The Rosenberg Factor (standard:Suspense, 8209 words)
Author: Stephen-Carver Byrd	Added: Oct 07 2002	Views/Reads: 3843/2527	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A lone traveler makes a startling discovery in a rural Georgia town.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

giving the town a familiar nostalgia of a Deep South, long since gone.  
Flipping off the air conditioner he rolled down the windows, breathing 
deeply, absorbing the sweet smell of jasmine and magnolias that floated 
vibrantly through the warm morning air. Sitting off, well beyond the 
road, he looked in amazement at the large, restored homes of the early 
and middle 19th century. Slowly he drove, carefully studying the fine 
detail of architecture, each home with it's own distinct individuality. 


The downtown area was just as enchanting. Stopping at what seemed to be
the town's only traffic signal he glanced around. Save for a couple of 
lone pedestrians, the streets were quiet, as what could be expected on 
a Sunday morning. The light changed and Jake continued to drive slowly, 
carefully taking in all the beauty and magic that this little town had 
to offer. 

The western area of the small city had lost most of its luster. The
homes and business looked worn and somewhat tattered. Just ahead to the 
right, he caught the view of a small sign. 

Glenville Diner 

Church services were now in progress and the parking lot looked
virtually empty with the exception of a few older model cars and two 
rusty pick-ups. Jake stepped from the Mustang and automatically tapped 
his right back pocket. His wallet was gone. “Damn,” he said quietly to 
himself, remembering he'd lost it somewhere in Washington a few days 
earlier. Melissa, his fiancée, had been a real sweetheart by taking the 
afternoon off and wiring him five hundred dollars. He unlocked the car 
door, opened a suitcase and plucked out two five-dollar bills. 

Upon entering the diner, the first thing he noticed were the
decrepitated booths, tables and long counter where only a handful of 
patrons sat eating in silence. Despite a bright morning sun steaming 
through large glass windows the lighting was dim and muted. A strong 
smell of burned grease quickly washed away any lingering hint of the 
magnolias and jasmine. Taking a seat at the worn counter he reached for 
a menu and begin carefully studying it. 

“What can I get for you, Terry?” a rough, Georgian accent abruptly
asked, causing Jake to jump in his seat. 

He looked up into the face of a large, unshaven man with funny-looking
tattoos running across both sides of his neck. 

“Terry?” he asked, “I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me with the wrong
fellow. Jake's the name, Jake Brockton, from Atlanta.” 

He held out a slight hand but the large cook just stared back with
apprehensive eyes. Feeling stupid he slowly removed his dangling hand 
and pointed to an item on the menu. The big man never spoke a word. He 
merely turned away and began preparing Jake's late morning breakfast. 

As he sat, gazing around the shabby diner, Jake noticed several men in
the back, all wearing plaid farming shirts and ball caps, all staring 
inconspicuously in his direction. An elderly man and woman, who also 
was sitting at the counter, gave him more than a passing glance. He 
reached out and pulled a grease-smeared newspaper his way. Casually 
examining it, he noticed there was nothing other than small town news 
and farm reports. He looked at the date and observed that it was three 
days old. Inspecting it closer, he realized the paper was published 
only weekly. He tossed it aside as the big cook brought his breakfast 
and coffee. He casually inspected the man's large white apron, certain 
it hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a number of months. 

“Anything else, Terry?” the brawny man asked. Jake started to correct
him again but decided not to make any further issue of it. 

“No thank you, this will be fine,” he replied, while disgustingly
looking to his plate. He slowly began to eat, feeling the eyes of the 
other costumers suspiciously watching him. Grease oozed from the 
beacon, slithered across his plate, draining slowly into the biscuits. 

After gulping down the last of his coffee he glanced at the tab: $4.95.
Pulling one of the two fives from his pocket, he balled it up and 
intentionally tossed it into his grease-filled plate, not feeling the 
least bit guilty of the generous five-cent tip. Outside, he slipped 
into the soft comfortable seat of the Mustang and fired up the engine. 
Just as he was backing out, something caught his eye. Four men, 
including the large cook, had gathered at the window and were staring 
in his direction. One man held out a pointed finger while the others 
appeared to be shaking their heads. Jake had to fight the alluring urge 
to roll down the window and shoot them all a deliberate “Stick it up 
your ass” middle finger. 

Out on the highway, he stretched his shoulders then leaned back and
relaxed for the long drive ahead. His eyes fixated into the rear-view 
mirror and watched as the little town of Glenville, Georgia grow 
smaller and smaller into a soft, misty haze. Traffic on 576 was light, 
and the Mustang passed only an occasional semi who's driver had 
obviously discovered the secret shortcut as well. The road was not 
paved with potholes as he had worried but it was cracked and uneven, 
causing the car to sway and pitch. The speed limit was fifty-five but 
Jake was running only forty-five, determined not to put his car through 
an hour of furrowed punishment. 

