Their severed links encased in clear crystal resin, a bronze plaque mounted across the pedestal reading:
`MY THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SON CHOSE HIS WEALTHY FATHER IN COURT TO PROTECT THE SECRET.`
`HIS SACRIFICE RAISED THE BEDROCK OF THE REPUBLIC.`
`BUILT PLUMB.
HELD TRUE.`
A pair of white-tailed sea hawks broke from the high canopy of the northern pines along the shore, circling high on the thermal updrafts above the water, their broad wings catching the sun as they banked clean, deep, and free across the limitless blue American sky.
I looked down at the hand-carved inscription on the arm of the cedar rocking chair beside my knee:
`BUILT PLUMB.
HELD TRUE.`
`MERCER HOMESTEAD // ESTABLISHED 1944`
A slow, radiant, permanent smile broke across Emily Mercer’s face—a smile that held zero fear, zero debts, zero lies, and zero graves.
I looked out over the forty miles of clean, sweet river water where my grandfather’s memory, my father-in-law’s sacrifice, and my son’s true future had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Richard,” Emily whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“Tyler is smiling.”
“Garrett is home.”
“The uniform held true.”
“The ledger is closed.”
“And around here…”
We stood up from the chairs, holding Tyler, Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David’s hands toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the valley chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“…nobody ever, ever… audits an auditor again.”
