Buried Treasure. Jack B. Downs

      Apprentice House

      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265 • 410.617.2198 (fax)

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

      [email protected]

      Dedication

      For Jen

      Acknowledgements

      I would like to thank especially the members of The Eldersburg (MD) Critique Group, who plowed through chapter after chapter, offering sage and frank advice, as well as my brother Chris and sister Teresa, who slogged through significant portions and put in their two cents. Grateful thanks also to Alice, Kristy, and Ashley for the additional eyes. Props also to Eric Silvester, fellow Gymkanite and long-time friend, who offered invaluable structural and proofing assistance. Errors of fact are none but my own.

      A special shout out to Penny Hartmann of the Eastern Shore Writers Association for her help and advice on items relevant to the Eastern Shore in the 1960s. Also, to the unsung drivers who shepherded me for countless miles as a hitchhiker, back in the day, and provided so much inspiration for this tale.

      Thanks to the design team from Apprentice House – Allison Focello and Chloe Germain, for their unflagging good humor and expert advice. Thanks also to Alisa Piotrowski for help with the maps, and to Allyson Watt for assistance with the cover!

      Finally, thanks to my family: Jen, Brendan, Collin, and Devin, for lending so many of my hours to the craft. Hopefully, it was time well-lent.

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      Fact and Fiction

      Crane Ridge, MD is a fictional town. I tried to stay faithful through research and interviews to life and times on Maryland’s Eastern Shore in the 1960s. The lynching of Matthew Williams described in Chapter 33 was a real event, occurring in Salisbury, MD in 1931. I obtained the details from Wicomico County History, Peninsula Press, Salisbury, MD (57).

      Darien, GA is a real town, quaint and picturesque. I took some liberties with establishments and street names, while attempting to maintain the geographic characteristics of the mid-1960s. Cat Head Creek and the Butler Plantation are real. The depiction of practices of the Church of God with Signs Following is based on research.

      Incidents similar to the broken-bat episode in chapter 12 have actually occurred in the major leagues. Most recently in Game 4 of the American League playoffs of 2012, pitcher Joba Chamberlain was forced to leave the game when a broken bat at the start of the 12th inning smashed into his elbow in the Yankees’ 2-1 loss in 13 innings to the Baltimore Orioles.

      1 / Sam’s End

      Berlin, Maryland 1954

      The sun rose above the trees, lighting the day in a blaze of early spring brightness. The darkest chapter of Sam’s life opened on that day, a morning somewhere between ordinary and promising. He coaxed the baby carriage across the tracks traversing Washington Street on the east side of Berlin. David, his two-year-old, was asleep as soon as they’d started out from the house. David was more a mystery than James, his older son. The tot made Sam uneasy, as if he possessed a time bomb. The baby’s fair hair and skin, so light in contrast to James’s, belied his temper.

      “James, slow down boy! Stay where I can see you!”

      Sam’s voice carried no bite. It was spring, finally. The equinox was almost two weeks past, but the cold had clung, raw and stubborn as a soggy wool coat. Now a temperate front bullied its way up the close Atlantic coast, trumpeting a promise of balmier weather. Berlin, Maryland, was awakening from a long chill, casting aside its foggy slumber. Sam shrugged off the nagging sense of unease that had plagued him. Today no delusions of somebody following him, no paranoia about his wife’s strange behavior.

      James pedaled down the sidewalk toward the playground, pumping the shiny three-wheeler Santa had brought—Maureen wept at the expense—tassels streaming from the handles. In the short travel from the house, James had spilled twice from the bike and righted himself, to pedal again like a demon. His last visit to the playground had been November, around the time Sam was laid off at the chicken processing plant. Yet this morning, James flew there unerring, like a leatherback hatchling to the surf.

      His wife, Maureen, had suggested the outing. Insisted, really.

      “You’ll do fine. I know you’ve a lot on your mind, but the boys need air, and so do you,” she’d said, slipping on her gloves. “Just don’t let James out of your sight. He tends to never look back.” She’d smiled enigmatically, kissed him, and left for the bus stop.

      Just beyond the train tracks, two routes led to the playground. The shorter path cut through the hedges that fronted the Bomberger’s stately home, at the corner of Washington and Hyatt Streets. The longer path followed the sidewalk around the corner and down Hyatt to the far side of the home, where it passed between the Owings and the Magid’s to the small playground. Inez Bomberger periodically blocked the shortcut with yarn or baling twine. The neighbor kids found some use for the string, for it would disappear, and the tracks of youth-sized sneakers would emerge again in the permanent mud of the passage.

      Sam waved a greeting at Mrs. Somers across the street. She braced astride her porch, gardening implements in hand, her fists on her hips like the captain of a warship. A hundred pots of various sizes assembled neatly before her, all waiting their assignments.

      “Hello to you and yours, Sam Paxton,” she said. “And another on the way? Did I hear right?”

      He nodded, tipping his hat. “Afraid

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