-three paces later—Brian had counted them on many occasions—he stood before the great man's desk.
"Close the door," the man rasped.
He then sat down heavily, but didn't suggest Brian do so.
"Brian, I want to congratulate you on the McClay piece. Nice work. It won't win a Pulitzer, but it's still a solid bit of investigative work."
"Thank you, sir."
Brian waited for the axe to fall. Whenever Alex Walton congratulated him on one piece, he was about to hand him a next-to-impossible assignment. That happened a mere four months earlier when Alex told him to get the goods on a prominent politician. Before it was over, the man committed suicide.
Alex looked up at the reporter. "Brian, pack your bags. You're flying to Tallahassee, Florida, to interview a football player named Shawn Barton."
Brian hesited. "Sir, I'm not a sports reporter. I don't know anything about football, and I'm not eager to learn. Why don't you get one of the guys from the sports section?"
Alex glowered. He was not accustomed to reporters challenging his judgment. "You'll go because I tell you to. I have a gut feeling there's more to this story than an ordinary jock. Haven't you come across the name?"
"No, sir."
"Then get your head out of the unspeakable dark place, and get busy."
Brian knew the decision was final. He headed back the twenty-three paces to his desk, crossing paths with a colleague.
"Tim, have you heard of someone named Shawn Barton?"
"Sure, he's a football player at Florida State, and I understand he's damned good. But I don't know anything else about him."
Brian sat down, placed a call to Florida State's athletic department, and learned Shawn would be attending a lecture in the Physics auditorium at three-thirty the next afternoon. So he made reservations for the evening flight, stopped by his apartment to grab a suitcase, left a note for his wife, and was on his way.
He didn't have a photograph or description of Shawn, but that didn't pose a problem. Football players are always tall, muscular, and heavyset—they stand out from the rest of humanity like sore thumbs. He would be able to pick one out of the crowd, and that would either be Shawn Barton or someone who could direct him to the person who was.
The flight set down on the runway at its appointed time—10:30 p.m. Brian rented a Buick Century at the airport. He always chose the same model because it saved trying to learn where the controls are.
Holiday Inns are much the same throughout the world, and the one in Tallahassee is no different. Brian checked in, quaffed down a beer at the bar, and headed for his room and bed.
Morning temperatures were in the fifties, which surprised Brian. It shouldn't have—after all, it was November. He thought that if the Florida Legislature were really doing its job, they would mandate that temperatures always remain in the upper seventies and palm trees always rustle in gentle breezes. But Tallahassee is not palm tree country, nor is it surrounded by groves of orange and grapefruit trees. It's a land of gracious live oaks, towering pines, and reddish soil—more like southern Georgia than the images of Florida used to entice northern tourists.
Since his interview, if it came to pass at all, would not be until late afternoon, and given his lack of enthusiasm about this assignment in the first place, he decided to remain in bed until noon.
When the sun bore south, Brian stumbled out of bed, showered, and dressed. Then to the dining room buffet. He hardly looked at the offerings—they were the same as most Holiday Inns where he had so often stayed. Uniformity, he thought, could be a blessing—at least he knew what he was eating, which was not always so in some foreign countries. Or it could result in deadly boredom.
Since it was too early to pursue his victim, Brian found a comfortable chair in the lobby, and read the local newspaper, the Tallahassee Democrat. He had little respect for small-town papers. Anything less populous than New York counts as small-town, of course, and Brian's standard for newspapers is the Times. After reading a couple of articles in the Democrat and glancing through others, his suspicions were largely confirmed. When he got to the editorial page, not a shred of doubt remained.
When he returned to his room, Brian thought he might search the Internet for information about Shawn, but he quickly dismissed the idea—one football jock is just like all others. He never understood why millions of people got excited over a bunch of Neanderthals fighting over an inflated pig's bladder.
Around two o'clock, he obtained a city map from the young lady at the front desk and with her help marked the location of the university and the most promising place to find a parking space. Then he set off.
Promptly at three-thirty, the chairman of the Physics Department strolled leisurely to a small lectern resting on the demonstration table. As he looked up, the room suddenly became silent.
"My, my," he said, with a hint of amusement. "When we've held colloquia in the past, we're lucky if a dozen or so visitors attend. I had no idea there's such a large campus-wide enthusiasm for Theoretical Physics." The audience laughed; their interest lay, of course, not in the subject matter, but in the speaker.
Shawn sat nervously in the front row while the chairman continued. Running out on a field in front of eighty thousand fans did not bother him nearly as much as the three hundred who sat in this room. He wished he were wearing his helmet and surrounded by ten teammates.
The chairman continued, "This is also a first for our department. Shawn is the only undergraduate we've ever asked to conduct a colloquium, but he's impressed us with his command of the topic. I won't go into his accomplishments in other areas—you're probably better informed about those than I am.
"His announced topic is 'Current Research in String Theory,' a highly technical subject, but given the eclectic nature of this audience, I asked him to make it as non-technical as possible." Turning to Shawn, he said, "It's all yours, young man."
Shawn felt as though he were being led to a scaffold where Madame Guillotine lay in wait. But he tried to remind himself that on the topic of String Theory, he knew more and understood it better than anyone in the room. All he had to do was stand up and talk.
If he stood behind the lectern, only his face and the top of his shoulders would be visible. The chairman was six feet, two inches. Shawn stood five feet, one inch. So he ignored the lectern and stood to one side. Almost immediately, one of the students called out, "Shawn, is Kelly Ripa as pretty as she appears on TV?"
