As I was saying to my grandmother, Mamaleen Johnson, "My life has turned into a nightmare and I’m wide awake," tears were streaming down my face, dripping off my chin onto her patent leather shoes. She affectionately patted my shoulder as she listened.

The words we exchanged, the room’s wallpaper and furnishings, my beloved grandmother, Mamaleen. even the taste of my tears combined with a feeling of overwhelming grief-it is ail there etched into my memory.

This was the summer before I was to enter my second year of school in 1950. The first year remains a blur with cause.

Life for me and my family had changed dramatically over the previous year. So radical a change that it had taken almost a year for me to realize life was not becoming any easier to live. My stuttering was getting worse. The rare moments I could speak coherently were limited to short sentences devoid of the word "you", and then only to my mother and grandmother. Occasionally when angry I could speak clearly, or when alone in the woods while talking or singing to trees.

 

Apparently my frustration with oral communication due to stuttering had been intensified by a trauma I experienced the previous year. Little did I know then that this trauma would positively and negatively influence my future and the lives of others I would know for the rest of my life.

On a hot and sticky Tennessee July day in 1949, my father helped boost first my mother, then me, into the saddle astride our four-year-old high-spirited "gift horse" Wojac. This was to be my first ride on the back of an animal. The excitement of the moment combined with stuttering rendered me, literally, speechless. As I recall and from photographs taken at the time, I was wearing as wet-soaked, pale yellow cotton shirt, dark tan shorts, brown socks, and dirty tennis shoes. At six years old, I was very thin and did not take up the remaining saddle space behind my mother.

With the reins in my mother’s hands, the horse responded to her polite command of "Come on, Wojac. Giddy up." He began slowly walking down our driveway to the narrow crushed limestone road beside our property. Upon reaching the gravel road, the horse turned or was guided left, momentarily disappointing me as I knew we were only going for a short ride. It was only about a quarter of a mile to the busy paved intersection that would be dangerous to cross. (Had my mother decided to go in the opposite direction, we could have ridden for a couple of miles before reaching any automobile traffic.)

As quickly as the horse made the turn from our driveway onto the country road, my mother nudged his flanks with her heels. With another command of "let’s go," the horse responded with a mild jerk of motion and he began a fast trot down the middle of the road.

The horse’s speed, in retrospect, was too fast for safe travel on gravel. Not knowing this then, I was not scared until I saw the crossroads looming closer, I can hear myself half shouting "BBBBBetter slow down. MMMight BBBBe a CCar CCComming." Before I could enunciate the last words, my mother began a slow sideways slide off the saddle. I could not see her face as she disappeared under the horse, and the reins disappeared with her. The horse bolted full speed ahead. In the blink of an eye, my realization of being alone in the saddle with no way to control the horse washed over me.

 

Quickly, I tugged on his mane to no avail. It was in this instant I determined that the runaway horse was not going to stop for the crossroads. I jumped. As I recall, the fall was swift and my abrupt landing in the sharp rocks was not painful, though it seemed that my body would never stop rolling. Panicked and with the dust beginning to settle, I sat up, blinked the dust and sticky blood from my eyes, and looked about for my mother. She lay in a disorganized heap beside the road. I ran to hen

The first mental impression I experienced was that she was just wide-eyed dazed from her fall. Then I noticed her eyes weren’t blinking and around her head was a thick puddle of blood. Not wanting to leave her in the road for fear she would be run over, and not strong enough to pick her up, I began screaming in the direction of our home in hopes that my father could hear me. Almost immediately he responded by sprinting to us", all the while shouting, "What happened? What happened?"

For the "life remaining in me" I could not answer for, as usual, I was speechless. As he knelt down to speak to my mother, he stopped mid sentence when he apparently saw her eyes in a fixed gaze and that the back of her skull was crushed inward. Instantly he picked her up. and as we were running back to the house, he commanded my eleven-year-old sister to call an ambulance. To this day I cannot recall how we got to the hospital.

The grisly scenes of this tragedy were not my nightmare. It did not play over and over again in my mind, for I had dissociated from it. I had voluntarily and autogenic ally created a memory barrier of this trauma. This is a normal human response. Had I been tortured after the trauma, I would not have been able to voluntarily recall either the accident or the torture. Hence the basis of this book.

