Necessary Evil Read online

  Necessary Evil

  By Killarney Traynor

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Killarney Traynor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover Design by Adriana Hanganu, adipixdesign.com

  Author photograph provided by Monica Bushor of Bushor Photography

  For Ernest and Reuben

  I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,

  That strange and mystic scroll,

  That an army of phantoms vast and wan

  Beleaguer the human soul.

  - Longfellow

  Fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.

  - Proverbs 1:7

  Contents

  Cast of Characters:

  Prologue:

  Two Years ago:

  Chapter 1:

  Chapter 2:

  Chapter 3:

  The Beaumont Letter:

  Chapter 4:

  Chapter 5:

  Chapter 6:

  Chapter 7:

  Chapter 8:

  Chapter 9:

  Alexander Chase’s Last Known Letter to Mary Chase:

  Chapter 10:

  Chapter 11:

  Chapter 12:

  Chapter 13:

  Chapter 14:

  Excerpt from Mary Chase’s Diary

  Chapter 15:

  Chapter 16:

  Chapter 17:

  Chapter 18:

  Excerpt from Mary Chase’s Diary

  Chapter 19:

  Chapter 20:

  Chapter 21:

  Letter:

  Chapter 22:

  Chapter 23:

  Chapter 24:

  The Cipher:

  Chapter 25:

  Chapter 26:

  Chapter 27:

  Chapter 28:

  Chapter 29:

  Chapter 30:

  Chapter 31:

  Letter:

  Chapter 32:

  Two Years Later:

  Cast of Characters:

  Present Day:

  Madeleine Warwick

  Susanna Chase, her aunt

  Michael Chase, her uncle, deceased

  Prof. Gregory Randall, of Hadley University, MA

  Prof. Joseph Tremonti, of Breaburn College, CA

  Prof. Anthony Maddox, of Breaburn College, CA, deceased

  Darlene Winters, author and neighbor

  Allison Winters, her daughter, missing

  Lindsay Khoury, farm hand

  Jacob Adamski, farm hand

  Che Che Randazzo, co-worker

  Melanie Randazzo, her daughter

  Mark Dulles, TV personality

  Charlene Schaeffer, Charleston Historian

  Charlie White, local newsman

  From the Past:

  Alexander Chase, the accused thief

  Mary Welles Chase, his mother

  Obadiah Chase, his step-father

  Avery Chase, his step-brother

  Jeremiah Beaumont, Alexander’s friend

  Jaspar McInnis, Alexander’s South Carolinian employer

  Mary Anna McInnis, his daughter

  Prologue:

  Life can change in the blink of an eye. What was once running along safely, smoothly, predictably, can be derailed in an instant as forcibly and as irretrievably as a train running into a granite mountain.

  For the want of a nail, they say, the kingdom was lost. My life is proof of that. Not so much for the want of a nail, but for something far more inconsequential. Or so it felt at the time.

  My name is Madeleine Warwick. On a bright, beautiful June morning, on a back trail I’ve been riding since I was four years old, my life changed forever.

  I’ve been picking up the pieces ever since.

  Two Years ago:

  From an article in The Triple Town Sentry

  Chase Letter Authenticated

  Professor Anthony Maddox announced today that he has authenticated the much disputed Chase/Beaumont letter.

  In a public speech at Braeburn College, in Sundale, California, the distinguished Professor of American History announced his findings on the controversial letter, citing lab tests and other evidence that brought about his conclusion.

  “Using the finest scientific techniques and after consultations with my knowledgeable colleagues, coupled with my own research, I’m happy to announce that this letter, written by Jeremiah Beaumont to Mary Chase in 1862, is authentic. It is a valuable find, one that will influence historical studies of the time period. I am proud to have been among the first to comprehensively study it.”

  Beaumont, born in Georgia, was a non-combatant during the Civil War and worked with Alexander Chase when both were in the employ of a Charleston merchant, Jasper McInnis. The letter was addressed to Alexander’s mother, Mary Chase of New Hampshire, and was written while Beaumont was in prison in Baltimore during the summer of 1863. Ostensibly a letter of consolation, it explained the circumstances surrounding the death of her son, who had been serving as a private in the Union in the 3rd New Hampshire Voluntary Infantry, as well as explaining the disappearance of a large collection of household goods that Chase was accused of stealing back in 1861.

  “I regret, thinking on your new widowhood, that there is nothing of Alex’s that I can send back to you,” Beaumont wrote. “Some ‘goods’ which we had the good fortune to come into were lost on the gaming tables in this very city shortly after their acquisition. I have since repented of my actions, but the goods, now lost, cannot be recovered.”

  The letter was discovered in the bottom of a trunk three months ago in the still active Chase farm in Chester, New Hampshire. Susanna Chase, the discoverer, and descendant of Alexander Chase by marriage, immediately recognized the significance of the find and submitted it to Maddox for examination.

  Professor Maddox admitted that he was initially skeptical as the contents of the letter “seemed, at first glance, to fly in the face of what we knew about both Alexander Chase and his friendship with Jeremiah Beaumont, especially in regards to the amount reportedly lost on the ‘gaming tables.’ However, this does set to rest some questions about the activities of Alexander Chase, particularly in regards to the McInnis affair.”