He glanced to the back seat and smiled at the new Spalding football he'd
picked up for Hunter, his future five-year old stepson. He'd promised 
to buy the little guy the ball if the boy agreed to be helpful to his 
mother while he was away. Hunter had finalized the deal with eager 
enthusiasm. He opened the glove box and pulled out a beautifully satin 
wrapped box that held a special treasure. It was for his fiancée, 
Melissa. His mind drifted back perhaps a year earlier when Melissa, 
Hunter and himself were all introduced in a rather uncanny way... by 
means of a car accident. Thankfully it was only minor. Melissa stepped 
from her car holding Hunter in her arms. They were both crying and 
miserably upset, but thankfully sound in limb. He consoled both mother 
and child and before the police had the opportunity to arrive, Jake, 
with his gifted sense of humor, had Melissa's eyes dry and Hunter 
laughing. While accessing the damage, he learned that Melissa was a 
struggling single mother with little resources for a car repair. Being 
a passionate antique car restorer, he agreed to repair the car's 
crinkled front end at no charge. From that point, the relationship 
between the three grew and blossomed into a wonderful close bond. 
Inside the lovely wrapped box sat a beautiful marquis diamond ring that 
he planned as a surprise. The serious discussion of marriage had 
already been tossed about for several months, but the ring, he knew, 
would be the final clincher. 

Glancing one last time into his rear-view mirror, he noticed a tiny blue
twinkle. At first, he thought it was just his imagination, but then he 
quickly observed a second, then a third. By now the little twinkle had 
changed into steady blue light, a light that was gaining at an alarming 
rate of speed. 

The green and white police curser pulled swiftly up to the Mustang's
rear bumper, siren in full action. Jake pulled the car safely off to 
the side of the road and watched as two Austin County sheriff deputies 
stepped from the vehicle. 

“Terry, just where do you think you were going,” asked the smaller and
older of the two deputies. 

“Terry, Terry,” Jake called, his voice swimming in irritation. “Why does
everyone in this god-forsaken little town insist on calling me Terry?” 

“Come on, step out of the car,” instructed the same small deputy, who
with no doubt seemed to be in charge. “Ok,” he continued, so you're not 
Terry, just tell me who you are then.” 

“Jake Brockton, from Atlanta. I've been on a business trip to Washington
for the last several days and I'm sort of anxious to get home if you 
guys don't mind.” 

The two deputies glanced at one another with heavy skepticism. “All
right, Jake, you have any ID that can prove that's who you really are?” 
asked the other taller deputy, his voice, young, inexperienced and full 
of vigor. 

Jake felt a sharp sinking feeling, remembering he had no identification,
not even a registration for the car. “I'm really sorry, officers, I 
lost my wallet while in Washington, my fiancée wired me some cash to at 
least get home on. I was planning to replace everything just as soon as 
I got to Atlanta.” 

The two deputies looked at each other again then retreated to their
patrol car. He watched as they gathered in hushed whispers. After a 
minute of discussion, they slowly returned. “Tell you what we're going 
to do, Terry...huh...Jake,” the smaller deputy began. “You have two 
choices here, either you're going to let us take you home to your wife 
or else you're going to spend some time in our jail, of course for you 
own safety.” 

“My own safety?“ Jake retorted in growing annoyance. “First of all, my
home is Atlanta, and second of all, I'm not even married.” 

“That's total bullshit. You're Terry Coffer and you know goddamn well
that you live in Glenville!” snapped the tall, young deputy. 

The smaller deputy looked up to his counterpart with a scolding glare
then took Jake by the arm. “Come on, you can ride up front with me, Ted 
here will take the Mustang.” 

“Nobody drives that car except me!” Jake yelled, quickly jerking his arm
free of the officer. 

Startled, both deputies fell back, their hands impulsively lowering to
large holstered weapons. 

Ted began calling out to his partner, “He ain't listenin' Cal, just like
they said he wouldn't, he ain't listenin‘.” The tall deputy pulled a 
large nightstick from his waist. “I say we give him a little workin' 
over right here, maybe that‘ll help him remember some things.” 

“Ted, just shut the hell up,” Cal yelled back while grabbing a set of
handcuffs from his belt. He looked Jake straight in the eyes. “Now 
you're gonna come along nice and easy or either you can come along nice 
and hard,” Cal said while walking cautiously in Jake‘s direction. Ted 
was already warming up the nightstick, popping it rapidly into an 
opened palm. Judging from the inexperienced and dumb look on his face, 
Jake knew he wouldn't hesitate a second from using it on him. 

In defeat, he held out both hands and Cal quickly slapped the cuffs
around his wrists. 

“Into the back,” he instructed, carefully helping him into the cruiser. 

“Where you taking me?” Jake asked. 

“Officer Cal Bailey, a thirty-year boyhood friend of Terry Coffer,
solemnly closed the back door of the cruiser. “Right where you need to 
be, Terry, we're taking you home.” 