The nightmare began during the subsequent recovery year when we realized my mother would never be herself again. She had lost over a quarter of her brain when the horse stepped into her skull. Permanently gone was her ability to smell, taste, and hear in one ear. These were the physical handicaps she developed. Her resultant emotional condition would become evident to me many years later. As a child, this new awareness of my mother’s condition had minimal impact on me compared to the fear I lived with, moment to moment, due to my father’s chronic alcoholism. Years later my sister would follow his lead into a losing battle with the bottle. I was safe, as alcohol made me stutter.

After being told so many times during my developmental years that my mother’s condition was attributable to her brain damage, and that my stuttering was because my brain was not working correctly, it occurred to me at some point to learn about the brain. For years after the accident, 1 overheard adult conversations about my mother’s brain. My curiosity peaked about the brain and the resultant invisible mind and had set the course for my life’s interest.

Somewhere in this time period, I fantasized I would learn enough about the mind and brain to help my mother and myself.

As a child, my attention span was regarded as abnormal. I was considered very bright, yet my grades in school reflected something different. Although not properly diagnosed, I was most likely suffering from what is now termed Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). The handicaps of stuttering and ADD were to become my first personal improvement challenges once I was out in the world on my own.

This "on my own" objective came at an early age. I was barely sixteen-years-old when I left home to begin my pursuit of happiness. My first efforts resulted in total failure. However, I could not return to my parents’ home because they were now divorced.

Young, broke and rejected, I was able to determine two things. First, I must learn how to communicate if I were to enjoy any success in life, I went about this task methodically, first by enrolling myself into a local night college. In the classroom I studied speech, business law and psychology. At the library; I studied brain functions and their effect on the mind. I was not degree oriented because I could not earn enough at two jobs to attend the required classes to graduate, but my studies were slowly providing me a usable skill.

 

Secondly, somewhere during this period of learning 1 began to realize I possessed a natural ability to sell. Perhaps this ability to persuade others resulted from my childhood experience of having to "read people" through their body language rather than talking with them.

My first real job in sales was so successful that my client base was reduced by my employer. I responded to this action by moving on.

The Vietnam War was heating up and I was eligible for the draft. No longer in school, 1 knew that my number would be drawn soon. And it was. Little did 1 know that my prayers for a deferment would be answered and would afford me an exemption from military duty. I would soon be working for the Ampex Corporation and with the U.S. Department of Defense in a civilian capacity.

 

The defense work closely associated me with top research scientists working in the area of primate and human behavior modification. Ironically, I learned more about the mind from my casual relationships with these scientists than I did working at the various research sites. The sites included teaching hospitals, state mental institutions, military bases, National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) facilities, and the Yerkes Primate Center.

The following years of my corporate employment in national and international sales evolved into sales and marketing management positions in an executive capacity. My personal life, in terms of loving relationships, was again in shambles but my career and ongoing mind, brain, human behavior research was rewarding enough to compensate for my lack of emotional expression. The secrets I had learned so well concerning powers of persuasion, both conscious and subliminal, had long since become a functioning part of my mind’s arsenal of defensive and offensive tools of control.

 

I resolved then and there to become a "control freak". Instead, my fantasy was not to learn what I could control but what was controlling me. Then, around 1986, a peer friend of mine observed that I had arrived in the proverbial "comfort zone" in terms of presenting profitable ideas for others to set upon, and advised me to go into business for myself. Shortly thereafter he provided me an excellent example by resigning his six-figure executive marketing directorship and nominated me as a candidate for his replacement.

Ironically, for the first time in my life, the nomination was rejected because I did not possess at least a master’s degree in business management or communications. His assistant was given the position, and I was subsequently offered the assistant’s vacated position with no hope of promotion, which of course I refused. Soon thereafter, my friend, free of his corporate golden handcuffs, established his own firm which became a very successful business.

Around this same time a childhood acquaintance, long since socially separated from my life, reappeared long enough to introduce me to his country music entertainment friend, Alex Houston. From this introduction I learned this acquaintance, Ray Myers and his wife, Regina, are alleged pedophiles who reportedly sexually molested Cathy’s daughter and their own children. It seemed that Houston was looking for someone with international business negotiating skills who could assist him in putting together a large enough sales deal to finance a manufacturing operation.

