The Lost Choice

  Many years later, on Friday, June 30, 1826, several of Boston’s leaders made their way to nearby Braintree to visit the ailing ex-president. Adams was in his library, seated in his favorite chair. In four days, he was told, the nation would celebrate its fiftieth anniversary—fifty years to the day from which the Declaration of Independence was ratified. Would he, they wondered, offer a toast to be presented to the huge crowds that were expected? Without hesitation, the old man raised his voice and said, “Independence forever!” When asked if there was anything else he would care to add, Adams smiled.“Not a word,” was his response.

  On that evening, July 4, the Adams children and grandchildren gathered around the great man’s bedside and listened with him as the cheers and happy explosions of fireworks resounded throughout the city. His heart stopped at 6:20. John Adams was 90 years, 247 days old. His last words were,“Thomas Jefferson survives.” But Jefferson had died three hours earlier.

  TWELVE

  DENVER, COLORADO—NOVEMBER

  AN HOUR AFTER THEIR EARLY MORNING BREAK-fast, they were all in Dylan’s office as he finished his call to the Smithsonian. Abby had pulled the folding chair from behind the door and was seated facing Dylan. Mark, his hands stuffed in his pockets, listened in silence with his back against the closed door while Dorry, on her knees at Dylan’s desk, scribbled questions and ideas on a notepad as they all listened to one side of the conversation.

  From his swivel chair, Dylan was enjoying the reactions of the others as he repeated the facts given to him over the phone. “Yes,” he said in conclusion. “We’ll e-mail our museum’s ID codes, address, UPS account numbers . . .You’ll get everything within the hour . . .Yes, please overnight it. And Don, one more thing, would it be possible for you to include the Quincy letter with that item? . . .Great. Thanks so much. Listen, anything you ever need on this end, let me know. Take care.”

  Dylan reached across the desk, replacing the handset in its cradle, and then spun his chair in a full circle.“Yeow!” he exulted.“What do you think about that?!”

  “Adams and Adams,” Dorry said, still writing. “It’s incredible. I wish I remembered more history, but I’ll look all this up.”

  Mark spoke. “I think we all got everything he said. By the way, your guy is still running the computer, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. It runs 24/7. Even when he’s gone.”

  “We need to meet again tonight, don’t we?” Mark asked the group in general.

  “Yes,” Dorry answered. “Definitely.”

  Abby stifled a yawn.“I’m up for it,” she said,“but I have to get some sleep at some point.”

  Dylan glanced at the clock on his desk. “I say we go till lunch, head home to sleep, then over to Mark and Dorry’s . . .” Catching Abby’s “look” and realizing he had just invited himself over to their house, Dylan quickly apologized. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Will it be okay to meet at your house?”

  Dorry smiled and waved off the apology.“No problem; our place is fine. That’ll make it easier on me.”

  “Great! I’ll want to come by here before we head your way. I can check on Perasi. Who knows? We might get some up-to-the-minute stuff.” He paused, thinking carefully, then said, “I’m also going to call Don back at the Smithsonian. Obviously, he’ll still have to overnight the relic, but I want to see if he’ll fax or e-mail me the letter from John Quincy Adams. Then we’ll have it for tonight.”

  They waited patiently while Dylan punched the numbers into his desk phone, then talked briefly with his back to them. Within seconds, he hung up and swung his chair back around. “He’s already out of his office. I left a message on his voice mail. I’m sure it won’t be any problem.”

  “Did the guy . . . Don, right?”Abby asked.“Did he read any of the letter to you?”

  “Naw. He said it was pretty long and is about John Quincy Adams turning the object over to the collection of his father’s personal items. Don said he found the letter when he ran his own in-house search for the object. Evidently, the letter is a part of the Quincy Adams grouping— anyway, I think we’ll have a copy of it tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said,“I’m curious about that whole thing. So . . . what time tonight?”

  Dorry broke in.“You guys just come on over when you wake up. I’ll have food, so no need to stop on the way.” Then to Dylan she said, “Can I hang here until you two leave? I don’t have anything pressing at the Post, and I’d like to meet Perasi, see the computer . . . you know?”

