My name is Jimmy Thevenin. The story I am about to tell you began more than 250 years ago, but for much of that time was hidden away in private archives, museum collections, and dusty closets. It is not a story in a traditional sense. It has characters, but no plot. It has a beginning, but no end. And it is told in ciphers, riddles, and clues. Over the years I have taken to calling it the Thevenin Cipher, but the mystery described here did not begin with me. It was set in motion a long ago by one of my ancestors.
My part didn’t come about until 1993. I was a young man attending college at a small university in West Virginia. It was late at night and there was a knock on the door of my apartment. The area was popular with students, but had its fair share of malcontents, partyers, and drunks, so I left the chain on, cracked the door two inches, and peeked out.
There was a man dressed in a three-piece suit. He had grey hair and was holding a brown hardshell attaché case, “Mr. Jimmy Thevenin?” the man asked as he took off his horn-rimmed glasses and tucked them in the breast pocket.
“Yeah?” I replied.
He handed me his business card. “My name is Robert McIntire. I am an attorney with the firm Riley and Marsh. I have a matter I need to discuss. May I come in?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the empty pizza boxes, crushed cans of Jolt Cola, and beer bottles discarded around the room from the night before. Books, marginally clean clothes, and a pile of dusty mail spilled over the edges of the kitchen table. “Uh, what’s this about?”
“I assure you that it will be of interest,” he replied.
I checked to see if anyone was lurking in the shadows and swung the door open. He stepped in and looked around the room. I ran over and moved a stack of dirty clothes from an old recliner. “Please, take a seat.”
He awkwardly perched on the edge of the chair, placed the attaché in his lap and rolled the tumblers on the three-dial combination lock with his thumb. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”
I took a seat on the couch, “Did I do something wrong?”
The two spring-loaded metal clasps on the front of the case popped and he struggled to keep it from sliding off his lap. He squinted slightly as he considered my question. “No, I am here on a matter involving a member of your family.”
Being an only child, my mind raced through the possibilities. “Is it about my parents?”
He closed the lid and placed a thin cardboard box on the top. “No, I handle estates and high-value assets. I leave family law to those who find litigation too intellectually taxing.”
That joke about one-hundred lawyers at the bottom of the sea popped into my head, but I let it pass.
“What do estates and high-value assets have to do with me?”
He folded his hands on the cardboard box. “Your great-uncle, Mr. J.E. Thevenin is, was, a client of mine.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know I had a great-uncle. My parents never said anything.”
“Yes, well, he grew apart from your family long before your father was born. I believe they were told J.E. passed away in the late 1960s.”
“He didn’t?”
McIntire suppressed a chuckle as he placed the box on the coffee table and set his attaché case upright on the floor beside the chair. “No, he most certainly did not. Your great-uncle lived to the age of one hundred. He died in his sleep in 1985.”
“Eight years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Do my parents know?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Thevenin left clear instructions that I was to not inform any family members except you. And I was to not do that until you reached your twenty-first birthday.”
“That was yesterday.”
“Yes,” McIntire said as he looked around the room at the remains of the previous night’s birthday party, “I am aware.”
“Why me instead of my father or grandfather?”
McIntire cleared his throat. “Well, he believed, in his words, that a lack of common sense takes at least two generations to breed itself out. You were his ‘last hope.’” He paused for a moment. “Your performance in school has proven him correct.”
“How would you know that?”
“I have been watching.”
“You spied on me for eight years after your client died?”
“Yes.”
“Who paid your fees?”
“J.E. left a sizable estate. I am a trustee. My fees were provided for.”
He tapped his finger on the box and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. A slight smile formed in the corners of his mouth. “Your decision to major in history is fortuitous.”
“Fortuitous?”
“Something that implies a positive or lucky outcome,” he said as he smoothed his tie.
McIntire was clearly convinced I was operating on a cognitive delay. “I know what it means. I meant, why is it ‘fortuitous’ for me?”
“You will see. J.E. left a letter that explains things rather well.” He continued to tap his fingers on the box.
I sat up a little straighter. “What’s the letter say?”
He handed me the box. “Everything he wanted you to know is contained in this archive. It is somewhat disorganized for my liking, but that’s the way he wanted it. His letter follows my Letter of Instruction.”