 

After spending a few days of complimentary consulting time with him, I had made some rather interesting and intriguing observations about the man and his ideas. First of all, Houston did have a legitimate, potentially profitable idea concerning the manufacture of an electrical capacitor device that could increase energy efficiency for large industrial consumers. Secondly, Houston favorably impressed me as a calculated risk-taker. Thirdly, Houston agreed to finance my production of a marketing plan for presentation to potential foreign buyers. And finally, Houston agreed that I would run the company as President, if and when I sold that plan, I thought. "No problem!"

The intriguing part of this "budding" relationship was my awareness of Houston’s propensity for dishonesty. I felt an urgent need for legal advice on how to insure contractual protection from Houston. Within days, Houston and I had conceptually and contractually agreed to start up the business. I designed a logo and assigned the name UniPhayse. The contracts we entered bound both of us to our respective areas of commitment and was iron clad.

 

Houston’s willingness to participate in my legal protection maneuver further perplexed me, because of the obvious ’’honesty type" clauses contained in the agreement. At the time, in my mind, I had determined that if Houston could "keep it clean" and perform his role, we would be able lo make this company successful. If not, I owned the company lock, stock, and barrel and could still make it work.

Months later, with business and marketing plans in ray briefcase and a demonstration model of the proposed product in hand, Houston and I boarded an airplane to Hong Kong. We were met upon arrival by a tall, well-dressed, Korean gentleman who introduced himself as William Yoon. He owned an international shipping company. His ships carried practically everything from scrap metal to Chinese silkworm missiles all over the world,

Mr. Yoon, as he preferred to be called, in keeping with Far Eastern protocol, was interested in negotiating a joint venture company with his friends in the most populated nation on Earth, The People’s Republic of China. All arrangements had been made by Mr. Yoon’s staff for Houston, myself, and him to fly to Beijing the following day to begin negotiations with the Mining Ministry. After several days of exhausting discussions through an interpreter almost entirely between myself and the deputy director of the Chinese Mining Ministry, it appeared as though we had a workable deal.

An elegant banquet was ordered by our gracious Chinese hosts, and it was there I learned that the Mining Ministry was a part of the Chinese Ministry of Defense. Feelings of patriotism welled up in me for the first time in my life. I was aware that China was engaged in supplying missiles to Libya, a Middle Eastern country with whom the U.S. was in conflict. The Chinese were swapping missiles and other weapons for cheap Libyan light crude oil.

 

The Chinese were about the only country in the world who dared defy the Reagan Administration’s trade embargo. These fleeting thoughts of being involved with the Chinese military felt treasonous to me. Although uncomfortable with the idea of a business venture with such potential for political disaster, I reminded myself that hundreds of other U.S. companies were already in China. Houston refused to discuss the subject.

During the return flight from Beijing to Hong Kong, I confided my patriotic concerns to Mr. Yoon knowing that he would soon become my business partner. He eloquently relieved my fears of potential disaster with a complicated explanation that made sense at the time. This man politely informed me that we could not lose money as he and I would have interim control over all product sales revenue generated outside of China, By Chinese law for joint venture companies, 60% of all manufactured product must go outside China.

Houston and I returned to Tennessee and I briefly met his wife, Cathy, for the first time when she greeted us at the gate. She appeared to me to be young, beautiful, very dumb, and dressed like a prostitute. I paced my walk to be several steps away from her as we headed to the baggage claim area.

Within a few weeks of this visit, a delegation of Chinese electrical engineers and finance experts were flown to our Tennessee office for more negotiations and to collect technical production data (we held) for future manufacturing purposes.

Soon after the delegation departed for China, I received a mysterious phone call from someone at the U.S. Department of State, aka the State Department. It seems someone in my Chinese delegation had earlier been refused entry into this country due to his being identified as an international weapons supplier for terrorists. This telephone voice assured me that there were no problems that would arise and that this information was not to be publicized. I thanked him and assured him the information was secure.

A couple of months later, my new Hong Kong partner, Mr. Yoon, invited me, my wife, Houston and his wife, Cathy, to come to China for the official signing of the Chinese joint venture agreement. When I asked Houston if he and his wife would attend, he flatly replied, "No". He had already booked his "act" and could not cancel. I then offered to escort his wife and mine to China. He responded "no" again, that it was too far and too expensive for a pleasure trip. I was relieved because I had already learned enough of the Chinese language to know our partners did not like or respect him, and Cathy’s demeanor embarrassed me. I later learned that Houston’s "gig" was to "trance-sport"/transport Cathy and little Kelly to the infamous Bohemian Grove for prostitution.