* * * * * * Part 2 * * * * * * 

Cal and Jake stood in the front yard staring at a handsome white home
with a grand sweeping veranda. As Jake glanced around the yard he was 
suddenly filled with an odd sense of deja vu. The large oaks that 
swayed lazily in the early afternoon breeze and the charming gravel 
walkway, which led to the front steps, seemed all too familiar. Peering 
around to the back yard, he saw what appeared to be a large unattached 
garage or possibly a workshop. 

“This house has just been painted hasn't it?” Jake asked, wondering to
himself why he would even ask such an irrelevant question. 

“Sure thing,” Cal replied. Annie said you weren't up to it and we knew
y'all couldn't afford to have it done at this time. All the boys down 
at the station pitched in. Surely you remember, it was only last 
weekend. We're planning to come back next Saturday and finished that 
garage of yours back there.” 

“Annie? Who is Annie?” 

Cal cast a repentant look at Jake. “Your wife,” he said in a murmur, “My
God, man, Annie, your wife.” 

Jake and Cal both watched as Ted opened the big garage door and pulled
the Mustang inside. At that very moment, Jake noticed a drapery move in 
a window and the front door open slowly. Out stepped a young woman who 
appeared to the in her mid thirties. She was dressed neatly, almost too 
stylish for such a quiet and uneventful Sunday in rural Georgia. Her 
light brown hair hung low, passing her shoulders and dancing down onto 
her upper back. Her face, through pretty, had the tired and worn 
features of someone who had been fighting a long inner struggle. It 
showed heavily in every angle of her tired being. Drained, defeated and 
drawn, close to the edge of resign. 

Ted walked up and handed Cal the keys to the Mustang. “You need some
help getting him up to the house?” he asked while putting a strong grip 
around the back of Jake's neck. 

Cal angrily knocked his hand away then motioned firmly in the direction
of the patrol car. “Wait in the car, Ted,” he scolded. “This'll only 
take a few minutes.” The big Georgia deputy frowned and started for the 
parked cruiser tapping his nightstick, visibly disappointed that he 
never got the opportunity to use it over Jake's head. 

As both men walked onto the spacious front porch, Annie tenderly took
hold of Jake's arm and led him through the front door. The house was 
decorated in fine Early American decor that seemed to have been 
coordinated by a professional decorator. To the right was a sizeable 
living room that highlighted a breathtaking open fireplace as well as a 
large screen TV. A beautiful spiral stairway rose majestically to the 
upstairs and to the right was a small hallway that obviously 
intertwined to other parts of the home. Jake looked down, admiring the 
beautiful hardwood floors. The home was gorgeous in every aspect but 
the single most interesting feature in the house was just a few feet to 
his left----a telephone. 

“Terry, I really need to speak with Cal for a moment. I have a fresh cup
of coffee waiting for you in the kitchen, and the morning paper finally 
arrived.” 

Cal gave him a stern glare and Jake wandered down the hallway admiring
the elegant paintings hanging from the walls, only halfheartedly in 
search of his new kitchen. 

As speculated, the kitchen was located in the back potion of the house.
As he looked down to his coffee and paper he suddenly froze. In the 
saucer that held his coffee lay a fine slice of lemon. Black coffee and 
lemon, just the way he had drank it for the last twenty years. Beside 
the coffee lay the sport section of the Atlanta Tribune, folded neatly 
to last night's Brave's highlights. Jake thought of all the mornings 
that Melissa had prepared him a wonderful, home-style breakfast. This 
was the precise way she had always arranged his coffee and paper. He 
sat down and pushed both coffee and paper to the far side of the table. 
Pressing both hands hard against his face, he wondered if perhaps had 
he really had gone insane....questioning vividly if his other life with 
Melissa and Hunter had all been nothing but a fleeting illusion. At 
that very moment, he missed no one as dearly as he did those two 
special people. 

* * * * 

“How long has it been now, Annie?” Cal asked, as they both took a seat
out on the front veranda. 

“Too long,” Annie replied, “it almost seems like a lifetime, Cal.” Annie
paused for a long moment studying the floor as well as her inmost 
thoughts and memories. “But actually, it's only been two years now. The 
first symptoms were just about the time he'd finished restoring the 
Mustang. At first it was just slight forgetfulness, just small and 
trivial things and I sort of pushed it all aside thinking it was from 
the stress of the business. Then things became steadily worse. He'd 
often stare at me, almost as if he was looking straight through me. 
Sometimes I wondered if he even knew who I was. The first time I 
realized there was a real problem was the morning he started out the 
door for work, the morning he turned around and asked, ‘Where am I 
going?' Oh God, Cal, he'd been going to work at the Service Center for 
seventeen years.” 

Cal, shook his head. “He was the damn best mechanic in this part of
Georgia. Not many people around these parts would let anyone but Terry 
get near their car.” 