Shawn laughed at that. It referred to his appearance on ABC's Regis Philbin and Kelly Ripa talk show a couple of days after his stellar performance in FSU's season-opening football game with the University of Miami.
"She's much prettier," he called back.
That broke the ice. Shawn's stage fright vanished as quickly as a cat fleeing the first sign of danger.
"The landscape of modern Physics is dominated by two great theories," he began. "The first is Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, the second, modern Quantum Theory. The first is amazingly successful in the realm of large-scale phenomena, the second in the sphere of sub-microscopic. Both are confirmed by countless instances of reliable experimental data.
"There are areas where the theories overlap. Astronomical accounts of black holes, for example, are dependent upon both Relativity Theory and theories about the behavior of subatomic particles.
"Another example is this: When subatomic particles are accelerated to velocities approaching the speed of light, their enormous increase in mass is forecast by Relativity Theory.
"Unfortunately, Relativity Theory and Quantum Theory are by and large incompatible with one another. That's the problem.
"The purpose of String Theory is to bridge that gap."
Brian sat in astonishment as Shawn laid out in clearest terms the physical intuitions lying behind String Theory, and how they draw upon views of the ancient philosopher Pythagoras and his successors.
Alfred North Whitehead once said, "Genius is simply recognizing what is obvious." It's the ah-yes-of-course feeling that often accompanies discovery. If a man cannot explain his view clearly to another person, he doesn't understand it himself.
As Brian looked around, every eye was fastened on the young, blond, blue-eyed figure in front of the room. His voice was not deep and resonant as becomes an older man. It was a young boy's voice, but it could be clearly heard in the back of the auditorium. Shawn never hesitated, he never hurried his words, he never paused to collect his thoughts, save for moments when he granted his listeners a chance to grasp a point he was making. He had no notes in front of him. He wasn't really lecturing; he was simply telling others about a topic he himself found fascinating.
Brian attended countless lectures as an undergraduate at Dartmouth, but he had never experienced the awe he felt now.
No one wanted it to end, but when it finally did, there was silence for a few seconds before first one, then another, and gradually everyone—the whole audience, faculty and students alike—stood and applauded . . . and applauded . . . and applauded.
The chairman strolled to the lectern, thanked Shawn, and invited Physics majors to a social gathering in the Common Room.
As Shawn made his way to the exit, surrounded by admirers, Brian caught up with him. "Young man, I sincerely hope you'll forgive my remark about jocks. It was wholly uncalled for. That was a remarkable talk you just gave."
Shawn laughed. "That's all right. I've sometimes had unkind thoughts about reporters."
"I still want to interview you, now more than ever."
"Come join us in the Common Room," said Shawn. "We can talk there."
The Physics department's Common Room was a large area with several comfortable sofas, a few chairs, a coffee table, two computers, and a refrigerator. On one wall hung a large blackboard.
It was a place where students could relax, socialize, and discuss topics of mutual interest, including gossip about faculty and other students. On this occasion, a table had been brought in, decked with trays of finger food. Most graduate students drank beer or wine; Shawn was content with a soda.
Only on special occasions were faculty welcomed in the Common Room—this was one of them. A man in his thirties engaged Shawn in an animated discussion. He wore jeans, a sloppy sweatshirt, and flip-flops without socks, his hair long and unkempt. Brian thought him to be a young instructor, one of many who believed that a shoddy appearance somehow enhanced his image as an intellectual. Einstein, he recalled, did not wear socks.
The two of them strolled to the blackboard, where Shawn picked up a piece of chalk and wrote an equation covering half of it. The fellow stared silently for a few moments before nodding approval and saying, "I see what you mean. That makes sense."
Except for a few pleasantries, Brian remained a silent observer. Undergraduate students gathered on one side of the room, awed by the assemblage of faculty they usually saw only in front of their classrooms.
Not all faculty members present were physicists. From their conversations, Brian counted three mathematicians and four from the Philosophy department.
As the social ran its course, Shawn bid his adieus and made his way to the door. Brian followed. "May I invite you to have dinner with me?" the reporter asked. "We could talk."
"Someone's picking me up to spend the night in Thomasville," Shawn replied. "The football team always goes there when we have a home game the next day. It's only an hour away. You're welcome to ride with us. Eddy'll bring you back."
"I would appreciate that," Brian said.
Shawn failed to mention that Eddy was a large, imposing fellow, an ex-football player whose job it was to shield the boy from unruly reporters and other predators. But in spite of his menacing appearance, Eddy was a gentle soul.
When Eddy drove up in the modified 1988 Chrysler Town Car, he stepped out to greet them.
"Eddy, this is Brian Tanner. He's a reporter from the New York Times."
Eddy cautiously extended his hand.
"He's going to ride with us to Thomasville, and if you don't mind, he'll come back with you."
"No problem. I'd appreciate the company."
Shawn and Brian climbed into the back seat. As they drove away, Brian commented, "This car sounds peculiar."
"It's one of those new Lendyne electric engines," Shawn laughed. "Have you heard about them?"
"Yeah, I heard something, but I figured it was one of those new gimmicks. Every few years, somebody discovers a carburetor that's supposed to save zillions of barrels of gasoline, but they never seem to work."
"This one does," Shawn replied. He didn't mention that he had invented it and was a major stockholder in Lendyne Corp.
