Chapter One

My name is Jimmy Thevenin. The story I am about to tell you began more than two hundred-fifty 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.  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.

“Yes. Can I help you?” 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?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Empty pizza boxes and crushed cans were 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 said.

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 sat 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.”

He closed the lid and placed a thin cardboard box on the top. “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.”

“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, Mr. Thevenin left clear instructions that I was to not inform any family members except you.” McIntire looked around the room at the remains of the previous night’s party. “I was to not do that until you reached your twenty-first birthday.”

“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.”

There was something about McIntire that rubbed me the wrong way. I was still skeptical. “If this long lost great uncle died years ago, who has been paying 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.

“I know what it means. I meant, why is it ‘fortuitous’?”

“You will see. J.E. left a letter that explains things rather well.” 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.”

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 and placed my hand on the door. “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. “You are on your own. 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 beer-themed clock on the wall showed nine o’clock. I found the remote between the couch cushions and turned on the T.V. The spooky theme from my favorite show 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 and decided that I didn’t like lawyers.

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 ten different stops. There are probably more yet undiscovered.  Each location is a piece of the puzzle, each challenge, a test of your observation and intellect.

                  Your ancestors and I have spent the last 200 years collecting these documents for you. The clues will guide you through the historical landscape. Solve each puzzle to unlock the next stop and discover the truth Henri Thevenin left behind on the frontier.

Step into the facts on the ground—become Henri Thevenin yourself—and you will uncover the archive’s final secrets.

                  I wish you luck. May God grant you success and safe travels.

J.E. Thevenin

1985

 

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 envelope had a different label: Dunmore, High Country, River, and Battle. There was a small green pouch with a drawstring. 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 7^th Avenue, Mountain Springs, WV 25954.

I thought about the address. It was just a few blocks away; a bank across the street from a popular bar. I dangled the key by the string and looked at the contents of the box. The truth is I was bored. I was just a few months from graduation and had doubts about where my life was going. Solving the Thevenin Cipher was a welcome distraction. It was a mission in a world that seemed to lack meaning and purpose. I turned the T.V. down and picked up the phone.

---

Chapter Two

 

Maggie Reynolds was a computer science major and one of the smartest people I knew. We met our freshman year and over time became close friends. She was always the first person I thought of when something interesting happened.  I wasn’t sure whether that meant we were a thing. It didn’t matter.  The phone rang several times before she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“What?”

“It’s me.”

“Who is this?”

“Maggie, c’mon, I’ve got something I need to show you.”

“Is this Professor Reynolds?”

I felt an instant pang of jealousy, “Are you serious? Professors call you late at night?”

She laughed, “No, I was just trying to get a rise out of you. What’s up?”

“You will never believe this, but this creepy lawyer guy just dropped off a box of old documents at my apartment. It seems I have inherited something.”

“Really? Like, money?”

“Not that I know of, but there is a key with a tag that has the address for that bank on 7^th Avenue.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you want to come with me and check it out tomorrow morning?”

“What time?”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Can’t. I have a class.”

“Okay, how about Noon?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me outside and we’ll go in together.”

“Yep. See you then.” She hung up.

The next day, I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the colonial-styled brick building. Maggie came walking up. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved green T-shirt, and the same Chuck Taylor All Stars she always wore. An olive drab canvas rucksack was slung across one shoulder, and her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She never wore makeup. She didn’t need to.

She gave me a love-tap on the shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Just waiting on you.”

“You have this mysterious key?”

I dangled it in front of her like I was trying to hypnotize her.

She waved it away from her face and smiled. “What do you think it is?”

“I have no clue, but we’re about to find out.”

We walked through the double-doors into the lobby. Counters with tellers were to the left. Four glass-walled offices were to the right. There was a man in a suit sitting in the closest one. He was eating half of a sandwich that was cut into a perfect triangle. By the look on his face, he wasn’t happy that we were about to interrupt his lunch. He slowly rose from his chair and stuck his head out the office door. With the sandwich still in one hand, he spoke with his mouth half-full, “May I help you?”

I showed him the key, “I was hoping you could tell me what this is?”

He pushed the food in his mouth into his left cheek like a chipmunk. “I’d say it’s a key.”

I didn’t try to hide my annoyance, “For something in this building?”

He rolled his eyes slightly and stepped further out, motioning with his fingers for me to hand over the key as he took another bite. He held the tag up so he could read the writing as it slowly rotated on the dangling string. “It’s a key to a safe deposit box.”

There was an awkward pause as he chewed and looked at us as if that was the end of the conversation.

“Can we see it?” I asked.

He swallowed and seemed to have some trouble getting it down. “Do you have some identification?”

I pulled out my driver’s license and handed it to him. He held it up and compared it to my face like he was examining the passport of a suspected terrorist.

“Is there a problem?” I asked him.

He ignored my question, went into his office and picked up the other half of his sandwich. He walked across the lobby and disappeared into another office. Five minutes later he came back and stood there tapping my license on his open palm, looking us up and down. “This way.”

Maggie and I followed him through a labyrinth of hallways and into a room that had a heavy metal door.  The only thing inside was a single stainless-steel table. Sandwich guy closed the door and left us alone.

“His commitment to that ham on rye was impressive.” Maggie said as she set her backpack on the table.

