Facility Closure & Relocation of Production: For Immediate Release:

Disclaimer

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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

That said, fruit rarely falls far from the tree and many of the first and last names were drawn from people the author knew and were reworked into new names.

The ubiquitous without whom department

I first of all wish to thank you, the reader for taking the time to read this work. I hope you enjoy it. In addition, there is my wife, without whom I would never have been subjected to the boring TV shows and hockey practices that allowed me to escape into my imagination and create this work. There are also all the teachers in my Translation and Writing Degree who finally taught me how to write well, research, and to push myself to limits I didn’t know existed.

Finding names to use was a challenge and, in many cases, I used either first or last names of people I have known throughout my life. If your name is here, I likely knew you in a positive way and I thank you for unwittingly lending me your name. If you recognize yourself, drop me a line. The names of the main characters are, however, pure fiction.

Finally, I would like to thank Sook Hollinger for her friendship, technical support, revision, ideas and her unwavering support throughout this project. Her contribution was pivotal. Happy retirement:)

ISBN 978-0-9938296-0-4

© 2014 by Nathan Nash. All rights reserved.

Cover Design ©Melissa Alvarez, BookCovers.Us

Photography ©Depositphotos.com/ © Baloncici / ©vkraskousk / ©Madllen

table of contents

hello

childhood ends

a new family forms

the little dubrovnik & friends

preparing the path

revelations

part ii

find the truth

even more dirty little secrets

a small victory

epitaph

sources consulted

about the author

part i

hello

I, Ivan Horvat, was 23 and had just graduated from university in journalism the month before starting this trip. In fact, the ink on my diploma may still have been wet when I began.

I hadn’t gotten a job yet, although there were prospects. Rather than see me lounging around at home, my parents proposed that I take off in my car and simply travel for a couple of months to discover another side to this great country that living in one city for most of my life hadn’t given me. They said it would build character too, but I suspected they were hoping I would find employment somewhere along the line.

So, I took off one June morning in my old Toyota, still in good shape, despite my meager subsistence in journalism school. I had some money and my parents had been generous. Moreover, I also had a credit card with my name on it, but that was linked to my parent’s account and came with strict instructions on when to use it. Short of the combined events of a natural disaster and an alien invasion while being trampled by a herd of snapping turtles, I understood I was supposed to stay away from it.

I made a plan and drove a few hours every day to a new location. Small towns were my favorite as they cost less to stay in and I could sometimes even get breakfasts included. Those were also great opportunities to stock up for the day and avoid having to pay for a mid-day lunch. I admit, though, that it was indeed a great opportunity to see new landscape. There is something to say for getting away from four lanes of asphalt stretching as far as the eye can see and wandering along less travelled roads. The trip was fun. I was only missing my best friend who couldn’t come because he was working, a fact my parents didn’t overlook. I was their only child and they loved me, but they tried to be strict too. They didn’t want this trip to turn into an endless party.

It was June 28 when I got to Cachet Junction, Nebraska. I was stopping there simply because it was about the right distance from my previous stop and because I had gotten a room in a small bed and breakfast. There was nothing remarkable about yet another small town surrounded by farmer’s fields, rapidly growing crops, and various livestock.

On the way into town, I passed several outlying businesses – a giant private outdoor flea market, a gas station, an auto scrap yard with a field of hulks, and a boarded up factory. The name of the previous occupant had been erased, but from the looks of it, the site was relatively new. The asphalt was in good shape and the buildings looked modern, not like the old factory buildings I had once seen in Pittsburgh that dated back to the 1940s.

The address was easy to find and the house was a quaint bungalow with a well-kept yard. Mrs. Smolinsky, who insisted I call her Rita, met me at the door and invited me in. Her husband Simon and she had opened the bed and breakfast a few years prior after their youngest son Mark had joined the Marines and left the nest empty.

It was nearing supper and Simon was not home yet. Rita fixed me some hot tea while she finished preparing the meal. I was the only boarder that night. Things were quiet in the town, but having the bed and breakfast was a tax write-off, even if it wasn’t used a lot now. Besides, the house was paid for and Rita wasn’t planning to move out of it until she had to, which would hopefully be many, many years from now. The occasional extra company was the real bonus of opening her doors to strangers. Rita would be able to cook for more than two, something she had done most of her life, as well as meet new people.

A pot of soup was simmering on the stove and in the oven a roast beef was nearing perfection. There were fresh rolls waiting on the counter and, judging from having grown up with two doting grandmothers, there was surely something special for dessert not far away.

Simon arrived in an older pick-up truck, greeted me, and washed up for supper. We began to talk. I told them how my parents had raised me, their only son, in Chicago and about my studies in Minneapolis. They congratulated me on succeeding and asked me what my future plans were.

After discussing my hopes for finding work, Rita embarked on her favorite topic, her three kids – Erica, Louise and Mark. Erica had recently married after finishing her advanced nursing studies and was expecting her first child in a couple of months. She and her husband lived in Sioux City now. Louise was doing well too, but had chosen to go into land surveying and had taken up residence in Columbus, where an uncle was hoping to let her take over his business eventually. She was still single, Rita said with an air of wistfulness and a glance my way. Finally, Mark was doing well as a Marine and was still deciding if he was going to re-engage. The smiling faces in the pictures on the wall showed three beautiful kids and, if I may say so, the two girls looked mighty fine indeed. Maybe I should swing by Columbus, I thought to myself idly.

