Second Chance

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Kiliaen Van Rossum sat in his study, struggling to read business reports. He was lacking the concentration, the desire, to assimilate the information on the pages. There was something bothering him, something in the back of his mind screaming out, telling him something was wrong. Then, it hit him. The private investigator he hired, Gregory Phillips, was the source of annoyance.

He hired the man to research the suspects and their families, but did not finish it. He neglected handing in the report on the family; one Van Rossum thought could lead to clues to the painting’s location. He believed that Phillips had another person wanting it.

“No one else is looking for the painting,” he thought to himself.

The painting was one foot nine inches top to bottom, two feet six inches wide. Tests had it painted in the mid-17th century, during the initial colonization of Beverwyck, now Albany NY. Some art historians theorized that the unknown artist was the son of trader, one that traveled from New Amsterdam (New York City) to the trading post of Schenectady.

The brushstrokes were crude. The figures painted in the background were rudimentary. Based on today’s artists, “Elementary School” would best describe it. It was supposedly to be a landscape, one of a valley south of Schenectady, where many Dutch trappers plied their trade, alongside the Mohicans and incursive Mohawks.

The painter Diederik Van Rossum had accompanied his father Joost to the Western outpost of Schenectady, helping the elder Van Rossum trade goods – silver, weapons, and blankets – for furs with the native population. During the winter of 1662-63, Diederik disappeared, lost to his father for a period of three months. Joost and the others feared the younger Van Rossum was dead. However, in February, Diederik walked into the stockade, half-starving, covered in bruises and cuts. He denied the war-like Mohawks attacked him. Rather, he had wintered with the friendlier Mohicans. The injuries he sustained came from his travel from the village where he was to Schenectady.

Immediately, he began painting, telling those around him that he needed to do this, to show gratitude to those that saved his life. When it was finished in July 1663, no one liked it, but the family kept it all the same. It was ten years later, in August 1673, when the legend that the painting was actually a map that showed the location of some treasure. The Van Rossums denied this, but it didn’t stop people from drawing copies of it and use those copies to travel to the Schoharie Valley to look for treasure.

He stood and walked the bar. He pulled out a glass tumbler, filled it with ice, and reached for the vodka. He hesitated. He turned his body and opened the small refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of Coca-Cola.

“Who knows about the legend?” he mumbled on his return to his chair.

He sat and opened the Coke. He took a big sip and thought of people who might know of the family legend. Family is all he could think of. Van Rossum put the drink down and grabbed his contact book. He opened it and read the names

He didn’t believe his parents would be looking for it. He didn’t believe his siblings either. He came to his cousins. He knew some were having financial problems, but he also knew none of the believed in the legend. He tossed the book down.

“The legend,” he whispered. He took another sip. It’s a Van Rossum family legend that the painting is in, actually, a map that leads to a fortune in gold and silver.

“That’s why he’s selling the family report.” Van Rossum picked up the phone and spoke, “Come in here please.” After a beat, two men walked in through a side door.

“I want you two to go to Phillips’ office and look to see who he’s selling information to.”

“What if he’s there?” the taller associate asked.

“Do what you deem necessary.”



Gregory Phillips shook while he read the family report. It was nothing, just an account of the suspects’ family members, their names and last known addresses. It detailed what each person had done since the theft: their birth dates, their education, and their bank statements. He didn’t understand why a man in Van Rossum’s position wanted to know all of this. He was missing something.

He smiled to himself. It was one of his best works. He gave Van Rossum a six-month estimate of finishing it, but did so in less than three. It was voluminous: the information filled seven brown file folders. If he were an author, the gathered information alone would be enough for characters in several hundred novels. However, he wasn’t, he was a private investigator.

Phillips reached for the open bottle of Wild Turkey and noticed his hand was still shaking. It had been almost two hours since his abduction and threatening by Van Rossum. He took a big swig of the bourbon. It burned his throat, but worked like a slap in the face.

“Toughen up,” he told himself. It wasn’t the first time he had a client take him for a ride. It wasn’t the first time a client threatened him. It probably would be the last time for either. He took another burning gulp of the amber liquid.

“Damn,” he whispered. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but something about today made him hit his partner’s liquor. It seemed to be working: his hands were not shaking as before, when Van Rossum’s men returned him.

He looked at the files and shook his head. In the past, two or three people would be bidding over the reports, driving up the price. Sometimes, he would sell the information to all interested parties, earning him more money. It wasn’t ethical, but in his line of work, sometime ethics are never applied.

“What a waste.” He reached for the bottle, but decided he had enough. He twisted the cap back on and returned the bottle to the bar.

He picked up his copy of the suspect list and read it. Since he completed it, something bothered him. He couldn’t place it. He looked at the names, some from the original police report, more from his own research. At the end, he knew what was bothering him. A name he recognized: Maynard Applewhite.

“How did I miss him?” He shook his head, wondered how that name slipped past him. Mr. Applewhite should have set off the alarms within Phillips’ mind, but he’d been too interested, too single-minded, on his job.

Phillips read what he had reported on Applewhite. From Schoharie County records, the man still lived in Middleburg, the address being the same one Phillips had been to when he was a child. He closed his eyes and remembered that address, a farm.

Phillips’ father Nathaniel would bring his son often to the farm, a few miles outside of Middleburg proper, usually during hunting and holiday seasons. While the older men would be off culling the deer, Gregory would have the run of the place. He would spend hours in the corn and alfalfa fields. He would run and down the small, bittersweet and burdock choked hillock behind the barn, not caring if he returned to the house covered in burrs or berries. He was outside, in the country, and having fun.

He remembered the smells, the freshness of the cold November air. He remembered the crunch of dead leaves under his feet, even if there was a light cover of snow. He remembered the brownness of it all. He just loved it.

He came back from the reminiscence and sat up straight. He looked to see if there was a phone number in the report. He saw there was none. He went to reach for the telephone book, to see if Mr. Applewhite had a telephone number available to the public. He found it and reached for his phone.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a deep male voice commanded. It was familiar. Phillips looked up and saw two familiar faces.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He had a several guns hidden in the office, two close to him. He knew, though, if he reached for them, he’d never reach them.

“We’re here to make sure you give the boss what he wants,” the man added.