I just shook my head.

A moment later, a different man came in with a slim metal box. He put it on the table and handed me the key and my driver’s license. “Just knock when you’re done.”

He pulled the door shut. I slid the box over, inserted the key, exhaled deeply, and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a roll of bills wrapped with a rubber band and a folded piece of paper.

“Not exactly the treasure of One-Eyed Willy, is it?” Maggie said as she picked up the note. I rolled the rubber band off the money and began to count. Maggie read the note and handed it to me. All it said was, “This will be enough.”  It was signed J.E.T.

She pointed at the money, “How much is it?”

I kept counting for a moment, “Looks like around $2500. All $50s.”

“Is that what you were expecting?”

“I didn’t know what to expect. The lawyer said J.E. Thevenin had a sizable estate, that’s it.”

“What do you think it means?” she asked, “This will be enough.”

I wrapped the note and money together with the rubber band and shoved them in the outside pocket of her backpack. “Well, for now it means I’m buying lunch.”

Without knocking on the door, we left and made our way back to the lobby. Sandwich man watched as we walked out the door. We jaywalked across the street to our favorite bar and grill. It was an old-style tavern that had been there for a long time. A large wooden counter with a huge mirror behind it filled the entire right side of the room. A small drink rail ran the length of the left wall, and there were tables in the back. We made our way to a high top. Even before we were settled, a waitress who was dressed way too young for her age took our order and went back to the kitchen.

Maggie leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone, “So, spill it. Where’d the key come from?”

I told her the full story about McIntire, the box of documents, and J.E.’s instructions. With each detail, I could see that she was becoming more intrigued. “This is amazing! It’s like a real-life treasure hunt.”

“I know, right?”

“What’s the first clue?”

“I’m not sure. Other than McIntire’s note and J.E.’s letter, there doesn’t seem to be any order to the contents of the box. Some of the documents have dates, but most don’t. I don’t know which one I should solve first.” I pulled a piece of folded paper from my pocket and put it on the table between us. “This is the first clue I came to. It was in the third document in the stack.”

She touched the paper, “This is the actual clue? It looks brand new?”

“No, I copied it. The real one is on parchment and seemed delicate. I didn’t want to carry it around.” I read the clue aloud.

Consult the work of W.D.H., Whose ink preserved the frontier age. In his “History” of wars and settlement lands, The answer rests within your hands.

Seek the Page of the Score and add four more.

Seek the Line of the Rank: Ignore the page number that sits on high, Pass the Roman Chapter title by. Descend to the twenty-eighth line, bold and black.

Seek the Word of the King: The word you seek is the cradle of Virginia, ancient and fine. Named for a Monarch, built on the fen, it is the answer you seek again.

Maggie slid the note over and read it to herself, silently mouthing the words. The waitress came with our food; a salad for Maggie and a club sandwich for me. Cokes for both of us. After she walked away, Maggie leaned a little closer.

“Do you know the answer?”

I shook my head, “No idea.”

“You should ask one of your professors.”

I winced and tilted my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“The letter mentions that the trail began in the 1770s. There’s only one professor in the department that specializes in the Colonial Period, and he’s a tool.”

She chuckled, took a drink of soda and let out a little burp. “Excuse me,” she said as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. “So, how are you going to figure out the clue?”

“I think I might try calling the lawyer back to see if he will tell me anything more.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t provide any more information?”

I shrugged, “It’s worth a try. Do you want to come back to my place and listen in?”

“Can you wait until after three o’clock? I have my information systems class.”

“Sure. That’ll give me some more time to go through the rest of the box.”

“Don’t you have class?”

I shrugged, “Eh, I’m taking a sick day.”

The waitress came back and left the check. It was $15.97 with the tip.  I reached over, took the roll of bills out of Maggie’s backpack, pulled out a fifty, plopped it down on the check and started to get up. Maggie glared at me.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide as if she was talking to a child who didn’t ask to be excused from the dinner table.

“What?”

She nodded her head at the check and money on the table.

“I don’t want to wait for change.”

“Don’t be stupid. That money won’t last forever if you start paying $50 for $15 lunches.” She was right, of course, but I had to look like I was annoyed. When the waitress took the money and came back with the change, I left a couple dollars more and we got up to leave. Maggie smiled and leaned into me as we were walking. I held the door open and we stepped out into the crisp fall air.

Later that afternoon, she came by the apartment. I had cleared the coffee table and organized most of the clues in neat little piles. She tossed her pack in the recliner and studied the journal pages, maps, and random pieces of paper, paying particular attention to the original copy of the clue I had shown her at lunch. Gently, she picked up the brown, aged paper and examined it closely.

“Is this the same clue you showed me earlier?”

“Yes,” I said as I rummaged through stacks of old mail and blue-books looking for McIntire’s card.

“Why didn’t you mention these little symbols below the text?”

I rested my hands on my hips as I tried to remember where I put the card. My mind slowed down long enough to realize she had just asked me a question. “I’m sorry, what?”

She held up the parchment, “These little lines with right angles, diagonals, and dots. They weren’t on the one you showed me earlier.”

I shrugged. “I guess I missed them. I was in a hurry when I copied the text.”

“I think they are a cipher of some sort. They could provide the answer to the riddle.”

I walked over, stood beside her, and looked at the symbols. “Can you decipher it?”