My trip to China with all the pomp and circumstance went well as expected, even though my wife and I were in the process of separating for a divorce. However, just before I was prepared to return to the U.S., I received some extraordinary information from a man who showed me Chinese Ministry of Defense credentials that gained my full and complete attention. This man was in possession of a file on me that could have only been gained through a thorough investigation of my past professional associations.

 

His English skills were only strong enough to roughly, nervously translate some of the file’s content. This man had photographic proof of a U.S. Department of Defense security clearance I once held. He acknowledged that the "Chinese knew all about me". Thoughts of blackmail raced across my mind. These thoughts instantly disappeared when he began to voice his government’s true concerns.

Remembering Alex Houston | wbir.com

Their concerns were about Alex Houston and his involvement with the CIA, drugs, money laundering, child prostitution, and the big one he saved for last, slavery. No mention of mind control was offered, although he did comment that Houston was a "very bad man" and his crimes were "of the White House". Disbelief was in order but not possible, due to the wide array of "Eyes Only" stamped and initialed (official) CIA letterhead and U.S. Government documents he slowly flashed before my eyes.

My first response to this "officer" was that Houston was too stupid and crooked to be connected to U.S. "intelligence". This comment was quickly countered with a gut wrenching photograph of Houston. He was smiling a demonic grin while apparently having anal sex with a small, very young, frightened Black boy. Later he was identified to me as being Haitian.

When confronted with this horrific information and the apparent validity of it, I asked, "What do you (your government) want me to do?" He replied, "Get rid of him, distance yourself from him and all of his associates".

I responded by asking him how he thought I could accomplish this task. He stated, "Any way you choose". I told him that regardless of what he had seen of American television concerning violence, the only way I knew was to force him out by purchasing his company stock, and I needed money to do it. He said, "Give us the figure and make the arrangements. It is done."

I had returned to Tennessee with a Chinese government contract for products valued at thirty-one million dollars. Stapled to it was a telex letter of credit made out to me and the company from Houston’s bank connection the New York branch of the now infamous Bank of Credit and Commerce International (B.C.C.I.). The amount was one million dollars in U.S. funds. The contract was worth approximately ten million dollars in gross profit for Mr. Yoon and me.

Given the charge by the Chinese to immediately discharge Houston of his duties, I knew exactly what my plan of action would have to be. Any other approach to resolving this problem could backfire and all would be lost. And since a former, indirect employer of mine (when I worked for Capital International Airways), the CIA, was implicated, I knew one mistake and it could cost me my life. A comforting thought prevailed and I reminded myself Houston was not only corrupt, but stupid. The CIA must not have respected him either. Otherwise why would he have had to go outside his circle of powerful perverts to recruit me for an international business deal.

I drove to my office to begin the process of discovering something Houston "must have done" that would breach the performance contract he and I had signed when we started the company. Houston was out of town supposedly doing one of his entertainment gigs, so I had complete, unobstructed access to all files, his included. As I had mentally predicted during the long flight from Hong Kong, the entire ferreting process took about fifteen minutes. It seemed that Houston and the old acquaintance who had introduced him to me were, as they say, "selling out the back door". I collected the shipping bills and, ironically enough, the bank deposit slip Houston had retained when he cashed and deposited the customer’s check.

 

There was even a letter copy where Houston had specifically instructed the customer not to discuss his account with anyone at our company other than Houston himself or his pervert friend, Ray Myers. Upon this discovery, I phoned the local Korean lawyer (whose business card I had been given by Mr. Yoon while in Hong Kong) to begin the stock transfer process. With pleasure, I wrote Houston’s letter of resignation.

With this problem in the process of being resolved, I left the office to visit an old, dear friend (now deceased) who had maintained powerful U.S. and foreign intelligence connections. I needed answers I could trust with my life. This "retired" Air Force General from the Intelligence division would be my source.

The word "slavery" delivered in broken English by the Chinese Intelligence officer shouted in my ears during the short drive to a local hotel lobby, a comfortable place my "spook" pal selected for us to talk in private. In the few short minutes of the drive, I had my questions (for him) mentally noted. I wanted so much to gain the most from our meeting.

 

The slavery word had triggered a dark question in my mind, blocking other constructive thought, as I was not comfortable with introducing the term mind control into my presentation. I knew I could speak freely about anything to this trusted friend. I wanted desperately to avoid the words mind control, not for reasons of condemnation, but because they represented a secret I had patriotically maintained for twenty years.