  While the letter references two obscure historical Civil War persons, the local repercussions of the authentication are momentous. Alexander Chase was a controversial figure, son of a prominent local family well-known for their political activism and public spirit. Their reputation was tarnished when the McInnis family charged the deceased Alexander with theft of their large family fortune and brought suit against the Chase family when the Civil War ended. While the family disclaimed all knowledge of such treasure, public opinion said that it was buried somewhere on the Chase farm. The lawsuit stretched on for years, ending only with the death of Jamison McInnis, grandson of Jasper. Rumors of treasure persisted, however, and many treasure hunters and historians have searched the farm, to no avail.

  The Chase treasure was largely forgotten until a year ago, when the Chase family farm was featured in the popular documentary series, Lost American Treasures. Even though Michael Chase, the farm’s owner, assured the viewers that there was nothing hidden in his fields, the episode generated new interest in the treasure. Amateur and professional treasure hunters flocked to the farm, now a respected stable and riding school, searching with metal detectors and
shovels and ignoring posted “No Trespassing” signs. Then tragedy struck: Michael Chase was killed when his horse stumbled in a hole left by a treasure hunter.

  His death had a stunning effect on the community.

  “We were devastated,” said Darlene Winters, a resident, and author of the bestselling novels, To Pluck a Butterfly’s Wing and Too Close to the Sun. “Michael was a rock in this community, a true gentleman and a generous man. His death was just tragic. He was far too young.”

  The Chase Farm is still in operation, now under the management of his wife, Susanna, and niece Madeleine Warwick, who divides her time between the farm and her full-time job at a veterinary office. Both were relieved by Maddox’s announcement.

  “This letter absolutely disproves the buried treasure theory,” Ms. Warwick said in a telephone interview. “We’re hoping that this will discourage treasure hunters once and for all.”

  Scholars agree with Warwick’s assessment of the letter. Beaumont doesn’t specifically refer to the McInnis treasure, but his letter does mention an item that was included in the lawsuit’s list of stolen items: a set of silver Kirk spoons. While Beaumont mourns the effect the ‘rumors’ had on Alexander’s reputation, he neither confirms nor denies the theft itself, something that Professor Maddox believes is tantamount to a confession.

  “Beaumont and Chase were friends, working for a man who was acknowledged to be a harsh taskmaster, even by the standards of the time,” he stated in his address to the press. “Beaumont wrote this letter while serving time for disturbing the peace. He knows that the jailers are going to be reading it before they mail it, so he can’t come right out and say, ‘Yes, we stole the goods. Then we got drunk and lost them gambling.’ He’d never get out of prison. So he skirts the issue, but makes sure to mention the spoons specifically. I think Beaumont was telling Mary Chase, ‘Look, you know and I know what kind of man your son was. I’m only telling you what you already know. And there’s nothing left.’”

  The Professor also announced his intention to step down from his position in the history department, retiring to focus on personal projects. His successor has yet to be determined, but popular historian and author Joseph Tremonti is rumored to be in the running.

  Back east, the authentication is a mixed blessing. This paper was unable to reach the McInnis family for comment; but the Chase family, speaking through Ms. Warwick, reported that they were relieved by the discovery of the letter: “It only proves what people have thought for years. Every family has their share of rogues and colorful characters.”

  When asked, Warwick admitted that they were still troubled by trespassers. She hopes to add the Chase Farm, founded in the 1680s, to the New Hampshire roster of Historical Places. In the meantime, she continues her uncle’s work, boarding, raising, and breeding horses as well as offering lessons and summer riding camps.

  “Chase Farm is fortunate in both our stock and our riders,” Warwick said. “We count many prize-winning riders and horses among our stable family. We’re looking forward to our annual horse show and competition this coming August.”

  She acknowledges that life without her uncle is hard, especially on her aunt, Michael’s widow. But, “We’re forging ahead and every day gets easier. We’re looking at a bright future.”

  Chapter 1:

  Early September

  Oppressive humidity weighed heavily on my chest as I pounded along the riding trail, the last hurrah of a long hot miserable summer. My running shoes hit the hard-packed dirt, and I winced as I felt pebbles and variations in the ground through my now-thin soles. Only two months old and already I needed a new pair, my fourth this year alone.

  Tree frogs and early morning birds sang as I jogged through the wooded trail. The sun lit the eastern sky on my right, glowing faded gold through the tall pines and scrubby bushes. Two squirrels chased each other around the base of a grand old oak, pausing briefly as I passed. My iPod played on, but my earphones dangled over my shoulders, so all I heard of the music was rhythmic squeaking and tapping. I had been listening earlier, but even my favorite rock songs couldn’t chase the anxious thoughts that whirled around my head. The cheerful sound grated on my soul, and I had to pull them out just to get a grip on myself.

  Anxiety is a good exercise partner. It runs alongside of you, a relentless drill sergeant who shouts in your ear the whole time, “Can’t you go faster? I’m running circles around you. I’m getting bored here, soldier. Next time you want a stroll, take your grandmother.”