“Maybe. I need to think about it for a minute. Are there any other pages with these markings?”

“I’m not sure. Feel free to take a look.”

She immediately began sorting through the pages. I scanned the room and tried to remember where I put McIntire’s card. Finally, it came to me; under the phone in the kitchen.

I found the card and dialed the number. It rang once. A woman answered. “Riley and Marsh attorneys at law, may I help you?”

“Yes, hello. My name is Jimmy Thevenin. I am trying to reach Robert McIntire. Is he available?”

There was a short pause, “Excuse me, did you say Robert McIntire?”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward silence. “There is no one here by that name.”

I paused for a moment, “This is Riley and Marsh, correct?”

“Yes.”

I looked over at the stacks of papers, the money, McIntire’s note, and the box. I didn’t know what to say.

“Is there something else I can do for you, sir?” the woman asked.

“Um, no. No, thank you.”

The line went dead. I slowly put the handset back on the cradle. Maggie looked at me and saw the concern on my face.

“What is it, Jimmy?”

“The lawyer….”

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t work for Riley and Marsh.”

She looked at the table of documents. “Okay, well, who does it work for?”

I stepped over and picked up McIntire’s Letter of Instruction. “I have no idea.”

---

Chapter Three

The mystery surrounding Robert McIntire’s identity threw us for a loop. He obviously lied about who he was. But he delivered a box of seemingly real documents and a key to a safe deposit box with $2500 to my doorstep without asking for anything in return. If he was some sort of con artist, why would he give me money and tell me to never contact him again? It did not make sense.

We wasted an hour dreaming up all sorts of conspiracies before deciding that our time would be better spent working on the facts we had in hand.

Making sense of J.E. Thevenin’s file system we impossible. At first, we thought it was chronological. But unless J.E. already knew the answers to each riddle or clue, there was no way he could place them in order. Basically, we had a cardboard box of questions with no idea how or where to begin.

We began by guessing when each document was written. Most were from the colonial period; the condition of the parchment, incomplete maps that stopped at the Appalachian Mountains, and references to royal governors, Virginia planters, and the Ohio frontier dated them between 1763 and 1783. Many were written by Henri Thevenin. A few were even signed. Two were dated. Together, though, they didn’t tell a coherent story.

Then there were the four envelopes. They were much newer than anything in the box. The thick, coarse kraft paper looked handmade, but the labels were typeset instead of handwritten. Each contained three to five slips of heavy stock paper the size of a large notecard. Cryptic riddles and ciphers were written on each.  More clues within clues.

I cleared the kitchen counter off and Maggie laid the cards out in a four-by-four grid, making sure to keep them organized by envelope. When she was done, we both stood and looked at them as if something would suddenly jump out and point us in the right direction. Five minutes later we were still waiting for the epiphany.

Maggie blew a piece of loose hair away from her face out of the corner of her mouth. “I need a break.”

I continued to stare at the cards and absentmindedly draped my arm around her shoulder, lost in thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her head turn. I looked at her and realized what I had done and quickly pulled my arm back. Her look of surprise faded. She laughed and playfully punched my shoulder.

My face felt hot and I started to say something, but she walked back into the living room.

“I’m hungry. You want to split a pizza?” she asked.

I cleared my throat. “Sure, where from?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t taste like cardboard.

“Arturo’s?”

“Sucks.”

“The Pizza Place?”

“Sucks more.”

“Vinny’s?

“Still sucks, but not as much, so sure.” She dug into the front pocket and pulled out a $10 dollar bill.  I waved her off.

“Don’t worry about it. J.E. is buying.”

I expected a lecture about fiscal responsibility, but she just smiled, repocketed the money, and plopped down in the recliner.

Thirty minutes later we were scarfing down a pizza watching our favorite game show. We were both masters of the trivial and enjoyed playing against each other. I won most of the questions about history, current events, and things like that. Maggie rocked literature, music, math, and anything related to foreign languages.

After dinner, we went back to work.  She rested her elbow on the table and propped up her head with her palm. “We are not getting anywhere trying to place the documents in order. Instead of trying to decipher the file organization, let’s go back to thinking about the clues.”

“Okay,” I said pulling the clue from the pile. “This was the first one in the stack, so let’s start with this one. This first stanza mentions ink and history. That must mean a book, newspaper, or letter.”

“But who is W.D.H.?”

I shrugged, “The author?”

“It talks about wars and settlement lands. This paper looks very similar to the one signed by Henri Thevenin, dated 1774. What wars were being fought during that time?”

The answer was easy. “Dunmore’s War. It took place in 1774.”

She straightened up. “Okay, tell me about it.”

“It was the last war of the American Colonial period. Basically, the Royal Governor of Virginia led an army of militia against an army of Shawnee warriors. It lasted about six months. The only battle took place near here. Being so close to the beginning of the Revolution, most historians don’t really pay it much mind.”

She jumped up with renewed energy, grabbed her backpack, and stuffed the copy of the clue inside.

“Where are you going?”

“The library,” she said as she pulled on her jacket.

“It’s late.”

“It doesn’t close until eleven o’clock. We know we’re looking for something related to Virginia history, from 1774, possibly related to Dunmore’s War. We should be able to find the author’s name easily from there. I mean, how many books have been written about a six-month war in 1774 that had only one battle?”