After my arrival and the light chit chat of social niceties had been exchanged between us, the air changed to one of seriousness. I briefed him on my business involvement, and began a methodical line of questions concerning the file the Chinese Intelligence officer had presented on me and, especially, on Houston: shortly, my friend interrupted me in mid-sentence, smiled a toothy grin, and said, "Flash, you’re still the same, and you know damn well what I mean." "Yes", I replied.

The spook was referring to a ’70s rock ballad titled "Still the Same" by singer Bob Segar that was assigned to me years earlier by mutual poker-playing buddies who identified with my passion for successful risk-taking. I despised gambling. My passion was "risk management" and poker gave me a recreational outlet for it. Although my friends each paid dearly, they soon learned my poker strategy was not so much "card counting" as it was my ability to read their body language. This included the micro muscle spasm responses around their eyes, Houston also lost to me at cards. The message the General was implying, roughly translated, was that I was once again "lucky as hell" to have survived my brief business relationship with Alex Houston.

The discussion went down hill from that point directly into the dreaded arena of mind control. After several minutes of listening to details concerning a huge, invisible CIA slave trade going on world wide, the talk became more regionalized to Tennessee. I learned that Cathy and her little girl were victims of trauma-based mind control. They were slaves and the "soul" property of my Uncle Sam. I learned that everything I knew in theory and application about external control of the mind was fully operational and encroaching on the private sector of society. I was growing numb. The first words out of my dry mouth were, "How would you spring these people out of it?"

He smiled and said,

He said,

Understanding that this procedure would gain Cathy’s full attention, the General continued,

Then we briefly chatted about some fine points of the rescue and how to legally stop Houston from taking her back. I never saw this friend again.

 

Walking back to my car, I listened again in my mind to his haunting words and my own life suddenly seemed like a scratched phonograph record with the needle following the same groove over and over again. The thoughts in my head were suddenly very unpatriotic - a far cry from the feelings I had expressed in China concerning Mr. Yoon’s involvement in shipping Chinese missiles to Libya.

Now I felt pure rage for what my country had become during the years after I had bowed out of doing defense work. For once my own mind seemed to be my worst enemy. Hatred for everything consumed me,

I loved what my country had once represented to me, but now I was ashamed to be an American. And unbeknownst to me at the moment, soon I would be ashamed of being a male, based on Cathy and Kelly’s memories.

During the long, usually boring drive to my secluded house in the wilderness southwest of Nashville, I distinctly recall considering the inherent risks in the formula I was given for "stealing" two slaves from under the coke- filled noses of the CIA. My concerns were not of whether I could do it, but related to my friend’s question of, "What are you going to do with them?"

My thoughts went blank as I muttered to myself, "Life is getting complicated again", I then consoled myself with the old adage of "first things first".

Within a few days, I had played God and coordinated the move of Cathy and her 8-year-old daughter, Kelly, out of Houston’s house into a nearby apartment. All of this was totally unbeknownst to Houston. As instructed, I had deliberately placed the powerful coded suggestions into Cathy’s mind. These commands partially bridged her own amnesic true perceptions that Alex was going to kill her. Little did I know that the message I was provided to block Houston’s former control of her was true.

Cathy and Kelly seemed to me to be very disoriented and somewhat disconnected from reality. In their new, sparsely furnished kitchen, I listened quietly to Cathy excitedly explain that "God had sent me" to her. She "knew" this was true because her hands seemed to automatically open her King James version of the Holy Bible to Psalm, Chapter 37, verse 37, which proclaims for the literal minded, "Mark, the perfect man".

Not only had I placed this biblical reference by a covert suggestion in her mind while playing God on the phone, but just now in her home moments earlier, I had broken the spine on her Bible so that it would "magically" open to that page. She said, "See, God did it again for you to see".

Using a deprogrammer’s language trick, I replied in a "reversed" response, "Well, I’ll be damned. You are right. That’s the only explanation left—that could explain all this", I was anxious to change the subject so as not to risk alerting any one of her observant personalities to my well contained laughter. I had been warned that programmed slaves were hyper-observant.

In retrospect, I could not have had thoughts of being sacrilegious. I was and remain deeply spiritual, but my earlier years of researching religions for life’s answers had turned me cynical and cold of man’s interpretation of the Bible, Koran and Buddha’s teachings. This attitude I privately harbored towards organized religions did nothing to squelch the dread I felt wash over me for that moment.