"Mr. Tanner, I have to tell you I can't talk about football. Coach Bowden is very strict about that—no interviews with first-year players, at least about football."
"Fair enough, but call me Brian. I really don't know enough about the game to ask an intelligent question. Frankly, I don't know what to ask you. My editor sent me here to interview a jock, but you're far from what I expected. I'll ask anyway. First off, how old are you?"
"I'll soon be fourteen."
"You must have graduated from school early."
"I didn't go to regular school. My mother taught me at home. When I came to FSU, all I had were my G.E.D. scores and the placement tests they gave me."
"Where do your parents live?"
Shawn hesitated before answering. "Mom and Dad died in a plane crash about two years ago. I grew up a couple of miles outside of a village called Maluk in south-central Alaska. It's pretty isolated. Not even on the map."
"I'm so sorry about your parents," Brian said softly. After a moment, he asked, "Are you now living with a relative?"
"No. A friend of my mother's, Chad Langston, became my legal guardian. He's a very special man who lives here in Tallahassee. Mom graduated from FSU, and she loved it here, so it was a natural place for me to come."
"I know you're not supposed to talk about football, but I have to ask: Why do they let you play? You couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, and if one of those guys hit you, you could be seriously hurt."
"I kinda got into it by accident, and as for being hit, I try to stay out of the way. I can run fairly fast. Besides, they don't let me play very much."
"Still, I'm very concerned about you."
As Eddy drove up to a motel on the outskirts of Thomasville, Shawn smiled at Brian. "We're here. I enjoyed talking with you."
"Can we get together again? My editor said there's more to your story than football."
"Eddy," Shawn asked, "do you have an extra ticket for tomorrow's game?"
"Yes."
"So if you're in town tomorrow," Shawn said, "you're welcome to come to the game. It's against the University of Florida, and tickets are hard to come by."
"I'll stay over," said Brian, "and maybe we can talk afterward."
Shawn climbed out of the car, entered the motel, and cast a backward glance as Eddy drove away. Brian had moved up front to the passenger seat.
Eddy said nothing as he pulled into the parking area of a large Winn-Dixie supermarket. Turning to Brian, he said, "Come inside with me a moment."
Brian obeyed—Eddy was not the sort of person one prudently challenged. They entered the store and soon found themselves in front of a long magazine rack.
"You obviously haven't done your homework," Eddy said condescendingly.
Staring at Brian was a football magazine with Shawn's picture on the front, and two others with feature articles about him. Further down the rack was a movie magazine with a feature article about the boy and his upcoming film debut. And still further, three teen magazines with articles, one with his picture on the cover. "He'll be in People magazine's next issue," Eddy said with pride.
Brian picked up every magazine mentioning Shawn, and carried them to the checkout counter. On the way back to the car, he said, "You're right. I didn't do my homework. I was so resentful about being sent to interview some dumb football player, I didn't bother to check him out. All I wanted to do is get here, get a bit of useless information, and return to New York with an I-told-you-so for my editor. Man, was I wrong!"
As they drove back to Tallahassee, Eddy said, "For some reason—I have no idea why—Shawn seems to like you. If you play your cards right and are patient over the long haul, you'll have the greatest story in your career. I expect you to portray things as you see them, good and bad, but if you treat him unfairly, I'll take that very, very personally.
"As for dumb jocks, think a minute. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Tiger Woods, Dan Marino, John Elway, and Joe Montana are all jocks, but they're far from dumb. There are, of course, dumb jocks, just like there are dumb reporters."
"Point well taken," Brian laughed. "Is the offer still open on the ticket for the game tomorrow? I'd like to see it, but let me warn you that I've never been to a college football game in my life."
"Sure, if you behave. We'll be sitting with Shawn's guardian Chad Langston and other members of the firm. Actually, I work for Chad."
"Firm?" Brian asked surprised.
"Yeah, Chad's a partner in Langston, Langston, and Lowry, Attorneys at Law. And if you think I'm overly protective of Shawn," Eddy laughed, "you ain't seen nothing! I swear that if they thought anyone harmed that kid, they'd go for the death penalty."
* * * * *
Chapter 3
When he returned to the motel, Brian called his wife to let her know he'd be delayed a day or so. This was nothing new—he often laid over when a story was unfolding. But she was especially disappointed on this occasion because he would miss a party at her boss's home the following evening.
And he left a message for his editor, Alex Walton, saying he may not be back in New York until after the weekend. The excuse was he had encountered difficulties in interviewing Shawn Barton, which, of course, was not true. But Brian did not want to admit to his tyrannical boss that he had been right—there was much more to the story than simply a kid who played football.
He lay in bed poring over the magazines. They told much more about Shawn than he had himself garnered on the trip to Thomasville. After Shawn's stellar performances on the football field, his appearance on the Regis and Kelly show, his contract to appear in two movies, he suddenly rose to become a teen idol. But nothing Brian read told of Shawn's brilliance as a student—that would be the focus of his story. But it would take time. Shawn's presentation in the colloquium was extraordinary, but it was largely expository; it laid bare the views of others and how they arrived at them. He took highly technical materials and expressed them in a way that became intuitively clear to persons without expertise in esoteric regions of Mathematics and Physics. But did Shawn possess the spark of ingenuity and creativity that would truly make him stand head and shoulders above other exceptionally bright kids? It was too early to tell. The real story would have yet to unfold.