“Probably not that many.”

“Well, there you go.”

I threw on a jacket. We stepped out into the cool night air and I locked the deadbolt with my key. She was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She shivered a little and tucked her hand into the crook of my arm as we walked. She leaned in and whispered. “Off we go on our own little adventure. Chasing clues and secrets in the dark of night.”

We drifted down the sidewalk until a wash of amber lamplight broke the darkness, momentarily catching her face and revealing the excitement in her smile. I tried to think of something witty to say, but at that moment, I couldn’t. It didn’t matter.

We walked across campus and into the library. It was deserted. The building was old, and the stairs had a dated art deco look that reminded me of something you might see in a movie from the 1950s. Everything smelled like a weird combination of pencil shavings, dust, and musty paper.

Taking the stairs to the main floor, there was an attendant lost in a book sitting at the help desk to the right. She didn’t look up. Rows of shelves filled with books, extended like metal fingers reaching out from the walls. The card catalogs were in the center of the room. They were large honey-oaked cabinets with dozens of small drawers, each with a brass handle, and a little paper label protected by yellowed plastic.  One of the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling flickered.

Maggie plopped her backpack down on the floor and scanned the labels. “So, the clue mentions wars, settlement lands, history, and a frontier. If we are looking for something on Dunmore’s War, we need to find books about Virginia history.”

We searched the cabinet and located the drawer labeled ‘VIR-VIT’.

I pulled the entire drawer out, set it on top of the cabinet, and started flipping through the cards. Maggie had to stand on her toes to see but didn’t complain.

The cards varied in age. Some were crisp and white with dot-matrix printed text. Others were soft, dog-eared, and typewritten with faint ribbon ink. I flicked past Viral Diseases and Virgil then came to a reinforced divider card labeled Virginia – History. Looking for any combinations of “history of wars and settlement lands”, I continued flipping but slowed when I reached Virginia – History – Colonial Period.  I found one that read, “Virginia – History – Indian Wars” Maggie practically jumped out of her shoes.

“Stop, there!” she said loud enough to cause the attendant to shift in her seat. She still didn’t look up.

I leaned closer and read the old card that had been typed on a manual typewriter,

SPEC COLL             VIRGINIA — HISTORY — INDIAN WARS

975.4

D36h       De Hass, Wills, 1818?-1910

             History of the early settlement and Indian wars of

           Western Virginia; embracing an account of the various

           expeditions in the West, previous to 1795. Also,

           biographical sketches of Col. Ebenezer Zane, Major

           Samuel M’Colloch… and other distinguished actors in

           our border wars.

           Wheeling, H. Hoblitzell; [etc., etc.] 1851.

           416 p.  illus., pl.  23 cm.

1. Virginia–History. 2. Indians of North America–Wars.
2. Title.

           NON-CIRCULATING – INQUIRE AT REFERENCE DESK

 

Maggie poked me in the ribs and smiled, “Wills De Hass. W.D.H!”

“Bingo,” I replied, instantly cringing at how lame it sounded.

There were stacks of cut paper and short pencils on top of the cabinet. I grabbed a slip and wrote the information down exactly as it was on the card and put the drawer back.  We walked over to the attendant. She was wearing an unbuttoned red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a brown grungy t-shirt. An ample amount of eye makeup darkened her eyelids. Her hair was intentionally disheveled and spiky like she had permanent bed head.

She kept ignoring us until she turned the page. Then she looked up, tilted her head in a perfect Why are you bothering me? expression, and delivered the most lifeless greeting imaginable: “Welcome to the Morrow Library. How may I help you?”

I handed her the paper with the book’s information. “I’d like to check this book out. Can you tell me where to find it?”

She looked like I had just asked her to donate a kidney. She glanced at the paper and immediately handed it back. “It’s in Special Collections. Take the elevator to the third floor, turn left, go through the metal door at the end of the hallway. You’ll be in the stacks. Keep going until you come to another door with a glass window. It will have ‘Special Collections’ on the glass.” She looked at her watch. “You have about ten minutes before they close.”

“Thanks,” I said as I looked up at a dusty clock next to the desk. The attendant gave Maggie a snarky smile and went back to her book.

We found the elevator, made our way to the third floor down a long, poorly lit hallway and into the stacks. This was the section where they kept the books that were rarely checked out. Titles about obscure topics that only self-important college professors, or groveling doctoral candidates found interesting. The lighting was so bad, it had to be intentional. An effort to make sure none of the books were ever cracked open by anyone hoping to find something that was useful or relevant to normal life. Placing a book in the stacks was like slapping it with a DO NOT READ warning label.

We found the Special Collections room and slowly opened the heavy metal and glass door. It was in the original part of the library building that dated back to when the university first opened in 1837.  Inside, there was an old woman sitting at a grey government surplus metal desk in the middle of a room surrounded by hardwood shelves that seemed to grow out of the wood floor. The brass lamp perched on the corner of the desk didn’t so much light the room as it infringed on the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched from the center across the floor.

Maggie and I cautiously walked over as the librarian watched us approach. I handed her the slip of paper. “I am trying to find this book by Wills De Hass. Can you help?”