“I know, Cal, he was an excellent mechanic and best of all he was
passionately in love with his job. When he wasn't working on someone 
else's car, he was tinkering with his own. Bob has been a real darling 
running the business for us, but I'm not sure how much longer I can 
keep coming in and doing the bookwork. There's a real chance that I may 
have to sell the business. I can't leave Terry alone anymore, not even 
for a minute.” 

“And the doctors?” Cal asked, “they're still in the dark?” 

“Yes, they're just as baffled as ever. In fact, practically every known
neurological disease has been ruled out. You wouldn't believe how much 
time and money we've spent on all the examinations, especially the 
Alzheimer's testing. All we have to show for it, is what he doesn't 
have. 

“Have there been any drastic changes in him lately?” Cal inquired. 

Annie gazed into the bright sun-filled yard with no expression. “Yes,“
she finally answered. “And it's something that's beginning to scare 
me.” She took a tissue and lightly dabbed at her eyes. “Oh Cal, I can 
see it everyday, he's becoming more and more aggressive. I'm afraid if 
it gets any worse, I may not be able to handle him.” she cried, tears 
now flowing freely down her cheeks. “God, what am I going to do if they 
try to take him away from me?” 

Cal reassuringly patted her hand. “He became real upset when we tried to
bring him in. It was all I could do to keep that idiot, Ted, from 
beating him with a nightstick. He kept calling himself Jake Brockton 
and insisting that he lives in Atlanta.” 

Annie turned to Cal. “I hear that Jake Brockton and Atlanta routine
almost around the clock. He can even give fine details about a woman he 
plans to marry who has this little boy named Hunter. The doctor told me 
it was just hallucinations, part of the disease....whatever this damn 
disease is. They told me to just sort of play along with it, but, God, 
it's so frustrating.” 

“I can imagine,” Cal said, standing up and squeezing her hand. 

“Thank you for all your concern, you don't realize how much it all means
to me.” 

Cal looked deep into Annie's sad blue eyes. “Let me tell you something,
Annie. Terry and I have been best friends since we were only five years 
old. I remember one summer when we were about eight or nine, we 
scratched our arms till they bled, and then we held them together and 
made a blood-brother vow. Our vow was a promise that we would always 
remain best friends, no matter what happened or what hardships we faced 
in our lives. Out on that highway, I could tell, Annie, he honestly had 
no idea who I was. All I wanted to do was get into the patrol car, lay 
my head on the steering wheel and cry like a baby. 

* * * * 

Presently Annie walked into the kitchen and found Jake sitting at the
table, his hands still clutched tightly over his face. “You haven't 
even touched your coffee, would you like for me to warm it up?” 

“No,” he said in a muffled voice. 

“Well, is there anything else I can get for you?” 

Jake removed his hands then glared up at Annie and shouted, “Yes, why
don't find me a goddamn psychoanalyst!” Sitting in silence for a few 
silent moments, he finally reached across the table and pulled the 
lukewarm coffee to his placemat. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. 
It's just that I'm so confused. Why does everyone in this town think 
I'm someone that I'm not? What in the name of living hell is going on 
around here?” 

Annie turned away, holding a hand over her mouth to suppress a sob. “I
know, I know, you're Jake Brockton and you live in Atlanta and you have 
this fiancée that you're planning to marry soon. I've heard it all, 
I've heard it a million times, and I'm not sure how much longer I can 
keep going on like this,” Annie cried, burying her head onto the 
kitchen counter. 

“Let me prove who I am, you have a telephone out front, let me call
Melissa, and it's the only way we can get everything straightened out.” 


“Oh, all those phone calls to that...that Melissa,” Annie said, her
voice still rattling in tears, “Can't you remember that you've called 
her a hundred times and no one has ever answered. Doesn't that tell you 
something, Terry....doesn't that tell you that there is no Melissa, 
that she's just all in your head. Can't you remember that I'm your 
wife, just for one moment...that's all I want. Please, just one last 
time.” 

Jake stood from the table and hurried toward the telephone, “Sorry,
Annie, but if I've made all those calls before, one more isn't going to 
matter, now is it?” 

He quickly picked the receiver up and punched in Melissa's area code and
phone number. Annie stood beside him, still in tears, her eyes, 
downcast to the floor. On the tenth and final ring Jake softly laid the 
receiver down, remembering that Melissa had planned to take Hunter to a 
movie that afternoon. 

“I'm going for a walk,“ he told Annie. 

“Where to?“ she asked, patting the car keys in her pocket. 

“Just to check on my car,” Jake replied. 

“That's fine, but just don't go wondering off someplace, I can't keep
Cal and Ted busy tracking you down all day.” 

“I'll only go straight to the garage and back,” he promised, feeling
more and more like a kindergartener. 