Brian was waiting at the door when Eddy drove up to the motel the next morning. As they pulled away, Brian commented, "I really like this car. It has class, and that electric engine is great . . . assuming it doesn't run out of juice."
"It might get a little weak," Eddy replied, "if you drove it from New York to L.A. and back . . . without stopping . . . about eighty times."
"Wow! Where can I buy one?"
"They'll be available one of these days. Only a dozen or so have been built so far, and four are owned by the firm. Lendyne Corp just started production, and our firm represents that company."
The FSU football stadium is an enormous structure enclosed in a brick container of offices, classrooms, and miscellaneous conference rooms. More bricks were used in its construction than in any other building in the State of Florida. "I admit," said Brian, "it's awesome even to someone like me who is not a football enthusiast."
They parked in one of the private spaces a few streets away and strolled leisurely into a Wendy's for lunch. It was crowded with fans who arrived early and preferred to grab a bite before making their way into the arena. There are, of course, concession stands in the stadium, but Eddy warned that lines were long and prices much higher than Wendy's.
About forty-five minutes before game time, they passed through the gates and began the long climb up the ramps to the level where their seats were located. Brian was panting when they arrived at the top.
His first sight of the field was inspiring. Brian had, of course, seen football fields on television, but that did not compare with the immediacy, the sights and sounds of actually being there. People flowed in by thousands, some dressed in the garnet and gold of FSU, others in the orange and blue of the University of Florida. Some carried pennants, others, folding seats to be placed on the hard metal benches that lined the stands.
Eddy introduced Brian to Sam Langston, Sr., his son Chad, and Bill Lowry. Initially polite, they became somewhat distant when it was revealed he was a reporter with the New York Times.
The teams were going through their warm-up exercises on the field, the colors of their uniforms contrasting vividly with the bright, manicured green of the grass. FSU band members and scantily clad baton twirlers began moving to one side of the field.
Brian noticed the most beautiful horse he had ever seen, a white Appaloosa with brown and black spots. It moved with incredible grace, bearing its rider as though he weighed next to nothing.
"What's that about?" he asked.
"The horse? That's Renegade, and the guy riding him is Chief Osceola. That's the symbol for the FSU Seminoles."
"I thought most universities abandoned using the names of Native American tribes," Brian said.
"Some of them have, but FSU has a long and mutually beneficial connection with the Seminole Tribe of Florida. The costume the rider wears was designed and made for him by tribal members. If you look across the field to your left, you'll see a sizable group of the tribe. Technically, since the Seminoles never surrendered, they are still at war with us. And, frankly, given the way they were treated, I don't blame them."
When the players left the field, the band came on, played a couple of pieces, and everyone stood and remained silent for the National Anthem.
The band left and the teams returned to tumultuous cheering. The strains of the Seminole War Chant attempted to drive out the Florida Gator Fight Song—results were mixed.
A referee tossed a coin as several players met in the center of the field. Renegade paced nervously in the west end zone, his rider now holding a long spear with flames issuing from one end.
Everyone stood as tension mounted. As Renegade broke into a trot toward the center of the field, fans began to roar. When the horse suddenly stopped and reared, Chief Osceola thrust the flaming spear into the ground in front of the Gator team, and bedlam broke out. This was the official Seminole challenge to a worthy adversary.
As Renegade trotted off to the end zone and the spear was removed, the teams took to the field and the game began.
Shortly after the beginning of the second quarter, the Gators led by three points. Seminole fans commenced a loud and persistent chant, "Shawn! Shawn!"
"They don't mean Shawn Barton, do they?" Brian asked.
"Yes," Eddy laughed, "but he never comes in until the second half, and is seldom on the field for more than a few plays."
"He'll get killed!" Brian said, horrified.
"Not unless they catch him, and nobody has succeeded in doing that."
Turning to Chad, Brian asked, "Aren't you worried about him?"
"Of course. But every team we play knows the unwritten rule: Tackle Shawn if you can—that's fair. If you hurt him, however, you've signed your own death warrant!"
Chad seemed content with that answer; Brian was not.
At halftime, the score stood 10-3 in favor of the enemy. Brian was fascinated by the intricate maneuvers of the bands, and commented that he couldn't understand how they could carry out such moves while playing their instruments at the same time.
By the end of the first half, Brian had become as enthusiastic as those around him. He cheered, moved his arm awkwardly in the Seminole Chop fashion, and booed loudly when the other team scored points. He even claimed indignantly at one point that the referees had made an unfair call.
Eddy laughed at him. "It may be a bit unfair, but the refs are right—that's the rule."
When the teams reclaimed the field, FSU would receive the kickoff. Eddy pointed to one of the players, by far the smallest, "See number 28? That's Shawn. They won't kick to him; they wouldn't dare! They'd rather kick it out of bounds and take the penalty."
Eddy was wrong. Either by intent or by accident, Shawn received the ball on his own six yard line. He moved to his left a moment as Gator players converged on him. And then a few steps to his right . . . until he saw an opening. And then he ran like the wind, almost straight up the field. After swerving slightly to avoid the last defender, he was gone.
Fans went wild, and Brian was caught up in the excitement. They alternated between the War Chant and chants of "Shawn! Shawn!" Chad was so proud of Shawn that at one point he pointed at him and shouted, "That's my son!" which, of course, was not quite true.