The librarian looked at her watch and took the slip. Her fingers were boney, and her long silver hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Two pencils protruded out of the knot. “Is it not a little late to be digging into Special Collections?”

I cleared my throat and smiled, “It’s for a last-minute assignment,” I said, shifting my feet and lowering my eyes meekly.

The woman hmphed. She got up and disappeared into the dark and came back a few seconds later holding a five-by-seven-inch book with a black leather cover. It had a gold foil stamp of an Indian warrior with his foot resting on the chest of a man dressed like a Colonial American settler. The Indian appeared to be holding a scalp. There were no words on the front or back cover. The spine had embossed type that read, “De Hass, History of Indian Wars in Western Virginia”

The librarian handed it to me with both hands as if she was bestowing a great gift. “This was printed in 1851. It’s the only copy we have.”

I gently ran my finger over the foil stamp, “May I check it out?”

“Of course not,” she replied.

I looked at my watch, “You close in three minutes?”

“Yes.”

“But the library doesn’t close until eleven o’clock,” Maggie said.

“Correct.”

The old hag was making this much more difficult than it needed to be. “Is there a place I can sit and read without having to come back tomorrow?”

She tilted her head back and nodded. I had finally asked the right question. “There are tables around the perimeter of this archive. If you let me photocopy your student ID, you can stay until the library closes. Leave the book on the table when you have completed your work.”

I handed her my ID. She disappeared into the darkness again and returned a moment later holding a Xerox copy. She handed the ID back and placed the paper on the flat surface, tapping the lower corner to make sure it was perfectly square with the edge of the desk. When she finally looked up, hands resting primly at her waist, she didn’t speak. She just let the quiet stretch out uncomfortably.

I looked around the dark room. “Can we turn the lights on?”

She kept her eyes locked on mine and clapped her hands twice. The lamps on the reading tables lit up.  She shrugged. “My son gave it to me for my birthday last month. He’s too cheap to buy me anything truly useful so I had the janitor install it here.” She leaned in close and whispered like she was revealing a secret, “It is called ‘The Claptron’.”

Maggie and I both nodded and feigned astonishment.

The librarian pulled her coat from the back of the grey government surplus metal chair that complimented the grey government surplus metal desk and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Be sure to close the door when you leave. Once you exit, it will lock automatically. You will not be able to get back in. Do not leave anything behind.”

Maggie and I nodded in unison, “Yes, ma’am.”

She started to walk away but stopped, pivoted, and fixed on us with a judgmental glare. “I assume I can rely on your absolute propriety after I depart? This is a library, not a bordello.”

I looked at Maggie, who was shaking her head emphatically. “Yes, ma’am. We’re just friends,” I said.

She cast a sharp glance from the corner of her eye, and punctuated it with a slow, deliberate rise of her chin. “You must respect the archive, is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we both said in unison, our hands folded meekly at our waists like penitent monks.

When the door shut behind her, we exhaled and laughed a little too loudly. I walked over to the door and watched the librarian’s silhouette slowly move down the hall through the stacks and disappear at the far end.

Maggie looked around the room, “She was fun.”

I held the book up and tried to mimic the librarian’s voice, “Let’s see what secrets this book holds.”

We sat down at the nearest table. Maggie pulled out the sheet of notebook paper with the clue. We scooted the heavy, wooden, straight-back chairs closer to the large oak table. I opened the book and gathered my thoughts for a moment. “Now that we have identified this book as the first part of the clue, I think we might be looking at a classic book cipher.”

“Classic?”

“Yes, they were often used as a simple form of encryption during the Revolution. Basically, the clue identifies a specific book, page, line, and character numbers where the reader can find the key to a message. The problem is that with books this old, sometimes, multiple printers were used and each one had their own layouts. The page numbers might not be consistent from book to book.”

Maggie looked at the page. “Let’s see, the first sentence we know. The second says, ‘Seek the Page of the Score plus four more.’”

“Score has to mean twenty,” I said. “Like the Gettysburg Address.”  I turned the deckle edge pages, stopped on page twenty, and turned four more. “What’s the next part?”

She squinted a little as she read, “Seek the Line of the Rank: Ignore the page number that sits on high, Pass the Roman Chapter title by. Descend to the twenty-eighth line, bold and black.”

I ran my finger through the text quickly. The page number was at the top. Below that was the chapter title. I counted down twenty-eight lines.

Maggie leaned over and slowly slid her finger down the page from the top. She refocused on the notebook paper. “Seek the Word of the King: The First Word standing in that line, is the cradle of Virginia, ancient and fine. Named for a Monarch, built on the fen, it is the answer you seek again.”

 Our eyes fixed on the open book, and we spoke at the same time, “Jamestown.”

“So, the first clue is Jamestown.” Maggie said, thinking out loud.

“It makes sense,” I replied as I scanned the rest of the paragraph. “It was the cradle of Virginia and America.”

“Yeah, but what are we supposed to do with it? Does it mean we should go there, use the word as a password for something, or what?”

Before I could, the lights went out and we became engulfed in complete darkness.

---

Chapter Four

I had never experienced pitched black before, and it was jarring. I looked in the direction of the door but saw nothing. Even the lights in the hallway were out. My heart began beating faster. I felt Maggie’s hand touch mine.

“Jimmy?”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh really? The lights supposed to go out? That’s okay?” The tremor in her voice betrayed the fear she was trying to hide.