McIntire stood, put his glasses on, picked up his attaché case and went to the front door. Still seated on the couch, I looked back and forth at him and the box. “Wait, is that it?”
“Yes,” he answered as he placed his hand on the doorknob.
I jumped over the back of the couch to stop him from leaving. “Aren’t you going to stay and let me open it?”
“This is not Christmas, Mr. Thevenin, and I am not Santa Clause. My role in this matter is complete.”
“But what if I have questions?”
He opened the door. “Then I suppose you will have to exercise that intellect of yours to find the answers. Good luck.”
With that, Robert McIntire, Esquire, stepped out of my apartment, down the steps, and disappeared into the night. I weighed the box in my hand and slowly closed the door. Walking back to the couch, I sat down, swept the empty pizza boxes off the coffee table and placed the box in front of me. It was black, one-inch thick, and just wide and long enough to fit a stack of unfolded notebook paper inside. The initials, J.E.T. were foil stamped on the outside.
The red neon glow of the Bud Light clock on the wall showed nine o’clock. I found the remote between the couch cushions and turned on the T.V. The X-Files theme was just beginning to play. It seemed like an appropriate soundtrack for the moment. I gently shook the box and felt the lid start to slip. The lower half plopped down on the table. Inside, the first item was a notecard:
Letter of Instruction
The following Letter of Instruction and archive are part of the estate files of Mr. J.E. Thevenin. It was his wish that the contents of this box be provided to you immediately following your twenty-first birthday. His reasons are explained below.
While the contents of this box are exactly how J.E. Thevenin left them, there are some valuable resources beyond these papers that could help you on your journey. Your great-uncle firmly believed that Freemasons and other groups would continue to leave clues hidden in plain sight.
Be on the lookout for any novels, nonfiction books, or films about a man named Henri Thevenin. They are likely to have hidden details and backstories that will add context and solutions to the riddles and ciphers contained in this box.
It was signed in blue ink, “Robert McIntire, Esquire, September 10, 1993.” I flipped it over and looked at the back of the card. It was blank. I tossed it in the upturned lid.
The next document was a yellowed piece of cotton fiber paper with evenly spaced lines of cursive handwriting. It was addressed to me:
Dear Jimmy,
My name is James Ernest Thevenin, and I am your great-uncle. Seven generations ago, one of our ancestors, Henri Thevenin, was a scout, frontier trader, and ranger on the Virginia Frontier. Between 1774 and 1783, prior-to and during the American Revolution, he witnessed a remarkable series of events that foretold a great adventure. Many of those events, and their significance, remain secret to this day, protected by the ciphers and riddles recorded on the pages in this box.
I believe that Henri left a great truth hidden somewhere west of Virginia’s colonial capital. I believe it is a truth that can only be understood by walking the path he took all those years ago. The clues point to at least seventeen different stops. Each location is a piece of the puzzle, each challenge, a test of your observation and intellect.
I am presenting you with a great adventure. Use these clues to navigate the historical landscape. Solve the puzzles left at each stop to unlock the location of the next and discover whatever truth he left out on the frontier. By engaging with the facts on the ground—by becoming Henri Thevenin yourself—you will uncover the final secrets this archive holds.
I wish you luck. May God grant you success and safe travels.
J.E. Thevenin
1985
P.S. Tell your grandfather he is still an idiot.
I reread the letter twice and placed it in the lid with McIntire’s note. The rest of the box’s contents were a collection of maps, handwritten notes, torn pieces of paper, and four thick envelopes. Each one had a different label: Dunmore, High Country, River, and Battle. There was a small green pouch with a drawstring that was tied in a knot at the very bottom. I had to use my teeth to open it. Inside, there was an old looking compass, a piece of semi-transparent paper with a jagged line on it, and a key with a tag.
I put the other items back and examined the tag and key more closely. They were attached by a flimsy yellow piece of twine. The key was brass, but time had turned it a dull, dark brown. The tag was about the size of a business card. It was frayed and yellow. There was faded handwriting on one side: 1900 3rd Avenue, Huntington, WV 25703.
I thought about the address. It was just a few blocks away; a bank across the street from a bar called Mycroft’s. I dangled the key by the string and then looked at the contents of the box. I turned the T.V. down and picked up the phone.