  “Sure,” Dylan said.“The way this is unfolding, well, it’d be a heck of an article, huh?”

  “Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind,” Dorry said, “but right now, I feel as though I’ve been reading the world’s greatest mystery and someone has torn out the pages of the last chapter!”

  DORRY WALKED INTO THE LIVING ROOM TO PLACE A tray of taco shells on the table and saw the headlights of Dylan’s car as it turned into the driveway. She waited at the door and, as he and Abby walked up, ushered them inside. They looked much better, Dorry noticed, than they had earlier. Fresher, cleaner, both wore jeans and sweatshirts. Dylan had a medium-size cardboard box in his hands.“I slept. I showered,”Abby said as she gave Dorry a quick hug.

  “Hey, tacos!” Dylan said as he moved toward the table.

  “Yessir,” Dorry said. “My finest meal. You guys make yourselves at home—drinks in the kitchen—let me get Michael settled. Mark will be right in.”

  “Hi, guys,” Mark said from the kitchen.“You both look . . . awake. Dorry won’t be long. Coke? Coffee? Green Kool-Aid? Whadaya want?” Abby and Dylan joined him there as he poured soft drinks, making small talk while they waited.

  A few minutes later,Dorry joined the group and flopped into a chair at the table. “Whew!” she said. “Michael is a handful. Okay, let’s eat.” She took hold of the armrests on the chair and started to pull herself up again, but was stopped by Dylan.

  “Hang on, Dorry,” he said. “You want to see what we have before we eat?”

  “Actually, yes, but I thought you would be hungry.”

  Dylan grinned.“Forget the food for a minute. Mark, get Dorry some coffee. She’ll want to be awake for this.”

  When Dorry had her cup, they all settled forward, elbows on the table, and Dylan began. “You first? Or me first?” he asked Abby.

  “You go,” she said.“Start with the letter.”Then to Mark and Dorry, she added, “I will give you the measurements from the radio scope after he’s finished.”

  Dylan began by opening the cardboard box he had placed on the floor beside his chair. Removing the page on top, the Chandlers could see that it was a faxed copy of what they assumed to be the letter from John Quincy Adams.“We’ll have the original in our hands tomorrow,” Dylan said, “but for our purposes, this is just as good. We won’t be testing paper or anything like that. It’s the letter’s content that is important. And the content is . . . well . . .” He glanced at Abby who smiled and pretended to shiver, “Let’s just say the content of this letter confirms some of what we already know and creates a few more possibilities. It is addressed to the ‘Committee of Presidential Archives.’” He passed the page to Mark.“Here. Read it aloud.”

  Mark took it and saw that the handwriting was beautiful and flowing. The letter had been written on stationery with an A printed at the top of the page in an old, swirling style. The date, handwritten in the top right corner, was December 27, 1847.

  Dear Sirs,

  I trust this missive to find you healthy and of good cheer as we seek together yet another new year. Endeavoring to depart this earth with as firm a foundation erected for the legacy of my father, John Adams, I humbly submit this personal heirloom to your trust as belonging to his effects, more certainly than my own.

  On the evening of his passing, goaded merely by impulse, I plucked it from his bedside as a remembrance of him. Unimpressive though the object may seem, family history insists upon it once belonging to Jeanne d’Arc. Nevertheless, m
y grandfather, five generations removed, brought the object from Somerset in 1638. From him, or at least from that point, it passed from father to son until it was possessed by my father.

  The markings visible on the object are Aramaic. Translated by him as a young man, they read,“By your hand, the people shall be free.” Knowing these words, knowing how fervently my father believed them to be true, and being aware of the part he played in the founding of our nation, I considered the item a remembrance of my personal heritage—much the same as another child might view his father’s pocketknife or timepiece. In any case, I have carried it with me during my life, as did my father.