"See what happened?" Eddy asked. "They made a big mistake kicking to him! Coach Bowden will continue sending Shawn in until he's decided the Gators have had enough punishment."
Shawn scored three times in the next nine minutes—once on a pass interception, once on a pass to him in the end zone, and again on a running play.
"Coach will pull him for the rest of the game unless, of course, the Gators score again," Eddy commented. "Bowden's good friends with the Gator coach, and doesn't want to embarrass him. And Shawn wants others on his team to show their stuff."
"Does this happen every game?"
"No, just in close ones. In games we're expected to win, Shawn may be sent in for only a couple of plays to please the fans. And sometimes he isn't given the ball. The other team will gang up to stop him, and that leaves openings for our other players to score."
"Is there anything that kid can't do?" Brian asked, shaking his head.
"Oh, sure. He has a phenomenal memory, and he can run fast. He inherited his memory from his mother, and he learned to run by racing sled dogs through snow near his home in Alaska. But he says he has a tin ear when it comes to music, and he doesn't bat very well when he plays baseball. And he tells me he's no good at golf. He's fast and shifty enough to play basketball, but he can't compete with players standing seven feet, six inches." Eddy was amused by the thought of such a mismatch.
"And he has another asset—he's an exceptionally handsome young man," said Brian. "That counts for a lot in this world."
"He doesn't think so," said Eddy, "and he can't understand why such a fuss is being made over him by the teen magazines. He says he's skinny, he isn't strong, and he doesn't have any chest muscles."
"He's only thirteen! Does he expect to look like Sylvester Stallone?"
Eddy smiled.
As the fourth quarter approached its end, FSU fans began to scream, "We're number one!" again and again.
"Are they the best?" Brian asked innocently.
"We're ranked at the top since the Miami game. There's the Atlantic Coast Conference playoff to go, but that shouldn't be a problem. And then the national collegiate championship. As long as Shawn plays, we can't be stopped."
With few minutes remaining, Shawn stood up and jogged off the field. Fans went wild.
"He always leaves early," Eddy said. "When the game ends, fans stream onto the field, and he'd be mobbed."
"I had no idea it would be like this," Brian said.
As they walked back to Eddy's car, Brian asked, "Aren't we going to wait for Shawn?"
"No, a police car will take him to meet us at Atlantis Restaurant. You're welcome to come."
"I'd like that very much," Brian replied.
Everyone was there when Shawn arrived—Sam Langston, Sr., Chad, Bill Lowry, and, of course, Eddy and Brian. But there were also Chad's secretary Rita Gonzáles, and two FSU faculty members: Larry Becker from Physics and Ben Allnutt from Theater. Equally important—even more so—several of Shawn's friends were there. Larry's son Jason and daughter Cindy; Cindy's friend Sheryl; Rita's son Riley; and Jennifer, Bill Lowry's daughter.
All had attended the game. The least likely sports enthusiast, save for Brian, was Ben Allnutt, who later confided that he had only contempt for such spectacles. He attended, of course, because of Shawn, and reluctantly granted that there was a strong element of drama in such barbaric exhibitions, just as there had once been in the carnage of the Roman Circus.
Shawn's friends were not what Brian expected, though he should have. They were boys and girls his own age who looked as though they would rather be out playing than attending a dinner, no matter how informal. With difficulty, they managed to repress their natural inclinations, and behaved as proper young ladies and gentlemen should. Brian also noted the special attention Shawn paid to Jennifer, a beautiful girl who might easily become a fashion model.
Several of the restaurant's staff stopped to view their illustrious guest, and it became obvious that some of the patrons at other tables recognized Shawn. One young lady, not more than ten, shyly walked up and asked for an autograph. After Shawn graciously wrote his name and a brief comment, she suddenly reached over, kissed his cheek, and ran away. Shawn turned back toward his friends, eyes down, and blushed. Jennifer laughed at him, which contributed to his embarrassment.
Dinner finished, Samuel Langston, Sr., rose to propose a toast.
"The official purpose of this gathering," he began, "is, of course, to recognize the achievements of Shawn on the football field. We've watched him with pride for the whole of this season.
"The unofficial purpose here is to celebrate his fourteenth birthday. He did not wish that known, but I can't resist mentioning it. Happy Birthday, Shawn!" Everyone applauded and wished him well.
"But that isn't what I want to talk about. Shawn has transformed our lives in another and much more important way. From the day he walked into my office with the bizarre request that I become his guardian, our firm has not been the same. Prior to that, we were hardly more than a group of individuals who happened to share a common building, each going his own way and marching to his own drummer. After Shawn's unexpected appearance, we've become a family. Chad's his official guardian, but in a very real sense, Shawn belongs to all of us, and we sincerely hope he feels the same.
"Today, the firm focuses almost all of our professional efforts on Lendyne and the trust. We work together in a way we never did before. And we've brought into our family friends whom Shawn values. We consider Larry Becker, Ben Allnutt, and Eddy, as well as the youngsters who are here, to be an integral part of our extended family.
"Shawn's presence has brought all of this about, and each of us is grateful to him. I propose a toast to a very special young man, Shawn Barton."
Shawn was at a loss for words, saying only, "Thank you for everything. I came to Tallahassee without a family. Now I have a very large one."
As Eddy drove Brian back to his motel, Brian remarked about the moving toast he had witnessed.