As Jake walked outside the large, air-conditioned house the blast from
the afternoon heat almost knocked him backwards. He strolled slowly 
around a side walkway that led to the garage. The grass, he noticed, 
was in dire need of attention and the large hedge that provided 
excellent privacy from nearby neighbors was at its worst....lengthy and 
unkempt. The large, heavy garage door gave an adamant resistance, but 
after a few attempts of zestful struggle, he managed to push  it open. 
Jake shuffled around in dim semi darkness, at last finding the light 
switch. The entire garage suddenly illuminated in what seemed 
competitive to the brilliant outside day. He gave a quick squinted 
inspection to the large rows of florescent lighting that had been 
placed advantageously in order to prevent annoying shadows. In 
amazement, he stood in careful examination. This was the exact type of 
lighting he used in his own garage. He vigilantly took note of the 
large red boxes filled with tools. They were all “Craftsmen,” his own 
preferred brand. Many of the tools were arranged in compartments 
matching the exact way he kept his own. 

The car door opened smoothly, as if it were sitting on a showroom floor.
Jake reached in and took out the road map. He sat at a large workbench 
and carefully unfolded it then noted the pencil marks that indicated 
the two areas where he had refueled during the morning. One was several 
miles north of Raleigh, the other was in a rural area in mid South 
Carolina. Now he began to wonder how Terry Coffer could had possibly 
made those marks only hours ago. He sat quietly, rationalizing every 
detail. The most perplexing question that couldn't be resolved; where 
was Terry Coffer, right now, at this very point in time? Jake stood up 
and paced back and forth like an animal in a cage, allowing his hand to 
run freely over the smooth and cool texture of the Mustang's new paint. 
Then, like a bolt from the blue and without the least hint of warning, 
a flash of memory jolted him almost off his feet. He ran to the front 
of the Mustang and quickly opened the hood then studied the left side 
of the engine compartment. There, carefully written in his own 
handiwork, was the deep engraving: 

YEAR: 1964 MAKE: FORD MODEL: MUSTANG VEHICLE ID NO: 1196748736534982744
PROPERTY OF: JAKE L. BROCKTON 

A hundred pounds of burden and ambiguity washed away as he gazed into
that beautiful inscription. He dashed from the garage, almost in full 
gallop, calling to Annie. As he raced through the front door he froze 
in his steps. Annie was just hanging up the phone. The horrifying look 
in her face made him promptly realize that she was now looking into the 
eyes of a total stranger. 

“That was Cal,” she said, in inconceivable utter. “They just picked
Terry up over in Pittsdale. They found him sitting in his Mustang, all 
alone, just looking out over a lake.” 

“Who found him?” he asked. 

“The Tatum County sheriff. Pittsdale is about thirty miles north of
here. They ran a check on the car tag and then called the Austin County 
sheriff's office. Cal is on his way to Pittsdale right now to bring him 
home. Oh God, I think there's been a horrible mistake.....uh....Mr. 
Brockton,” Annie said, her words flowing in small stages, lined with 
astonishment, bewilderment and fear. 

Jake placed a comforting arm around her shaking shoulder. “Is that
coffee and lemon still salvageable?” he whispered, “I think it's time 
we had a long talk.” 

* * * * * * *Chapter 3* * * * * * 

“So tell, me Mr. Brockton, what was your initial reaction when you first
saw this Mr. Terry Coffer?” the doctor asked. 

“Shock, disbelief, and....fear.” 

“Fear?” 

“That's right doctor, for some reason I was afraid to get anywhere near
the man. I just stood slightly off at a distance, starring at him in 
amazement.” 

“You mentioned that he had a condition that closely resembled
Alzheimer's disease. Did you notice if Mr. Coffer seemed to recognize 
any difference between the two of you?” 

“No, not at all, in fact he couldn't even recognize his own wife or his
closest friend, Cal Bailey, I mean, how would he recognize his own 
self?” 

“Sometimes with Alzheimer's that can vary. And the car, you mentioned
that he'd restored a car exactly like your own.” 

“That's correct, right down to the exact year, model and colors. He even
used the precise custom interior trim. Looking at the two cars sitting 
side by side, it was impossible to tell one from the other. But the car 
was only a small part of it. Before I arrived he actually could tell 
his wife my name as well as my fiancée's name. He even knew where we 
both lived. For months he's been insisting that I, Jake Brockton, was 
he.” Annie told me he never knew any of this information while he was 
in his right mind. 

“Amazing,” said the doctor. “Is there any possibility that you may have
been a twin? Not quite to this extent, but sometimes this phenomenon 
occurs when twins are separated at birth.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake vigorously answered. My family has always been
very close and our mother was unquestionably straightforward and honest 
with all of us. She would have told me if something of that importance 
had occurred.” 

The doctor pulled a bulky ring binder from his desk and placed it close
to where Jake could comfortably study it. “Before we go any further, I 
would like to run a few tests if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Brockton. Shall 
we start with number one then work our way through number twelve?” 

He looked into the large binder and saw a page full of inkblots. 

