The Foundation

“A dark secret sleeps, deep in a Florida swamp.”

Falcon asks, “What would you do if you found a fortune in Mafia money, lost deep in a swamp, unmarked and unclaimed?”  If you are young David Alistair, raised in poverty, you take it and you bury it  . . . and you wait for maturity, and grow a plan.  As the power of money develops a life of its own, young Alistair tightens his seatbelt, presses the accelerator and hangs on.  With new understanding he un-harnesses a fortune redirected, to find his lost sister, then prepares to unleash his wrath on the men who kidnapped her.  

• Denver Rose, a highly financed small town attorney launches the LEA Foundation.
• The “Baron”, a secretive old man, an enigma with a bad larynx and a vibrating voice, bent on protecting his identity, channels huge sums of money into L E A F. 
• Harley Proffit, arguably the best private detective in all of Florida, brought back from the brink, becomes point man, leading the search for Lindsay Elizabeth Alistair. 
• Emily Rodenberry, teacher with a gift joins the team, an all-seeing silent contributor.
• Ned Baker, the crusty old recluse with a questionable past, runs interference.
• Toby Lambert, David’s best friend, snake bitten and ill, develops amnesia just in the nick-of-time, as he wants no part of this dangerous game.

Join the search, as this adventurous young man, leads his highly financed and colorful team.  Ride with them, let the adrenaline flow, taste the danger, and feel the lure of easy money.  Travel their journey through the backwater tributaries of Florida, then out deep into the Caribbean, on a quest for justice – and help solve the mystery of Lindsay Elizabeth Alistair’s disappearance - while wondering if this team has been chosen, protected from darkness, seduced into guerrilla warfare, disarming those so evil.

Nikolas Falcon has many reasons to write, and share with those whom have an interest in his work.  But it has little to do with growing up in poverty, and nothing at all to do with walking the railroad tracks to his grandmothers house, after his mother sold their home out from under them - as she felt she had to - while his father was out of town, trying to hack out a living for the family.  The youngest of six brothers, he was barely eight years old.  On this day, under their protection, two of his brothers walked the seven miles with him.  Although the oldest of these three young travelers being only eleven, they did arrive safely, thirsty and hungry.  The other three older brothers arrived later, somehow, all bewildered, never to return to the comfort of the home they had known.  Poor, maybe, but in many ways life was heavenly, up until then.  He remembers the wonderful camping trips on Wards Island, waking up bedewed on crisp clear mornings - in a tree house, high above the ground - wrapped in the warmth of holey quilts and brotherly love.  They never went hungry, eating fresh baked crabs on an open fire, or rainbow trout, clams or oysters, on the shore of the Caloosahatchee, where they played and learned the hard way to never leave their clothes unprotected when they skinny-dipped.  They also ate borrowed melons, bananas, oranges, grapefruit, and easily found huckleberries, guava and other wild fruits. Any pang of hunger was just a reminder to reach out and refuel.  So, they did not understand why they had to leave their pet Rode Island Red rooster behind, or Bill, their whiskey drinking Billy goat. Bill would get drunk and run you up a tree, just for the hell of it; or to simply please Dad, his best drinking buddy.  Bill ate cans from the burn pile. (It was not revealed to an impressionable young mind that Bill was simply licking the glue and labels from the cans, but older brothers can easily alter brush strokes on the canvas of a younger brother’s imagination.) So yes, Bill ate cans, and the list began, a list too long to write - homes that could be gone overnight, tin cans that could be eaten by a whiskey-drinking billy-goat, along with so many other impossibilities, to an impressionable young mind.  These proved to be a start, eye openers of bitter-sweetness, reminders of what was real and what wasn’t - and what was yet to come.

But then again, maybe it did - maybe being eight years old and poor and walking railroad tracks did have something to do with the desire to write, later.  As it became the first milestone, a time of awareness, the beginning of a realization that life was not fair - nor would it ever be.  But more importantly, they were able to grow up together, and were all loved by each other, and were well guided, by the sharp sting of Grandma Steele’s hickory switch while comforted by her velvet prayers, which often seemed to work, and kept them out of trouble.  They got by, and shared good health.  And for this small band of misplaced brothers, life would certainly prove to be gloriously eventful, and never ever boring - living just seven miles from heaven. 

Welcome to South West Florida, in the early years.