"When I watched the game, I felt a measure of excitement I've never felt before, and again tonight I experienced a measure of authenticity that's extremely rare. Mr. Langston was speaking from the depths of his soul. And Shawn—what can I say? There aren't words enough to describe him. But I've decided I'm not going to write an article about him for the Times, at least not yet. I'll continue to follow his exploits, and when he agrees, I might even write a book."
Brian remained silent for several moments before asking, "I'm puzzled, though, by something Sam Langston said. What did he mean by a major part of the firm's work being devoted to the trust? What sort of trust?"
"I don't really know," Eddy replied. "I think it must be a legal cover for some big investor."
What neither of them knew was that the trust, set up in the name of Robin Howard, owned controlling interest in Lendyne, all of the patents for its products, plus other funds. And "Robin Howard" was merely a pseudonym for . . . Shawn Barton.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
The ACC championship game at the beginning of December went as expected—FSU winning by a comfortable margin. To please fans, Coach Bowden inserted Shawn for a couple of plays—he scored on one.
It was the season for awards. Shawn discouraged his name being considered, but he was a unanimous choice for national freshman player of the year, which, at Coach Bowden's insistence, he reluctantly accepted.
Two days after classes ended, Shawn learned his grandmother just died.
"She's been in a nursing home in Anchorage for the past year, and because of a severe stroke was unable to care for herself. I wrote to her almost every other day, and the nurse said my letters were read to Grandma. But she couldn't remember who I am."
Chad made immediate flight arrangements for Shawn and himself.
"Do you thinkEddy should come with us?" Chad asked."News about this may leak out, and he could be very helpful with reporters."
"I wish they would leave me alone, at least now," Shawn said. "But I suppose you're right."
Chad immediately called Eddy. "I'll meet you at the apartment," Eddy said. "Get me a ticket."
As soon as they finished packing, Eddy arrived and drove them to the airport. While awaiting the flight, Chad called Henry Bradshaw, the attorney handling Wilma Svendson's affairs. He learned that arrangements had been made at the Alvin Johnson Funeral Home in Anchorage, and that a brief service would be held the following day.
Chad handed Shawn the phone. Henry explained that his grandmother wished to be cremated, but had not said anything about the disposition of her ashes.
"I'll think about it, and let you know when we get there," Shawn said.
Three reporters met them at the Tallahassee airport, and when one of them asked how Shawn felt about his grandmother's death, Eddy snarled, "If you ask another stupid question like that, your mother's going to be asked how she feels about the death of her son."
Shawn was more charitable. "We were very close."
Tallahassee's highs were in the upper seventies, Anchorage's in the mid-forties, which Chad found reasonable. Had temperatures been in the extremely low range, he would not have wished to rent a car.
Having been there before, Shawn knew his way around the Anchorage Airport. They retrieved luggage, filled out paperwork for a car, and found a nearby hotel without undue difficulty. After a brief phone call, Henry suggested they meet for dinner at the hotel's restaurant.
They stood when Henry entered the dining room. When he reached the table, he threw his arms around Shawn, and in a soft voice said, "I know how much you loved your grandmother, but it's better this way. She hasn't been herself for the past year."
"I know," Shawn replied. Turning to Chad, he said, "This is Mr. Bradshaw. He's been a big help to both Grandma and me."
Chad extended his hand. "I want to thank you as well. It was through your help that I was appointed Shawn's guardian." He then introduced Eddy.
As they sat down, Henry said, "I hope you like seafood. Alaska doesn't have much agriculture, but there's lots of fish around."
"We do," Chad laughed, "as long as it isn't whale blubber, though all I know about whales, I learned from reading Moby Dick."
"Whales aren't fish," Shawn reminded him.
With dinner finished, plates were piled high with King Crab shells. "Had enough?" Henry asked.
"Enough for a week!" said Chad.
"Good. Then you won't mind if we discuss a little business," Henry continued. Eddy excused himself, and retired to his room.
Turning to Shawn, he said, "Wilma and I were friends for many years. She left a will, and in a nutshell, all her worldly possessions now belong to you. Most of her personal effects are in a trunk she left with me shortly after her first stroke. She made me promise that when she died, I would go through her papers immediately."
"I assumed she didn't have money except her portion of Dad and Mom's estate when she was admitted to the nursing home," Shawn said.
"I thought so too, until I found this." He handed a document to Shawn. "I knew her family at one time owned a small tract of land in Minnesota, but I thought it was farmland and had been sold. It wasn't farmland, and it was merely leased. Young man, it looks like you may be heir to several blocks of downtown Minneapolis."
Both Shawn and Chad sat back in shock.
"Aren't there other relatives?" Chad asked.
"I haven't found any, but it doesn't matter. If Wilma owned the property and Shawn is her beneficiary, he inherits it."
"She died just the day before yesterday. You haven't had much time to look."
"I opened the trunk as soon as I got the news of Wilma's death, and when I found the document, I called an attorney in Minneapolis, Peter Willis, who, according to the document, manages that property. He's thoroughly familiar with the title to it. He assures me Wilma is the sole owner."
"What about the revenues from it?" Chad asked.
"They were put into an account she never touched. Given compounded interest for over forty years, it's a very large amount. Peter Willis has for all this time paid all property and income taxes for her. So it's free and clear.
"Wilma," Henry continued, "was a very private person. She received monthly reports from her account, but either destroyed or hid them somewhere."
"I remember," said Shawn, "that she got some sort of official-looking letter through the mail every month, but I didn't ask about it. Neither did Mom and Dad."