In my attempt to change the subject from religion, I had remembered the Nazi mind-control research performed under Himmler’s command on the families of northern European multi-generational Satanists. Christianity, particularly Catholicism, was Himmler’s pick of the religions’ litter for targeting "Chosen Ones" for his hideous mind-control experiments. These Chosen Ones were to be the robotic leaders of Hitler’s New World Order. I then asked Cathy what religion she was before she met Houston. She replied, "Mormon, but I was a good Catholic before then".

My mind swirled from that shocking revelation. I again quickly changed the subject and suggested we go out to dinner and discuss her new job as my assistant starting the following the day. But tonight we would discuss her divorce plans.

Later that evening, I began my search for a secure phone to find someone from past associations I knew were CIA connected on an officer’s level. I needed a get-well-quick formula or a clean mental health referral who could help these two wide-eyed unfortunates. I was informed there were none and that I knew more about "that mind stuff" than anyone who would talk.

I returned home to find my phone ringing with an anxious Alex Houston, who had returned from a "vacation" at Boys Town in Nebraska, on the other end exclaiming that he was looking for his wife. She had " disappeared".

I faked not knowing anything and suggested he come to my house the next afternoon to go over some urgent business. The next morning, I located a lawyer, for Cathy, and she had the divorce papers drawn up.

That afternoon I had Granville Ratclift, a local Sheriff’s deputy I partially trusted, who occasionally watched my house when I was out of town, waiting inside my house to witness and legally serve Houston with the divorce papers and his termination notice from the company. My last words to Houston which I recorded on tape were,

Getting the legal jump on Houston to project Cathy reminded me that I needed to attend to my own divorce needs. My wife mutually agreed her life could be more emotionally rewarding without me. She moved to Florida and set up house with her mother. We filed for a no contested divorce. I agreed to sell the house and what remained of our joint possessions.

Still unable to secure expert help for Cathy and Kelly, I maintained their safety by moving them into my house until it was sold. It was during this time that I was approached by a neighbor who said he had seen someone through his binoculars wearing a gun and taking pictures of my house. Other such intrusive visits by unknown persons followed suit. I was getting real nervous.

I again called on a CIA operative I knew who worked within Nashville’s corrupt law enforcement elite who, days later, informed me to "get my ass out of there now - someone wanted me dead!" When I asked why, he said, "You know damn good and well why!"

The house sold quickly and I had already decided to walk away from my company, my contracts, and the one million dollars on deposit as a letter of credit at B.C.C.I. in New York. Mr. Yoon came to Nashville. He purchased Houston’s stock. I returned Mr. Yoon to the airport. My last words to him were, "Farewell, friend". He knew nothing of what was going on and I have never seen or spoken with him again. That afternoon I cleaned out my office, handed the keys to the landlord, closed out my personal and company bank accounts.

I had become angry beyond anything I had ever experienced. In retrospect, this was the birthing process of evolution from man to patriot.

I now only wanted answers to what was going on in my government. We needed to be safe while I searched for these answers. My next stop in this pursuit would be Las Vegas, Nevada, Once there, I met with some powerful, underworld characters I had befriended back in my aviation days at Capital International Airways while "packaging" gambling junkets for these characters. I felt confident that these guys would protect me at least until I could find out what and who Cathy knew. I was reminded by these men that they were a part of the CIA’s new funding operations. One of them flippantly remarked while chomping his Cuban cigar, "You can’t hide an egg in a hen house, fella".

My contact then coldly informed me that I had become involved in something that affected our National Security. I lied to this "wise guy" and cryptically responded, "Oh, well. I’ll take them (Cathy and Kelly) to Alaska and play like a voiceless chameleon". In retrospect, this spontaneous lie must have worked to protect me from "red shining" myself to become the recipient of a CIA/MOB hit.

Cathy and I continued to stay "parked" in Las Vegas for a few more days waiting to retrieve Kelly from a last minute (suspected CIA) court ordered visit with her biological father, Wayne Cox. Later, I would learn from Kelly’s medical reports that she had spent Christmas vacation "in hell."

I was now alone in my mind, scared, and going broke fast. Once again I felt totally alienated from everything and everybody in my life. At this moment, I began constantly reminding myself that I was doing the only thing I knew for sure was right. Realistically, I was astride the proverbial tiger and I could not get off its back and survive.
 

3 1991 Roman Catholic Weekly