Howie Rocket--World Traveler-Detective

“Open the letter!” shouted Howie Rocket as he burst through the front door. His dad, Moses Rocket, was calmly standing at the kitchen counter as his mom, Lena, twisted her pendant necklace and peered curiously over his shoulder. Just moments earlier, his dad had sent him a text message as Howie was walking home from his last day of school at Jersey Heights Middle School. Next year, he would be moving on to the newly constructed junior high, which was more than enough reason to be excited. But now that a long-awaited letter had arrived, Howie was just beside himself with anticipation. “Is that the letter that you told me about, Dad?” asked Howie, now standing next to his mom trying to peek over his dad’s very high shoulder. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only a couple of seconds, his dad slowly began to read the words out loud. As he read, Howie examined the handwriting. So this was what the writing of a genius looks like, he thought, as he followed the large flowing script with the elegant black curls and loops of his father’s mentor. Moses Rocket had known Claude von Rusticator ever since he had been a student in von Rusticator’s class on Politics and International Security at the London School of Economics. And it was Claude von Rusticator who was responsible for advising his dad to enroll in law school, and later work for the CIA (Central Intelligence Bureau), and then, on personal recommendation, for the President. That’s how Moses became the new ambassador to Krinkelstein, a small republic, somewhere off the coast of Turkey, but not quite in Europe, and not quite in Asia. Krinkelstein was also the place where both of Howie’s parents had been born. When his dad began reading, he spoke slowly, enunciating each word: “My Very Dear and Esteemed Friend, Moses, I trust that you, your gracious wife, and young son are all in good health. First, I want to apologize for the delay in sending this letter, but I have spent many days translating a note of the utmost urgency. And you, my dear friend, are the only one I can entrust with this most confidential matter. As I have indicated to you in my last letter, my most dear father, Rudolfo von Rusticator the Elder, has blessedly passed from this world at the ripe age of 102. As his son, I have been granted express permission to peruse the journal he penned for many years before his death. Besides his legacy, which as his only surviving child, leaves me in possession of all his worldly goods, sparse though they may be, this journal has a passage of note, and it is this passage to which I call your attention now. Again, please pardon my weakness in translation, for English is a distance apart from Kinkelsteiner, the native language of our small republic. Herewith is the passage from my father’s journal.” Moses paused, cleared his throat, and with a quick glance at his wife and son, continued: Woe is me at this greatest hour of sorrow. I look upon the wide expanse before me and see but ash and emptiness all around. Who would think that I could sink worse than I have this last week? Only one thing of worth did I have in my worthless life. I was holding onto this thing as I sat on the cliff overlooking the tumultuous gray sea, pondering my future. So tenderly did I hold my Lovely Precious, the jewel whose glorious face I had stared into on endless days. The one promise of a better future, the one thing which instilled hope in my heart. I confess thinking myself a lucky man, and indeed as I held this wondrous Lovely Precious against my breast, my dreams soon took possession of me, and before I realized what had happened, my eyelids began to flutter and I was asleep. When I awoke, the sun had begun to set on the horizon, and looking down, to my horror, I discovered that I was alone-- my Lovely Precious had been stolen as I slept! And though I searched the hills and valley, I was unable to recover my treasure. Perhaps one day someone will again restore the loss to the family. Only I pray it is not too late! Now I am a man with nothing, not even a promise for the future. It is there the entry ends abruptly, dated June 15, 1972, only three days after the Great Volcano Disaster of 1972 which almost wiped out our entire small island, as you may recall. It is also the day father stopped speaking, for we never heard his voice again. And now I have but one person to turn to for help in the task ahead. You, Moses, with all your knowledge of people and worldly affairs, I wish to sincerely implore your aid so that my dear father can rest in his grave undisturbed. Can you recover the Lovely Precious to its rightful home? I await your response. Your humble servant and mentor, Claude von Rusticator, PhD.” Howie’s dad placed the letter on the kitchen counter and looked up at the ceiling, something he did when he was in deep thought. Finally, Howie broke the silence. “Dad, what are you going to do?” Moses looked at his son, then at his wife, and back to his son again. “By golly,” he said finally, “get the passports, Lena. We’re going on a hunt!”