“Give it a second.”

“The fire exit signs are out. That’s not supposed to happen.”

The comforting lie I was about to tell her caught in my throat as a soft, rhythmic thud of steps on the wooden floorboards sounded off around the room. They bled in from the right, then snapping instantly to the left. Ricocheting from the heavy door to the back wall, impossible to pin down.

Maggie leaned closer. I could feel her warm breath against my cheek as she whispered, “What… is… that?”

I shook my head but remembered she could not see me. “I don’t know.”

We remained frozen as the footsteps continued to draw closer.

“Jimmy, I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

I gently pulled her under the table. We slid as far back as we could, against the wall. She gripped my hand tighter as the footsteps came closer.  I couldn’t see anything and started to curse. Maggie’s hand went up and covered my mouth. Whoever was in the room with us came to a stop next to the table. We held our breath and waited. The silence was broken by the sound of the book on the table above us closing with a dull thump. Then, it slowly scooted across the surface of the table. There was another long moment of silence. The footsteps slowly moved away. We heard the door open and slam shut.

Maggie and I let out long gasps. We sat there, motionless, still holding each other’s hands in the darkness when the lights suddenly came back on. As our eyes adjusted. She started to climb out from under the table but stopped and leaned over. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and slid away. I could see she was breathing heavily as we both stood and scanned the room.  We looked at the table. Both the book and my handwritten copy of the clue were gone.

“Let’s get out of here, Jimmy,” she said. She grabbed her backpack and quickly walked to the door. I followed her out through the stacks into the main part of the third floor. We stopped at the elevator landing. I rapidly pressed the button several times, pleading with the car to move faster.  It was stuck on four. I looked for the stairs and saw the sign to the left. With Maggie’s hand in mine, we ran into the stairwell and down the concrete steps two at a time until we got to the first floor and burst out the door onto the university’s quad. We looked around and saw a few students walking on the walkways between the buildings. Everything was normal.

I let go of Maggie’s hand and we tried to collect ourselves. She was breathing hard and kept looking around.

“Let’s go back to my place,” I said.

She nodded and started walking. We made our way across campus, cut through the student center, and exited out the south doors. I looked across the street and saw a man on the opposite side. He was just standing there looking at us. No one else was in sight. There was a streetlamp a few feet away from him, but he was mostly hidden by shadows. He was wearing jeans and a sport coat. There was a cigarette in his mouth, the tip glowed bright orange as he took a drag and lowered it to waist level. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and stood there without making any effort to cross. There was no traffic. He just stared.

I put my hand on Maggie’s shoulder and pointed toward the crosswalk to our left. “Let’s go that way.”

We took two steps and the man called out. “Nice night for a walk.”

We froze. Our eyes locked on the shadowy figure. I slowly turned. Maggie stepped behind me.

“What was that?” I called out.

He ignored my question and held up a book that looked like the one we had just been reading in the library. “Thanks for finding this.”

He stepped off the curb, walked to the center of the street, and slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket. He was still barely more than a silhouette.

“J.E.T. has put you and your little friend there in a great deal of danger.”

I don’t know if it was leftover adrenaline from the blackout, or the threat to Maggie, but I felt a surge of uncontrollable anger. I stepped off my side of the street and started toward the man. “What did you just say?”

He didn’t move.

I was about halfway to him when a black Crown Vic barreled around the corner, indistinguishable from the dark until the chrome grille flashed. Just when it was about to hit me, I threw myself back toward Maggie, landing hard in the gutter. The car stopped inches from the man. Maggie came to my side. He casually opened the car door and paused, his voice drifting cold and detached over the roof, “Have a good night, kids.”

The man climbed into the car, and it sped away. We watched it make a hard right turn and disappear down the side street. I reached over and touched Maggie’s hand. “Are you okay?”

She looked up at me. “Let’s get out of here.”

We were a block from my apartment, and we made it there without any further discussion. I looked around to see if anyone was watching before reaching up with the key to unlock the deadbolt. Most of the lock was missing. Its center had been punched out. The round brass casing was the only thing left. I touched the door, and it slowly swung open.

The lights were off. I flicked the switch and turned on the overhead. It was a four-bulb fixture and three were burned out. The fourth was barely hanging on, its dull glow only bright enough to light up one small corner of the room.  I really needed to replace the damn lightbulbs.

I stepped inside. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. Almost everything.

I turned on a lamp next to the recliner. Maggie went into the kitchen.  That’s when I saw what was missing. The only thing left on the coffee table was the empty black box that had held all J.E. Thevenin’s research.  Everything else was gone, the journal pages, parchment papers, and notes. I fell into the recliner.

“They took everything, Maggie.”

From the other room, she spoke just barely loud enough for me to hear, “Not everything.”

I got up and joined her in the kitchen. The envelopes and cards were still lying on the kitchen counter, exactly where we left them. Maggie smiled for the first time since the library, “I guess they didn’t take the time to look everywhere. They saw the papers on the coffee table, grabbed them and ran.”

Her eyes went wide, “The money?”

I pulled the roll of fifty-dollar bills out of my jacket pocket and held it up for her to see.  She exhaled as if she had been holding her breath for an hour.