“Ink blots?” he snapped. “You think that I'm crazy don't you, doctor,
you don't believe me, do you?” Jake quickly rose from his chair and 
jerked out his shirttail reveling his lower back and a large red 
birthmark that closely resembled South America. “You want to see an ink 
blot, doctor Roberts, well feast your eyes upon this one. I forgot to 
tell you that Terry Coffer had the exact same birthmark right on the 
same goddamn area of his back. Now tell me that I'm crazy, doctor!” 

Dr. Roberts rose from his chair and walked to the door that peered into
a small secretarial office. “I'm going to need an additional hour or so 
here, and please no interruptions.” he whispered to one of the girls. 

“Mr. Brockton, you only have a thirty-minute appointment,“ the doctor
reminded him as he returned to his desk. “Because of the special nature 
of your visit, I'm going to extend that time to as much as we need, of 
course at no charge on your part. I believe I may have the answer that 
you're looking for with this double of yours, but before I explain, I 
would feel more comfortable getting a personality profile on you. Do 
you have any objections?” 

“No, of course not, doctor, and I'm sorry that I snapped at you, Jake
apologized. “This whole thing just has me so edgy.” 

The soft-speaking psychiatrist leaned comfortably back into his chair,
clip board and pen firmly in hand, then chuckled. “It's quite all 
right, Mr. Brockton, in my line of work, I hear my fair share of 
‘snapping' around this office. Shall we begin?” 

* * * * 

Almost thirty minutes had passed when the doctor finally laid his
clipboard down and removed his reading glasses. “I think we're all 
finished,” Dr. Roberts finally said, giving his client a heavy-hearted 
look.” From what I can gather, your personality profile tells me that 
you're a rather stable and secure individual, so I'm going to proceed 
with my explanation. 

“Fine,” Jake said, “please tell me about this imposter of mine.” 

“Oh, he's no imposter as you probably saw for yourself. You two are just
as real as you and me, but there's a slight difference. It's my rough 
conclusion that you and Terry Coffer could be related through the 
Rosenberg factor.” 

“Come again, doctor?” Jake asked, totally bewildered. 

The Rosenberg factor is only known within the tight circles of
psychiatric specialists. In fact, many modern doctors don't believe in 
it at all, but I do, and now your story seems to confirm it. The name, 
“The Rosenberg factor” was taken from Alex Rosenberg, a famous German 
physiatrist who studies around 1905 indicated that approximately one 
out of every two million people have a precise double, not someone who 
merely looks similar, but rather someone that is a precise match, a 
complete natural clone so to speak.” 

Jake sat quietly, listening with both a sense of excitement and fear.
“So you're saying that this Terry Coffer and I are somehow related?” 

“Only in a rough sense of the word, My Brockton.” According to
Rosenberg, a super gene, know as “dominate metatricle,“ is deposited 
into the general gene pool at some past point by a male carrier. 
Theoretically it takes fourteen generations or roughly four- hundred 
years for the gene to emerge. The gene will divide only once, following 
the next generation in which it was formed. From there, it leads off 
into two separate directions, both genes lying dormant, waiting like an 
egg to hatch.” 

“Are you telling me is that Terry Coffer and I are somehow related to a
male ancestor who lived four-hundred years ago, around 1600?” 

“If your story is accurate, then I'd say that's an absolute
possibility.” 

Jake watched Dr. Roberts pluck the cigar from the ashtray and began
flipping it in his fingers again. “Terry is only two years older that I 
am. How could the gene be so accurate with the timing of two separate 
births?” 

“The metatricle gene tends to have it own built-in waking mechanism and
almost seems to be in some sort of communication with it‘s 
counter-part. From the very few cases that were observed, it was noted 
that the two “Twiners,” as Rosenberg called them, were all found to be 
no more than five years apart in age. Quite remarkable for something 
that has lived in hibernation for over four hundred years.” 

Jake slowly shook his head in agreement. “Have they done any recent
studies on this Rosenberg factor?” 

Dr. Roberts slowly rose from his chair then walked to the back of his
office, a place that reminded Jake of a small library. He removed a 
single large book, thumbed through it for a few moments then returned 
to his desk. “Look at this picture, he instructed. Dr. Rosenberg took 
this photo himself in 1904. “These Twiners are the only subjects ever 
to be photographed.” 

Jake looked deeply into the photograph and saw what appeared to be two
Native Americans who looked to be in their mid-twenties, greatly 
resembling identical twins. “Where was the photo taken?” he asked. 

On the Cherokee Indian Reservation, near their capital city of
Tahlequah, Oklahoma. They look just like twins yet they're not. Nowhere 
close to being related. Neither of them could speak the slightest of 
English but through an interpreter, Dr. Rosenberg confirmed all the 
information that he had complied on them. In fact, the Cherokee 
Nation's Chief, William C. Rogers, allowed Rosenberg permission to 
spend months on the reservation to carry out his studies.” 

“Why haven't they preformed more modern research on all of this?” Jake
asked out of curiosity. 