We talked and ate and repeated the sequence until we had done justice to the fine meal Rita had prepared. My stomach, still recovering from student status, told me that it was very happy with my decision to stay here and that it too agreed with a trip to Columbus to see if Louise could cook as well as her mother. Then I asked the question that would change the course of my trip.

I brought up the shuttered factory I had seen and asked what it had been and what happened. Simon’s happy demeanor seemed to visibly ebb away and Rita grew quiet. Not many people know the truth, he told me, and Rita looked worried that he was going to give away a national secret. Simon, hitherto attached to a coffee cup Rita had been keeping full, got up and fetched a bottle of bourbon I knew to be a particularly good brand usually reserved for special occasions. He poured two glasses and passed one to me. The tension in the air was palpable, as if I had asked a totally indecent question, and I was growing nervous.

With a drawn voice, Simon told me that it was about time somebody knew, and that I made a great candidate with my journalism degree and upbringing in the big city. Rita sat down with a coffee she didn’t take one sip of and Simon began his tale while I sat mesmerized.

childhood ends

It was a warm Friday night in September in Cachet Junction. Reverend Bob White, a.k.a. coach White of the Cachet Gladiators football team, was hosting the players for a religious-themed team-building event at his house. His wife Martha was out with her Friday night bridge club at one of the other member’s houses, as was her habit when he held these events. Players were arriving steadily. These evenings were popular and were one of the more anticipated activities in a town where there was not a lot for youth to do.

They were also a mark of status. Only football players could come, and they could bring a girlfriend if they so desired. Nobody else was welcome though, as Coach White maintained that players needed to bond properly. Since the evenings had started several years before, the team’s performance had improved noticeably. Performance still wasn’t often stellar, but the team did remarkably well considering that it came from a small town with limited talent to choose from.

Tonight, Tori Gibbons accompanied a running back, Ronald Whittaker. Ronald was a solid player, but wouldn’t likely make the state university team, assuming he even went on to further studies after high school. Tori was from a poor family and, given her family tendencies, would be lucky to graduate from high school. Still, she was a fine young girl and, together, they made a good couple. They could hardly keep away from each other.

Steve McEwan arrived along with Harold Knight and Juan Perez. They had obviously started the party a little earlier somewhere else, something that didn’t surprise Coach White. In fact, he encouraged players to unwind a little and even kept liquid refreshments in the fridge for these occasions.

The evening was lively and players talked about their exploits, bragging unashamedly about how they had sacked so-and-so on an opposing team or had managed to get around another player to get a touchdown. There was also a lot of talk about various games – college and NFL – where players had seen good and bad plays. Coach White stayed involved in the conversations and offered advice, while keeping the guests supplied with finger foods. Strangely, there was no talk about religion.

Steve, Harold and Juan made regular trips to the fridge. Tori stayed close to Ronald and eventually they went to the back yard, where there were plenty of bushes and corners to provide cover for intimacy. Coach White saw them leave, smiled to himself, and paid no further attention. Neither did anybody else.

After about an hour, Steve, Harold and Juan too went outside, but again, nobody really paid attention. They walked around the back yard at random in a happy mood until they came across Tori and Ronald kissing. They began to tease Ronald about not getting to second base any faster and Ronald began to get annoyed. He was smaller than them, but proud he had a girlfriend when they did not.

Cheap talk, fuelled by alcohol for the three of them, quickly took a nasty turn. Harold offered to show Tori what to do next and she became embarrassed and flustered. Ronald knew he was outnumbered and outsized, but bravely tried to fend off the three drunks. Ronald was losing ground fast when Juan told him they needed to talk to Tori alone and suggested he return to the house. Being young and naïve and also unable to defend himself, Ronald reluctantly hoped for the best and left, promising himself that he would return in a few minutes.

When Ronald was out of sight, Harold stepped up to Tori and grabbed her breast. Tori struggled, but Steve and Juan quickly grabbed her arms while Harold pulled her shirt up and her pants down. Twenty minutes later, Tori was no longer a virgin. She was also just months away from becoming a mother after each had had a turn. The players returned to the party while Tori stumbled home in tears. The cameras hidden in the bushes captured the entire scene in high resolution.

Simon paused for a minute.

–_–

Desmond Carter readied himself for work. There was always something worrying about this part of his job. Not so long ago, Desmond’s own ancestors had struggled to make ends meet after being freed. In fact, life for African Americans still seemed to be one endless struggle to get educated and treated equally, even if they were free. Now, part of his job was to look for the most vulnerable – the illegal immigrants – and stop their exploitation.

There had been a complaint and an investigation. The Spirit Lakes Processing Plant just outside of Tampa was suspected of hiring illegal immigrants to process its chicken. Meat processing is a cut-throat industry and workers are paid as little, while being worked as hard as possible. Worker safety is given minimal attention, especially where money is involved. A dollar saved is a dollar earned, and owners want to earn lots of dollars. Hiring illegal workers goes a long way to making those dollars come in faster and reduces the crazy expenses involved in employing legal workers, like decent working conditions and minimum wages.

It wasn’t the first time Desmond had been there in the decade or so he had been on the job. Ownership would change from one anonymous numbered company to another and the plant would be back in business almost as soon as it was shut down. The pattern of busts was becoming apparent too. There was