From his jacket pocket, Henry pulled out a folded piece of paper. "There are a couple of things you and Chad need to sign, and this includes the Minneapolis property."
Shawn handed them to Chad, who read them carefully. "They're just standard stuff when you inherit an estate," Chad said. So he took out his pen, and they signed in appropriate places.
"So what do you want me to do about the property?" Henry asked.
"Continue searching for anyone else who might have claim to the title," Chad answered. "And hire the best accounting firm you can find to audit the trust account."
The following afternoon found Shawn and Chad at the funeral home. Three or four people milled around the room. A man approached, introduced himself, and said he was a minister who frequently visited the nursing home where Wilma lived.
"I didn't know her well," he said to Shawn. "But I often sat at her bedside and read aloud the moving letters you wrote her. I don't know whether she heard me, but I sincerely felt that somewhere deep within, she did."
He then introduced two ladies from the home who accompanied him, nurses who attended Wilma from the time she first came there. Each expressed sympathy for Shawn's loss, but assured him it was for the best.
Wilma's ashes were in an urn on an ornate table in front of the room, flanked by two large and beautiful floral arrangements. Everyone else moved to the back, leaving Shawn alone on a bench before the urn, where he sat and cried softly.
"Should I go up and speak with him?" the minister asked Chad.
"No," Chad replied. "Grief of this sort is a very private thing. It must have been much worse when his parents died."
Two photographers were less considerate. They suddenly entered the room and dashed to the front, snapping pictures before Eddy could reach them, grab them by their arms, and escort them forcibly out the door. Three days later, the photograph of a young boy sobbing before his grandmother's ashes appeared on the cover of Newsweek magazine, and a year later, it was nominated for a Pulitzer award.
As they drove back to the motel, Chad remained silent. Shawn held his grandmother's urn close, his eyes still red from tears he shed.
"I want to drive up to where we lived and bury Grandma's ashes next to Mom and Dad's."
"We'll go tomorrow," Chad responded.
Fortunately, it was early winter. Roads were clear, and except for occasional small patches of ice, quite safe. They left as dawn first broke and arrived as daylight began to fail. There was no motel in Maluk, but one of the residents rented out rooms and provided meals. Since there was no place to eat along the way, Chad, Shawn, and Eddy were starved.
The door was opened by a generously proportioned woman, who, when she saw Shawn, gasped and cried out, "Shawn, I never thought I'd see you again!" She wrapped both of her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her.
"Hi, Irma," Shawn managed to say before pulling away. "This is Chad Langston. He's now my guardian. And this is Eddy, my companion."
Irma smiled and enthusiastically grasped their hands. "It's wonderful to meet you. Everybody in the village loves Shawn, and we were devastated by the loss of his parents. And even more so now that Wilma's gone."
"How did you know?" Shawn asked.
"Reverend Jacobs heard about it from Johnny Blackfoot when he flew in from Anchorage last night. Johnny's our main source of news these days. You must remember him. He took over the charter business when your father died."
"We'd like to spend the night," Shawn said.
"Of course. Take the first two rooms at the top of the stairs. After you've settled in, come down to the dining room. I'll fix something for you."
The room Chad and Shawn chose was hardly up to the standards of a Hilton Inn, but it was comfortable, even cozy. A fireplace stood along one wall, though it showed no signs of having been used recently. Old and faded wallpaper adorned the walls; thick quilts covered the bed. The only bathroom in the home lay a few steps down a hallway. After finding the water too cold, Chad decided to forego a shower. Shawn, however, had no such qualms.
Irma was an excellent cook who produced a thick steak and baked potato in record time. As they ate, she related all the local gossip, including the recent wedding of Abraham Bad Cob and Muriel Grey Wolf. Chad listened with interest and a tinge of amusement. Eddy remained silent, not knowing what to make of this strange place and its inhabitants.
"Breakfast is served promptly at 8:00 a.m.," Irma proclaimed, adding, "and if you're late, there won't be any."
At that time of year in Alaska, 8:00 a.m. may as well be midnight. Unlike Tallahassee, it would remain dark for another hour or two, and even then, the sun would rise only a few degrees above the horizon.
At breakfast, Irma introduced them to another guest, a woman with Eskimo features who spoke little.
"Irma, I brought Grandma's ashes with me, and I want to bury them next to Mom and Dad."
"I'm sure Reverend Jacobs can take care of that for you," she said. "And he can have a headstone made for her, though it probably won't arrive until spring."
"That'll be fine," Shawn said.
"I'll call him now. He can meet you at the church."
The cemetery lay next to the gleaming white steepled building, which bore only a couple hundred yards from Irma's home. Shawn, Chad, and Eddy walked. When they arrived, Reverend Jacobs stood waiting by the graves of Shawn's parents.
Shawn noted that the site was well kept. He knelt a few moments in solitude, before standing and asking where his Grandma would be buried.
"I suggest here," the Reverend said, pointing to a spot next to Shawn's mother. "And you can tell me what you want on the gravestone."
Chad, Eddy, and he stepped inside the church, leaving Shawn alone with his thoughts. Reverend Jacobs asked how Shawn was doing, and told how much the community missed him. Chad promised to send him newspapers and magazines chronicling the boy's accomplishments.
