We looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

"Did you say you met your grandfather?" I asked.

"I did. I was young, but I sort of remember him."

"What was he like?"

"He was always sitting and drinking beer. I don't have any memory of him without a beer can in his hand. He was quite fat. He also wore those sleeveless t-shirts. I remember he had hairy arms and shoulders."

"Not to be insulting, but sort of a white trash kind of guy?"

"Exactly a white trash kind of guy. But I also think he was smart. You can sort of tell by the way these are written. After he died, I don't remember my parents ever talking about him."

Our breakfast came, so we put everything on hold while we ate. We tried to eat slowly, but failed. Both of us were too anxious to get back to the log book.

From that point on in the entries, my grandfather was mentioned numerous times.

The eleventh mission: Honeycutt's dad made booze runs for the mob back in the late twenties and early thirties. I would have liked that guy.

The twelfth mission: I think Honeycutt's dad committed some sort of heist. He might have hidden the loot. Maybe I can get Honeycutt to spill some more about it.

The thirteenth mission: This is getting interesting. I pumped Honeycutt for more information. He swore me to secrecy. He figured since we are friends, he could tell me. His dad was involved in some big art heist in New York. They stole 11 paintings, but there is something special about one of them. He doesn't know what happened to the other 10 paintings, but the other two guys are dead. Tony Guidry and Mikey Flynn. I asked him what happened to the eleventh painting, and he said that his father hid it. He wouldn't tell me where it was, though. I think he's sensing that I'm a little too interested.

"Why do you think your grandfather put all this stuff in his log?" I asked. "Who's he writing to?"

"I was just thinking about that. My best guess? Probably with all these guys it started out as just a log of their missions. But they didn't know from one day to the next—or one mission to the next—if they were going to live. Maybe they just wanted to leave a little of themselves behind. I'd bet they all did that. Besides, maybe it also served as notes that he could refer back to if he needed to."

Made sense to me, so we continued on.

The next three entries didn't mention my grandfather, but the seventeenth entry did: It's all about some kind of treasure. And it's fucking big! That eleventh painting holds a clue. He said that when things got hot, his father left the painting with a guy he knows in Iowa. His father died before he could go back and get it.

The eighteenth was more ominous: Honeycutt shut down. I know it was a small town in Iowa. He gave me the name of the town. And the painter's name is Lando Ford. I got that much before he stopped talking. Could I find the painting? If I live through this war, maybe I should try. I think I know as much about the painting as Honeycutt does now. Maybe I will go after it.