George Watson was an ordinary man who led a simple life. He was twenty-eight years old and had a lovely wife named Doris. Shortly after they were married, they adopted a dog and, given their affinity for American Literature, named him Bark Twain. George, Doris, and Bark lived in the suburbs in a little white house on Sawyer Lane. They attended St. John’s Methodist Church on Sundays. Bark remained at home.

Like Doris, George was educated but had trouble finding a suitable career. After several attempts at various jobs, George discovered he was naturally good at three things. He could write, he could see the tiniest flaws in works of art, and he could shoot. He discussed these skills with Doris over a dinner of pork chops, peas, and rice. They concluded there was no future in critiquing art or shooting. As such, he decided to build a career writing novels, memoirs, and news features for the local printed press.

He began submitting short articles to his local paper, The Morgan Messenger, in Berkeley Springs. The editor, Mr. Reginald Herrington, III, immediately recognized George’s talent and gave him regular work covering politics and business happenings around town. Impressed by George’s dedication and precision, Herrington offered him a full-time position for the respectable sum of $11.48 an hour. Doris and Bark were elated.

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It goes without saying that being a salaried newspaperman for The Morgan Messenger opened many doors to important men and women. This led to bigger opportunities beyond Berkeley Springs. Soon, George was doing freelance assignments for a variety of noteworthy newspapers and magazines in the nearby metropolis. In that capacity, he was able to interview senators, members of Congress, presidential candidates, and even generals from the Pentagon. Completing these assignments required him to travel more than he preferred, but Doris and Bark understood.

Over time, the manner of his work and frequent absences became the topic of conversation amongst neighbors on Sawyer Lane. Nefarious rumors circulated that George Watson was possibly engaged in deceitful practices. Some even accused him of being a spy for some unnamed government agency. He denied it, of course, and pointed to his many articles and disquisitions published by reputable newspapers as proof of his actual profession. But the worst of the rumormongers countered that denying he was a spy was exactly what a spy would do. Understanding George’s dilemma, Doris told him to let people believe what they wanted and continue with his writing. Bark Twain was indifferent.

Several months later, while working on a story about a particularly hideous murder of a political staffer in a downtown park, he interviewed three public servants in the same day and was shocked when they all used different combinations of the same words when answering his questions. The fact that they were all members of the same political faction did not escape George’s attention. He considered digging deeper, but a deadline loomed, and being the professional he was, George filed his copy to Reginald Herrington over the wires and boarded the evening train for the ride back to Berkley Springs.

Lying in bed that night, with Doris snuggled next to him and Bark lying comfortably in his bed beneath the window, George thought about the three officials he interviewed for the story. Their common responses to different questions nettled him. He was not naive enough to believe that extraordinary people in powerful positions would never lie, especially about murder, but the fact that three people had apparently coordinated a response to a criminal act told him that there was certainly more to the story. He decided to ask Mr. Herrington for permission to investigate the matter further. He approved.

After several months of fruitless inquiries, George became disillusioned. He conducted dozens of interviews with important people in the metropolis and could only come to one conclusion: most of them were corrupt. Unfortunately, he could find no direct proof confirming his suspicions that Reginald Herrington was willing to print. This vexed him to no end, but being the hard working, ordinary man he was, George accepted Herrington’s decision and continued his daily duties as a salaried newspaperman for The Morgan Messenger. But his enthusiasm for his work was irreparably damaged.

In late October of 1975, he sat down with Doris over a dinner of pork chops, rice, and peas, and together they decided it would be okay if he took a break from his full-time newspaper work and focused instead on writing his novel. Doris’ compensation as a Chartered Certified Accountant provided adequate income, and George assured her that Reginald Herrington, III would give him an occasional local assignment to help make ends meet. Doris agreed. That night, a reinvigorated George lovingly celebrated with Doris as only husbands and wives do.

Two weeks later, excited to begin his new chapter, both literally and figuratively, he stopped taking the train into Union Station in the metropolis and began work on his novel. He was content. Then, one fateful day in December, a knock on his door by a mysterious man set him on an unexpected path that would change George Watson’s life forever.

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