When they stepped outside the church again, Shawn was prepared to go. He expressed his gratitude to the Reverend, and he, Chad, and Eddy leisurely strolled back to Irma's. After expressing their good-byes, they climbed into their car and drove a few blocks to the Broken Eagle Trading Post, Maluk's only store and gas station. Christmas was barely a few days away, and Shawn thought his friends might appreciate items from Alaska. Selecting things for Jason, Riley, Cindy, and Sheryl was easy—they would like furry Native American artifacts. For Jennifer, he took his time and finally chose a beautiful piece of handcrafted jewelry.
Chad and Eddy strolled around the Post, fascinated by the endless variety of hardware, crafts, and outdoor items, many of which they had never seen before. They were puzzled by what some of them could be used for. There were, of course, numerous guns, hunting supplies, snowshoes, groceries, clothing, and stacks of furs.
They then began their long drive back to Anchorage, detouring briefly to gaze at the house where Shawn grew up. It now belonged to another family.
As they walked around it, Shawn reminisced. "I may never see it again," he said wistfully. Chad placed his arms around the boy and held him, saying nothing. Sometimes silence is more elegant than spoken words.
The flight back to Tallahassee replicated the first time Shawn made it—a two-and-a-half-hour change of planes in Seattle and a two-hour wait in Atlanta—arriving finally at 11:33 p.m.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Chad and Shawn drove to Esposito's Lawn & Garden Center to pick out a large Christmas tree and decorations. The new plastic trees were more real-looking than ones freshly cut from a forest. This was the first Chad had put up since moving into the apartment. "It's the only time I've had anyone to share it with," he said, as they hung ornaments.
"Have you been married?" Shawn asked. "You haven't mentioned it."
"Yes, briefly, after I finished law school. It was my fault it didn't last." He paused a couple of minutes before going on. "I suppose I never got over your mother. I didn't really give Linda a chance."
"Do you have children?"
"No. We were together for only a year. A month after we got married, my mother died—a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. I was pretty depressed."
"I'm sorry. I know what you mean."
Changing the subject, Chad suggested, "Let's have a big Christmas Eve dinner here and invite everybody. I'll order out from a restaurant, we can put stuff under the tree, and do the whole thing right. It may be a bit crowded, but so what. I'm sure Rita and Dad's secretary Janet will help out. They love to plan parties."
"Who would you invite?" Shawn asked.
"You make the list," Chad answered. "and start off with your friends."
"Jason, Riley, Cindy, Sheryl, and Jennifer, of course, though I don't know whether Jennifer's mother will let her come."
"Let's find out." Chad called Bill Lowry, who told him he would see if Jennifer could come with him.
And another call, this time to Larry Becker to invite him, his wife Connie, and the children, Jason and Cindy. They were happy to accept.
"I've never met Jason's mother," Shawn said.
"Larry says she spends a great deal of time in Dothan. Her father is quite ill."
There would be Chad's father and Rita and Janet and Bill Lowry. He would tell them the children could bring presents to exchange, but none for adults.
"Anybody else?" Chad asked.
"Professor Allnutt, if there's room,"
Chad called Ben Allnutt who, unfortunately, had to attend a play on Christmas Eve. One of his students was cast in the lead role.
The final calls were to Rita and Janet, who were excited about the project and eager to get started on details.
The next five days brought tables, chairs, and innumerable decorating items into Chad and Shawn's apartment. Janet decided that a Christmas tree alone did not cast a sufficiently festive air, so she decorated. Rita focused on food and dinnerware.
During one of the rare moments when Rita was free, Shawn approached and asked what he could get Chad and the others for Christmas. Rita was at a loss. She thought for a moment before saying, "Shawn, your being with us is the greatest gift any of us can ask for, and you give that every day. There's nothing more we could possibly want."
That was not the helpful answer Shawn hoped for, but no other was forthcoming. Later, he spoke with Chad, and suggested that the firm establish college trusts for each of his young friends, funded by the Robin Howard Trust. Only the partners and Rita and Janet knew of Shawn's connection with the trust—all were sworn to inviolable secrecy.
Shawn sat down that evening and began writing letters by hand to each of the firm's partners, and to Rita and Janet, telling them how grateful he felt for the kindness and even the love they had shown him. That was all he could do.
Still, the days before the planned dinner passed slowly. Chad felt Shawn's enveloping emptiness, and noted how he often sat staring vacantly into space. Here was a young kid, away from home for the first Christmas in his life, and no matter how his new family cared for him and he for them, it was not the same. Chad did what he could to fill the void, but nothing seemed to work. They wrapped the presents Shawn bought for his friends while in Alaska, but that didn't take long.
"I'm afraid to go out where there are lots of people," Shawn spoke up. "Students on campus generally respect my privacy or at least give me room. And Eddy handles reporters. But in a mall, if someone recognizes me, people swarm me. Even Eddy can't keep all of them away."
"You might try wearing a wig and mustache," Chad laughed.
"I usually put a baseball cap on, but it doesn't always work. And I don't think a mustache will do. Before we go into the Governors Square mall, Eddy notifies Security, and they follow us around. I can't go into a public men's or dressing room without someone going in first and checking it out.
"I was in the Publix supermarket a couple of days ago with Rita and Riley. Some girl in the aisle saw me and held up a magazine with my picture. Within a minute, I was surrounded by at least a dozen kids wanting autographs. And they were taking photos with their cell phones."
"What did you do?"
"I signed autographs, naturally. They were all very nice, but I need to do things sometimes without all the attention. I'm probably on half the blogs on the Internet!"