The Doctor leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and sighed.
“Finding just one person out of two million people who actually 
possesses the metatricle gene would be on the verge of a miracle, don't 
you agree, Mr. Brockton? Even if we were able to locate this one 
person, we would need to search the entire planet for the other 
Twiner.” Do you see my point? Now, as for the two Indians, there 
circumstances were slightly different, that is, they were both 
restricted to the confines of the reservation. 

“Yes, I see what you mean, doctor.” 

Dr. Roberts studied Jake with deep probing eyes. “Mr. Brockton, by any
chance do you realize the enormous medical significance of finding your 
Twiner?” 

“I do now,“ Jake replied, already knowing where Dr. Roberts was leading.
“I'm sorry doctor, but Terry Coffer is a very sick man and I don't plan 
to have him disturbed by sticking him under a microscope.“ 

The element of excitement quickly left the doctors face. “I just thought
that...” 

“I can't help you,” Jake interrupted, a speck of irritation growing in
his voice. He stood and began gathering a few items that he'd brought. 
“Doctor if you're interested in writing an article on this matter, I 
have no objections, as long as all the identities are left anonymous.” 

The doctor looked at Jake with much gratification. “Thank you Mr.
Brockton, I would be very interested in writing an article regarding 
this. Perhaps it could stir more interest into this lost research. And 
as far as being anonymous, being your doctor, I'm sworn to privacy. As 
for Terry Coffer, you never reveled his whereabouts, so there's no 
chance of ever finding him.” 

“Thank you,” Jake said earnestly. Terry is very ill, mentally, in fact
his wife told me she could see him deteriorating by the week.” 

“Mr. Brockton, there is something else regarding the metatricle gene
that you need to be alerted to.” Dr. Roberts nodded to the chair and 
Jake sat back down. “Now I'm not one to beat around the bush with my 
patients so I'll be straightforward with you on this matter. According 
to the Rosenberg factor, the few subjects that were actually studied, 
all had one common denominator.....permanent mental insanity. 

“What?” Jake asked in alarm. 

“The two Twiners who lived on the Cherokee Nation were both affected
only a few years after Dr. Rosenberg's studies. The affection began 
shortly after their thirty-fifth birthday. It began slowly at first, 
sort of with the symptoms that you described with Terry Coffer. But 
within three years of the onset, the insanity deepens to the point 
where the subject needs to be restrained by a straightjacket, around 
the clock, for the rest of their life. The two Indian Twiners were 
treated by several medicine men, of course with no success, then 
eventually were taken to Oklahoma City for treatment. There was little 
the doctors could do, other than use sedation. Their teeth were pulled 
in order to prevent the ripping of their tongues and lips. They were 
kept in separate small padded rooms and feed intravenously. They spent 
the rest of the lives in the Oklahoma State Mental Institution. They 
both died the exact same year in 1985. One was 105, the other was 103. 

“Oh my God,” Jake whispered. “They lived for seventy-years in a
straightjacket and were feed intravenously?” 

“That's correct, if you could actually call it living,” Dr. Roberts
replied softly. “It seems as if the metatricle gene has a strong 
tendency to provide the body with exceptional physical health, however 
all at the deadly cost of the mind.” 

Jake looked at the doctor with damp eyes. Please be honest with me,
is... is this going to be both Terry Coffer and my fate?” 

“Mr. Brockton, you came to me for an answer to your story. I explained
to you all that I know about the Rosenberg factor and I'm afraid that's 
all that I can help you with. There just hasn't been enough modern 
research for me to give you a concrete prognosis. I'm really sorry.” 

“I'm planning to be married next week,” he said more to himself than to
the doctor. “I have everything to live for, a sensational job, a nice 
home, a loving fiancé and a wonderful little boy whom I'm planning to 
adopt. I can't just throw everything away on some damn foolish story or 
theory.” 

The doctor sat forward in his chair, silently analyzing Jake. “And
you're absolutely correct in your thinking, Mr. Brockton. At 
thirty-five, life is just starting to unfold. Oh, I know that at your 
age, it seems like you're getting older and life is growing short, but 
that's just an illusion in our mind. You are in the warm springtime of 
your life, a whole world is out there just waiting to be experienced. 
Nothing in this life is certain. We have to make our decisions with 
confidence and go about life the best that we can. Perhaps you could 
become inflicted by next year or perhaps never. You could also be 
killed in a car accident before you get home. Go forward with your 
life, Mr. Brockton and forget the dangers and consequences that face 
every human being. It‘s all part of living.” 

Jake wiped away some light tears then rose from the chair and held out a
hand. “Thank you kindly for your explanation, Dr. Roberts. I'll keep 
everything you said in mind. “If it's not too much, I'd like to ask you 
a small favor.” 

“Of course, Mr. Brockton, anything, just ask.” 