  I’m not much of a runner, really. I can sprint, but even after loads of training, my long distance running skills are still decidedly sub-par. My legs are sturdy, but thick, better suited for riding. I’m short, too, which I like to think has something to do with it, but my biggest handicap is that I don’t like running at all. While clear days aren’t too bad, most mornings I feel like I’m running through soup, fighting a losing battle against gravity. Some runners talk of “runners high” and extoll the relief they feel after a run. All I feel is tired and sore.

  Nevertheless, I rose every morning before six, tied on my sneakers, and hit one of the several riding trails we have on the farm. I varied my route - decades of constant use has left a network of trails snaking all throughout the farm and the wooded areas.

  We still have decent acreage for a New England farm. Back in the 1800s, the Chase family owned about a third more, as well as having family members on the Chester town council, the state legislature, and Congress in DC, all before the outbreak of the Civil War. Our fortunes have ebbed considerably since then, both in land and in influence.

  The trail I had chosen wove in and out of woods and fields. Through the breaks in the trees, the paddocks lay quiet and shrouded in morning mist, a lovely view of old New England countryside. I’ve had photographer friends stage shoots here, and gotten inquiries from local reenacting groups to use the land. It’s beautiful, but I hardly noticed. It’s one thing to visit the property – it’s another to be responsible for it.

  As I ran, I automatically noted where the grass was thinning, scanned the fences for breakages, and gave the simple summer stables a glance to determine their upkeep. We have some paddocks devoted to training, equipped with defined tracks and jumping tools, but these so-called summer paddocks are out of sight of the main house and used only for pasturing. The stables are clean and I keep them in good condition, but they’re only used in the summer months, unless really pressed for space. Since Uncle Michael died, space hasn’t been a problem.

  As I passed one of the paddocks, I saw that two horses had been let out. Lindsay Khoury waved to me as she secured the gate. Her dark hair, pulled up high on her head, swung jauntily as she walked along. Only seventeen years old and a devoted equestrian, Lindsay was my right hand on the farm. She arrived before school every morning to prep the horses for the day and came back most afternoons for lessons and chores. During summer vacation, she helped run the summer camps, becoming the mother hen and adored riding instructor for over a dozen well-to-do middle school girls.

  Next fall she’d be off to college and as I ran, I worried about what I’d do without her. Even with two years of experience under my belt and business as slow as it was, running such a large farm by myself was a daunting prospect.

  On paper, the farm was run by both my Aunt Susanna and myself, but in reality, Lindsay and I did the work. When Uncle Michael died, Aunt Susanna quickly became overwhelmed, so I stepped away from school to help out. I’d thought it’d be simple. After all, I’d spent most of my childhood here, being raised by my aunt and uncle and learning the business. Now, two years later, I was deeper in debt than ever before and I was running out of ideas.

  I worried about Aunt Susanna, too. My aunt used to be the type to make up ridiculous songs on the spot or take cha-cha lessons just for the fun of it. She was interested in everything to do with the farm, adored the horses, and rode like a pro, winning prizes all over New England.

  All that changed with Uncle Michael’s
death. She’d aged decades in a day and sunk into a deep depression that lasted more than a year. Where once she never let a day pass without riding, usually bareback, now she shuddered at the very idea.

  “I’m too old,” she’d say. “Riding is a sport for young girls, like you and Lindsay.”

  I’d learned better than to argue with her.

  Now she spent hours alone, chain-watching sad movies and going for long solitary walks, often coming back in a dither when she found some evidence of trespassing.

  We used to be troubled with that a lot, until the article about the Beaumont letter was published. Then as interest in the farm died down, Aunt Susanna began to recover - so slowly at first that I hardly noticed, but it was steady. I was still too jaded to believe in the progress when she shocked me in August by saying, “I think I’ll go for a ride. Does Sunshine need exercise?”

  I don’t remember answering. I ran to the paddock to bring the pretty mare in for her. I was outside when Aunt Susanna slipped and fell down the narrow back staircase. She was still lying there when I came in to look for her.

  Her face was gray and she was breathing heavily. I stood over her, fighting back panic - my mind automatically flashing back to the morning of my uncle’s accident - when she spoke.

  “Maddie,” she said, and every syllable was an effort. “Maddie, I can’t get up.”

  The doctor at the hospital said she’d broken her hip, bad enough that she would need replacement surgery. Thus began a month of seemingly never-ending appointments, check-ups, and tests, from which they concluded that not only would she need the surgery, but that one of her knees was ready for replacement.

  “But that can wait until she recovers from her hip,” her doctor assured me.

  Despite the doctor’s reassurances that she’d make a full recovery, my aunt slipped silently back into depression. Although we never spoke of it, partially because I wouldn’t allow us to, I knew she felt guilty. Even with insurance, caring for an invalid is time-consuming and expensive and my workload didn’t allow me a lot of time to take care of her myself. I found myself relying heavily on our neighbor and good friend, Darlene Winters, who appointed herself as Susanna’s part-time caregiver.