I went and closed the front door. The recliner and coffee table made great doorstops. I was sore from my nosedive into the gutter and rotated my neck before collapsing on the couch. Maggie sat next to me and put her head on my shoulder. We didn’t say anything for a while.

“Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“When I dodged that car?”

“Yeah?”

“I looked pretty cool, didn’t I?”

She chuckled but kept her head firmly planted on my shoulder.

“No… well, maybe a little.”

I waited a moment as I thought about the answer I was hoping to hear, “What do you want to do?”

“About what?” she replied, her voice heavy with tiredness.

“The box. The guy in the street?”

She sat up. Her eyes were sharp and focused. Her jawline grew taut as she clenched her teeth momentarily before letting the anger subside. She reached for my left hand and gripped it tightly. “We keep going.”

I nodded slowly. That’s what I wanted to hear. “Okay.”

She dug around for the T.V. remote and found it in its normal place between the couch cushions. Our favorite late-night show was on.

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

She pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and covered up. Her head returned to my shoulder. “After this over. I need a minute.”

“Okay.”

We were both asleep before that night’s Top Ten list was finished.

---

Chapter Five

We woke around two o’clock in the morning, and I immediately offered to drive her home. Under normal circumstances, she would have walked, but after everything that had happened we agreed the car was safer. I stuffed J.E.T.’s envelopes and cards into the old Army surplus map case I used as a bookbag. There was no way I was going to let them out of my sight. My car was parked in the alley behind the building.

I called it Jeremiah—a massive 1970 Ford Galaxie 500. My brother and I had acquired it back in high school, trading a Montgomery Ward record player even for the title. It was puke yellow and about the size of a small apartment building. The muffler had a hole in it and the only way in or out was through the left rear passenger door. If it had shock absorbers, they stopped absorbing anything years before. The huge eight-cylinder engine got around three miles to the gallon. A family of six could sleep comfortably in the back seat if they didn’t care about the always-on AM radio or the Three Dog Night tape permanently stuck in an eight-track player mounted on the dashboard with three rusty screws, a twisted coat hanger, and some duct tape.

Maggie would always shoot me the side-eye after climbing over the front bench seat, but I suspected she secretly found it funny.

When we got to her place, I walked her inside and told her I’d call her later. After I got home, I blocked the door with the recliner and collapsed on the couch. It was around three o’clock in the morning.

The alarm on my watch went off and I felt the drool drip from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up still feeling the pain from where I dove onto the pavement. It was half past eight. I had class at nine o’clock. I stumbled into the kitchen, made coffee, poured some in a massive travel mug, tossed on a ballcap and was out the door by five till nine. I made sure the money, and envelopes were tucked safely in my book bag. I left a note about the lock at the building manager’s box and made the ten-minute walk to Smith Hall. I got to class by quarter after, quietly found a seat at the back of the room and pulled out a notepad.

I immediately tuned out and started doodling.  The professor was on another one of his rants. There was a time when I would have paid attention, but I no longer saw the point. One semester from graduation, I didn’t care. I knew what I needed to say in my papers to satisfy the guy’s fragile world view; how to lace my answers with just enough neo-Marxist bullshit to get a passing grade, no matter how much I disagreed with what he was teaching. Stroke the man’s ego, get the grade, and move on.  That was all I needed to do. I just wanted out of college. To be done with it.

I had the feeling J.E. Thevenin’s quest was going to teach me more than anything I would ever learn in a classroom.

---

Chapter Six

I left class five minutes early. When I got back to the apartment, a locksmith was installing a new deadbolt. He gave me the key and left.

I heated up what was left of the pizza from the night before and took my normal position on the couch. The envelopes were still in my bag. I was starting to wonder if they were some sort of guide to the original documents. They were obviously printed on a relatively modern press and organized much better. There had to be a way to use them to get started.

Based on the previous night’s adventure, I knew the word Jamestown was important – either as a clue, password, or something else – but I didn’t know how.  I put the envelopes on the table, opened the one labeled Dunmore, slid the contents out, and placed them on the table. There were four beat-up cards. Some had splotches of red wax. Others had what appeared to be coffee stains. Three had ink splatters that resembled a Rorschach Test. I moved the pizza I was eating away. I didn’t want my contribution to the history of these documents to be tomato sauce and grease.

The cards were blank on one side. Two had what looked like parts of a hand-drawn map. I tried lining up the two pieces, but they were completely mismatched. I placed them side-by-side, the blank sides down. I shuffled, flipped, and arranged them on the table. Once in the right order, the markings lined up perfectly.

The first one had half the red seal on the right-hand side. It had no writing or other marks. The second, one of the map cards, had the other half of the seal on the left side, and ink stains on the right.  The third was blank, but the ink stains on the left and coffee stains on the right lined up perfectly with the second and fourth cards.

I picked up the first card and looked at it closely at a low angle. I thought I saw something but needed better light. I got up to go use the light over the stove. When I walked past the red neon clock on the wall, I saw it. In the red light, words started to appear. I ran over to shut the blinds, turned the incandescent lights off and held the card close to the glowing neon glass tube. It revealed a clue.

“I bought my passage with years, not with gold, A contract of labor, a future untold. I arrived with the captains, the knights, and the proud, But toil was my title, and earth was my shroud. No obelisk rises to mark out my name, No bronze statue stands to preserve my acclaim. Look for the timber that shadows the ridge, Between the old river and the past’s buried bridge.”