  Incidentally, my surviving son, Charles, initiated this action that I am presently undertaking, for he is of the opinion that the item not be placed upon his shelf or in his pocket as was my intention, but entrusted into your care as a personal item of the second president of these United States.

  One final point. Aware as I am of my own advanced age and declining health, it is incumbent upon me to bow to the importance of written record. I am hesitant to include the following observation for it has no basis in hard fact or historical meaning. My next words delve rather deeply into impression and perception— and for that, I beg you forgive an old man. I will strive to convey this occurrence in a factual manner and avoid the slack-jawed wonder by which I remember it.

  As I noted earlier, this object of my father’s has been carried on my person, until this day, for more than twenty-one years. Always in the high right pocket of my coat. Often, as I walked the halls of government, the item’s translation sprang to mind, but other than my wife and children, to my certain knowledge, no one understood the markings and further, no other person held the object—save two—and both these exceptions occurred on the same day.

  As you are aware, I ended my self-imposed retirement twelve full years after my presidency ended in order to appear as an attorney before our nation’s Supreme Court. My defense of the Africans aboard the slave schooner Amistad was successful, but as the official pronouncement of “not guilty”was made on March 9, 1841, one of the strangest events in my life took place.

  Chief Justice Marshall declared the slaves to be at liberty and directed that they be returned to their homeland. At that moment, Cinque, the man who had led the Amistad revolt, looked to me for confirmation that he was indeed, now free, and plainly asked, in English,“May I see the stone?” At first, I did not understand, but again, he asked, then tapped my pocket with his hand.

  I removed the object. Cinque took it in his hand and kissed it.

  Many people in the courtroom witnessed this brief exchange. One other attorney, however, Francis Scott Key of the District of Columbia, an ally of mine in the defense, gently removed it from Cinque’s hand and sat down. As I continued to receive the medley of congratulation and threat a case of this sort generates, I watched Key from the corner of my eye. For a quarter of an hour, he alternately stared at the object and looked away as if seeking to remember a forgotten name.

  In due course, I retrieved the item and made my way home. I later asked Key about this strange encounter. He said only that the object struck him as “vastly familiar.” As for Cinque, I only encountered him on one other occasion and never came to understand his fervor for the object, nor how he even knew it was in my pocket.

  In closing, I must once again apologize for the stirring of fact and fancy with which I have presented this item. It is now, however, in your keeping, for our nation, in the memory of my dear father.

  I am most sincerely yours,

  John Quincy Adams

  Mark studied the signature briefly, then exhaled loudly as he lowered the page. He opened his mouth as if to say something, closing it almost as suddenly.“I’m having a hard time putting this together.”

  “Isn’t this the most exciting—,”Abby stammered.“Is this unbelievable?”

  “Yeah, it’s unbelievable,” Dylan said,“but I’m with Mark. The whole picture has not emerged for me yet. It’s as confusing as it is exciting. And wait till you see the rest of this. Right now, you aren’t confused at all!”

  As always, Dorry was taking notes. She paused, flipped a few pages in her book, and said,“Here’s some background I did this afternoon. John Adams was the second president. Quincy was number six. Quincy was the first president to be fathered by a president. By the way, of the first seven presidents, John Adams was the only one to have a male heir.” She looked up.“That doesn’t really mean anything. I just thought it was interesting.

  “Of the founding fathers—Franklin, Washington, Jefferson, Patrick Henry—John Adams was one of the very few who never owned a slave. And his family never owned slaves. That’s curious, isn’t it? Considering the translation on the object.”

  Dylan interrupted. “Hey! What do you make of them knowing what it said? They translated it!”

  “Yeah,” Mark said.“And Francis Scott Key in the letter? He only wrote ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’And Amistad?” “Did you see that movie?”Abby asked Mark.

  “Yes, and do you know who made that movie?”

  “Spielberg!” they practically shouted at once.