“Well,” he started, “I was just wondering if I could keep tabs with you
over the next year or so. You see, I'm not planning to tell my fiancée 
anything about this. If I do fall victim to this...this disease, as did 
Terry, I would like you to explain everything to her. I feel she needs 
to know what's happening and not be kept in the dark the way Annie is.” 


“I'd be more than happy to, in fact, I'd like to see you every six
months, and of course there will never be a charge. You can set up the 
appointment as you leave. Just one last thing, Mr. Brockton. If you 
should have any change whatsoever in your thinking pattern, it's 
crucial that I see you immediately.” 

Jake agreed and the two men shook hands one last time. He walked from
the building into a beautiful late summer day. Stopping on the sidewalk 
he inhaled slowly and deeply. For the first time ever, his young life 
was actually being threatened. He closed his eyes and concentrated on 
the gasoline fumes from city buses and nearby traffic. A group of off- 
duty factory workers passed by closely and he could sense a strong odor 
emanating from their hard days labor. He inhaled again taking in 
everything. Nothing in his memory had ever smelled so sweet. A 
sweetness that had once been taken strictly for granted. It was the 
pure sweet smell of life itself. 

* * * * * * *Part 4* * * * * * 

Melissa stepped through door and onto the back porch carrying two
glasses of lemonade. “C'mon guys, time for a break,” she yelled to her 
favorite two men. She sat the full glasses atop a large wrought-iron 
table. Hunter scuttled up and grabbed at one pulling it quickly to his 
mouth and drinking half before taking a single breath of air. Like 
colorful snowflakes, huge crimson leaves fell from an October sky and a 
cool northern breeze signaled the final end to a long Georgia summer. 

It had been almost three months since Jake had first visited Dr.
Roberts. Many nights he would sit quietly on his back porch staring 
into the early hours of morning. He would sit alone in his thoughts 
thinking deeply about Terry Coffer. Wondering how he was doing and if 
perhaps was he already.... He didn't want to go there. As difficult as 
it was, that was one particular place Jake kept his mind pulled far 
away from. Many times he had picked the phone up to call Annie but 
always hung up before the first ring. There was nothing more he could 
do with Terry now. He had his own life to live. He and Melissa were 
married in a beautiful ceremony only a week after his visit to the 
psychiatrist. A proud Hunter stood between the couple holding the ring 
as they both proudly avowed their beautiful commitments. 

‘Nothing in this life is certain.' spoke the doctor, his words rolling
often and incessantly in Jakes head. ‘We have to make our decisions 
with confidence and go about life the best that we can. Go forward with 
your life, Mr. Brockton and forget the dangers and consequences that 
face every human being. It‘s all part of living.' 

Jake had made that decision to move forward only moments after leaving
Dr. Roberts office. But regardless, the dread of the disease constantly 
haunted him. Every morning he awoke in fear, wondering if this would be 
the day the first symptoms would arise. Perhaps tomorrow, next week 
or....maybe never. One thing was certain; the astonishing love of 
Melissa and Hunter was now the summit of his life. No matter what fate 
the future held for him, Jake realized that absolutely nothing would 
ever be able to tarnish the wonderful moment of the present. 

The boy hurried back into the yard just as Jake sailed him the football;
a strike that was high and slightly off target. Somehow Hunter managed 
to leap high and backward bringing the ball in like a professional 
receiver. 

The boy proudly pulled himself off the ground and dusted his pants.
“Pretty good catch, uh, Dad?” Jake listened to Hunter's words while 
feeling his heart sink. It was the first time he had ever called him 
“Dad.” 

“Sure was son,” he yelled back. “Gonna get you a job with the Falcons
someday.” 

“Why do you have to go away tomorrow?” the boy asked. 

“Because it's my job, I have to go to Washington a few times a year.” 

“Why?” Hunter persisted. 

“That's where the people I work for live. They need to talk to me every
now and then.” 

“Oh,” the boy simply muttered, knowing he couldn't drive the question
any further. 

“Listen at you, Hunter,” Melissa called from the porch, “You're talking
like he'll never come back or something” 

A very serious look grew across the boy's face. He threw the football
down and ran straight to Jake. “You will be back won't you, Dad?” 

Jake smiled a big convincing “yes” to the boy. 

“Don't worry,” Melissa called out again, “We'll always have him around.
I think he knows he‘s stuck with us now.” she teased. 

Hunter tugged at Jake's waist, his big brown eyes looking up in dire
concern. “Will you always be around for us, Dad?....will you....will 
you Dad?” 

Jake picked the boy up and squeezed him in a loving bear hug. He thought
of Terry Coffer and realized just how lucky he may have been not to 
have had any children. 

“You bet I will,” replied Jake with a voice of wholesome confidence.
“And that's a promise you can always count on.” 

A cool autumn breeze rustled lazily through Hunter's shaggy blond hair.
Jake still holding the boy close to him slowly moved a finger up to his 
small cheek. He carefully brushed away a large, warm tear. 

******The End****** 


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