I grabbed the second card and held it up to the red light. The map was an enlarged copy of a triangular fort with dots in the corners. I knew the place. I had seen it in a dozen books about the early colonial period. It was Jamestown fort.

“Jamestown, just like De Hass’ book,” I said to myself.

I held up the third card. There were dashes, dots, and lines like those Maggie saw on one of the parchment documents that was stolen. The fourth card revealed a hand drawn map of a small town, with tiny squares lining a long broad avenue. There were no labels. Large rectangles sat at both ends of what looked like a central street. The largest was circled. I studied the drawing for a minute. It looked familiar but I couldn’t place it. I flicked on the lamps and stood over the coffee table, letting the clues settle in my mind. I made my choice right then and there.

I called Maggie but got her machine. I looked at my watch and realized she was probably in class. I didn’t leave a message. I grabbed my jacket and made sure the roll of fifties was still in the pocket. It was becoming a habit. After putting the cards back in the envelope I put all of them in my map case and set off for the art supply store down Fourth Avenue. There, I picked up several pieces of red acetate and a razor knife. I thought about testing my idea in the store but didn’t want to draw any attention.

There was a restaurant supply store just down the street. I needed a sturdy, leather or heavy plastic trifold, or four panel booklet menu cover. Preferably a smaller drink or dessert menu with clear plastic sleeves. I found exactly what I wanted. It was about the size of a half sheet of copy paper and black leather. Closed, it looked like one of the personal organizers that the business students carried around imagining their days were filled with client meetings and power lunches. My improvised card menu was going to work just fine.

I picked up a hotdog for lunch and went home. Maggie had left a message on my machine saying she would drop by around two o’clock. I cut the red acetate sheets and put them over the cards inside the menu holder. It made the clues visible without having to hold them up to a red light and protected the cards. By the time I was finished, Maggie was knocking at my door. She had her own little knock.  Just to be safe, I checked the peephole before swinging the door open. She came shuffling in and collapsed in the recliner.

“I am soooo, tired!” she said.

“Why’d you go to class?”

She looked at me like I was daft, “I’m a student, that’s what we do. Didn’t you go?”

I shrugged, “Went late, left early.”

I grabbed a couple cans of soda from the fridge and gave her one before handing her the portfolio, “Check this out.”

She took a sip and opened the portfolio with one hand. She almost spit out her drink when she saw what was inside. “Jimmy, this is incredible! How did you know to do this thing with the red acetate?”

I pointed at the red glow of the neon sign on the wall. “Sheer luck. I was looking at the cards and one of them happened to catch the red light just perfectly.”

“So, are these the first clues?”

“Well, these are from the envelope labeled Dunmore. Given what we learned from the De Hass book, it seems like a good place to start. Look at the map on the second card.”

She leaned a little closer and studied the red tinted card. “Is that Jamestown?”

“Yep.”

She let out a giddy laugh. I could tell she was becoming as excited as I was about solving the mystery.

“What’s next?” she asked.

I sat down. “I’m going on a road trip. Want to come?”

“Where?”

“Jamestown and Williamsburg.”

She looked a little surprised for a moment, “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What about your classes?”

I shrugged, “I’m going to take a few days off.”

“Won’t your professors care?”

I leaned back and exhaled. “I don’t really care.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sick of their theoretical, college classroom truth. I need something real.” I leaned forward, reached for the portfolio and held it up. “I don’t know what The Thevenin Cipher will lead to, but I am pretty sure it has more connection to the truth than anything I could ever learn here.” I patted the portfolio. “This…. this trail. This is ground truth. Straight from time. I need to see where it leads.”

Maggie leaned back in the recliner, her face tightening as she weighed every possibility. “What about everything that happened last night?” she asked. “The man in the street? His warning? The break-in?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “It only makes me want answers even more.”

A moment later, she nodded. I’d known her long enough to recognize that same ambition in her. She was probably afraid, but nothing was going to stop her from figuring out what the cipher meant. She proved me right.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

I smiled, probably a little too much. “Awesome.” I reached for and held her hand. “I’m really glad.”

Her eyes locked onto mine. We looked at each other for a long moment. She slowly leaned in, her mouth stopping just a few inches away from mine. Tilting her head to the side she paused, lifted her left hand, and gently rested it on my cheek. I closed my eyes and waited. She delivered two sharp, rhythmic pats to my cheek and smiled broadly. “You’re such a goober.”

Still lost in what I thought was going to be a significant moment, I remained frozen with my mouth open. She stood and grabbed her backpack as she chuckled. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, Romeo.”

I sat up, and tried not to let my disappointment show, “What do you mean you’ll pick me up? We’ll take Jeremiah.”

She opened the door and stood silhouetted against the light outside, “If you think I am riding four hundred miles in that deathtrap, you’re on crack. We’ll take my car.”

I got to my feet, put my hands in my pockets and nodded acceptance. She remained in the doorway for a moment and then walked back to me. On the tips of her toes, she gave me a peck on the cheek. “This is going to be fun.”

She left the door slightly open when she left. I remained fixed in place. I thought about Henri Thevenin’s Cipher. The mystery behind it. The unknowns. The possibilities. She was right, the next few days were going to be fun.