  “Holy moly,” Dylan said.“We have a picture of Schindler with one of these things. Now it’s connected to the guy from the Amistad.You know, I have Spielberg’s phone number. I think I’ll call and ask if he knows what’s going on!” “Guys.” Mark’s serious tone cut through the teasing. “Dorry”—he motioned with his hand—“I need a piece of paper and the pen.” As she slid the items within his reach, Mark quickly divided the blank page in front of him into three columns and at the top, labeled them Live, Fed, and Free.“Have you noticed this?” he said, talking as he wrote.

  “We thought it was coincidence . . . neat . . . strange, whatever, that George Washington Carver, who did so much with food . . . had the food stone.” In the Fed column, Mark wrote Carver.“Now, we have John Adams . . .”

  “Oh, man, I see where you’re going with this,” Dylan broke in.

  “Hang on,” Mark said. “Slow down. Let’s do this carefully. Let’s put every piece of this puzzle on the table . . .”

  “Oh, man man man!” Dylan rattled. “You don’t even know what I have in the—”

  “Dylan! Hang on, brother! We have to lay this out precisely.”

  “You have to understand, Dylan,” Dorry interrupted. “It’s the detective thing. Slooow . . . steeeady . . . there might be a fingerprint on that blade of grass two miles from the crime scene.”

  Ignoring her, Mark continued, “In the Free column, we put Adams . . .Adams . . . Joan of Arc . . .”

  “Francis Scott Key,”Abby said.

  “Yeah,”Mark agreed, writing slowly. “Francis Scott Key . . .Who else?” Mark asked.

  “The Amistad guy goes in that column too,” Dylan said. “And put Henry Wallace and Norman Borlaug in the Fed column.”

  “Patterson,” Dorry said.“The president of Carver’s college. Frederick Patterson. Put him down.”

  “And in the Live column?” Mark asked the others.“This is just an assumption, of course, but an obvious one . . .”

  “Schindler,” they answered.

  “My gosh,”Abby continued to talk.“See how this is lining up? Perasi found some more matches too. And I have to tell you about the scopes.”

  Mark shook his head.“This is so weird.”

  Dylan pulled the last two pages from the box and laid them side by side.“For you, my friend,” he smiled. “It just got weirder.”

  Dorry stood over Mark’s shoulder with her coffee in hand as they studied the two images before them, recognizing neither.“Perasi does good work, doesn’t he?” Dylan asked as he pushed a page forward.“Look at this one first.” It was a photograph of a bookish man in a white lab coat with which he wore a black tie. His receding hairline and thick, black-rimmed glasses gave the appearance of an older person, though his lack of wrinkles and the twinkle in his eye revealed the truth that he was, indeed, still a young man
. He posed in the picture with a microscope, but to his right, sitting directly on top of a stack of three books, was a relic. “Know him?” Dylan asked. Mark and Dorry shook their heads.“Tell ’em,Ab.”

  “Jonas Salk.”

  “No way!” Dorry said, picking up the page to get a closer look. “He discovered the polio vaccine. There’s the object, right there.”

  “That’s Live,” Mark said.

  “What?”

  “Live. Jonas Salk. The polio vaccine. That object has got to be ‘By your hand, the people shall live.’ And”—Mark paused to look carefully at his wife—“if that is Live, and considering how these others are lining up, I have no doubt that it is, the relic Michael found in the creek.”

  For a moment they just looked at each other, lost in questions their minds were having trouble formulating, never mind answering. Dorry broke the silence.“Ab, when was that picture taken?”

  Abby glanced at her notes.“May 5, 1955. Perasi found this one in the Time magazine microfilm. Salk died in ’95. He was seventy when he died, so . . . he’s thirty in this picture.”

  Addressing the image of the young doctor,Dorry asked, “Where did you get this? And who had it after you? Or did anybody?” She looked at Mark.“And how in the world did it end up in our backyard?”

  “Check this guy out.” Dylan changed the subject by picking up the other page.“Scary boy, isn’t he?”The image was of a painting, and though it was the second to be shown, it had been the first to catch the eye of both Mark and Dorry when Dylan had laid them on the table a few minutes before. As they had examined the photograph and talked about Jonas Salk, the Chandlers’ attention had continued to drift toward this image.