by Steve Berry
This man definitely wanted to make a name for himself.
And what did Kenneth want?
Power and credibility. And her?
She wanted wealth.
She’d lived off a public salary nearly her entire adult life. First from what Alex made in the Tennessee state government, then as a U.S. senator. Luckily, he’d inherited assets that had kept them debt-free. But they’d never lived a life of leisure or privilege. Alex was always careful with donor contributions and gifts, never breaching any ethical lines. Not once during his tenure had he ever accepted a paid trip anywhere. He barely allowed anyone to buy him a meal. Don’t take it and you don’t owe it. She’d heard that a million times. Her philosophy was vastly different. What she sought could be worth in the hundreds of billions of dollars. More than enough wealth to provide her with a comfortable life. Only on his deathbed had her father told her about the possibility of locating the gold.
“You’re a million miles away,” Vance said to her.
That she was.
An odd play of emotions swirled inside her. Pride, greed, ambition, guilt. A strange combination she’d only recently learned to master.
“You and I won’t be sleeping together again,” she told him.
He didn’t seem bothered. “As I recall, you were the one who started that in the first place.”
“I did. So I’ll be the one to end it.”
“Somebody else?”
“You could say that.”
“I hope he appreciates what he has.”
That remained to be seen.
“Go home to your family. Be a good boy, Lucius. Don’t screw this up.”
“I have no intention of failing. You gave me a gift, which I plan to use wisely.”
“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”
“Your words?”
She shook her head. His lack of knowledge of history was embarrassing. “Lincoln’s. And he was right. You’re about to be put to that test. Don’t fail.”
“I have no intention of that happening.”
She knew Vance had wanted to be president. Before last fall’s election he’d thrown out feelers and tested the water. But no one had jumped to his call. Not the press, the public, or the party. His ignorance of history again worked to his disadvantage. Only one person had ever moved from Speaker of the House to president. James Polk in 1845. A long, long time ago. In modern times the post represented the end of a legislator’s career. Vance had held that seat of power for nine years, a lifetime in Speaker’s terms. He’d used the post wisely, making far more friends than enemies. But she knew how he’d resented being shunned, especially when the party had turned to a political lightweight like Warner Fox for president. So he’d jumped when she’d offered him a way to move from number two in the line of succession to, in essence, being president, and all without facing a national election.
“I’m going to change this country, forever,” he said. “But I could not have done it without you.”
She appreciated the graciousness, but knew that, soon, she would be the last thought on his mind. Which was okay. She had other interests, too.
“One last kiss?” he asked. “For the warrior about to do battle?’
She smiled. He was impossible.
But what was the harm?
* * *
Danny watched with rapt fascination as the Speaker of the House of Representatives kissed the widow of one of his closest friends. Not a peck on the cheek, either. An embrace, their lips crushed against each other, with no resistance from either side. He could hardly believe his eyes or his ears, as he’d been close enough to hear their entire conversation.
Something big was definitely in the works.
“You’re about to become the most powerful man in this country.”
Diane’s words to Vance.
The two lovers parted, then walked together from the deck back into the house. A few minutes later a car left the driveway. He assumed Vance was gone, along with his two minders.
So he fled the woods.
* * *
He drove back to his house, his thoughts swirling. Being president of the United States had been a continuous mental task, there’d never been a moment when a thousand different things weren’t raging through his brain. That might be a problem for most people. Not him. He’d loved every second of it and missed it more than he’d ever thought possible. What had another Tennessean, Andrew Jackson, said?
I was born for the storm, and a calm does not suit me.
Damn straight.
And he seemed to have stumbled right into the middle of a hurricane. Silently, he weighed the pluses and minuses, seeking a loophole, some straw to grasp, a reasonable explanation.
But found nothing.
The wipers continued to squeak against the rain. Droplets, like silver bullets, revealed themselves in the headlights, the damp road glistening like black ice.
Unfortunately, no nagging toothache of doubt existed here.
Only bad thoughts crawled around in his mind.
He’d watched the gathering inside the Sherwood home, noting a jollity among the three participants that suggested familiarity. Then the encounter on the deck. That was almost too much to believe. Nobody would believe him. He barely believed it himself.
But what to do now?
He had an idea, crazy in its scope, unique in its approach.
So he rattled off its pros and cons.
His divorce from Pauline was scheduled to be filed in July and, after the mandatory sixty-day waiting period, finalized in September. That would be eight months after leaving office. They’d agreed to issue a joint statement expressing regret, then not to speak publicly on the matter ever again. To friends the explanation would be that things happen, but those closest would not be surprised. The pain from Mary’s tragic death had hung between them for a long time. His daughter would have been a grown woman now, probably married with children of her own. Music had been her love, and he could still hear her, as a child, playing the flute. Visiting her grave had been a start at his personal reconciliation with that past.
But more work remained to be done.
Ego, of course, would be raised by his enemies, along with enough is enough. But before leaving the White House he’d been privy to polling numbers that indicated he was popular in Tennessee. The data had been gathered as part of the research concerning the location of his presidential library. Private donors would be needed to make it a reality, and having the building located in friendly territory always helped with contributions.
Beyond that, he could think of no other deal-breaker con to his plan.
Sure, objections would come, but the naysayers could go to hell. His dearest friend was dead, and he’d been unwittingly drawn into finding out how and why. He owed that to Alex Sherwood, so he’d take whatever heat might come his way. Never once had he ever been afraid of a fight. And it was unfettered courage that had made him a decisive president. The military had respected him, Congress feared him, and the people, by and large, liked him. That same poll taken late last year had also revealed that he left office with a 65% approval rating, which no other modern president could claim. So was he letting all that go to his head? Was he overplaying his hand? Maybe.
But he had to do it.
For Alex.
He kept driving through the rain. No sleep had settled in his eyes. Instead his mind worked at an Olympic pace.
“No, Danny,” he whispered, “you’re doing this for you, too.”
Being honest with himself had always served him well. He knew his strengths and weaknesses, conscious of both, oblivious to neither.
He wanted this. No. He needed this.
He turned off the highway and cruised down the drive, parking in front of his house. The security team was still ensconced on the front porch.
“Anything we can get you, Mr. President?” one of the men asked as he climbed the steps.
>
“A third term would have been good.”
And he tossed the man a smile as he headed inside, shedding his wet coat. Pauline would have made him take it off outside. Now he could do as he pleased. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. He’d brought the notebook inside with him. Upstairs, he bypassed the closed door to his room and opened the one where his friend lay sleeping. He sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the tasseled lamp, and roused him.
“You do realize that I am the governor of this state,” his pal said, sleep still in his voice.
“But I outrank you.”
The governor sat up in the bed. “How do you figure? You’re a private citizen.”
“We’ve got trouble.”
And he told his friend everything, including the details concerning Taisley, Lucius Vance, and Diane. “I’m tellin’ you, that gathering I just witnessed was like something from Seven Days in May.”
He’d always loved both the book and the original black-and-white movie, which dealt with a military-political cabal’s attempt to take over the government.
“They were plotting,” he said. “No question.”
“Is that the notebook?”
He nodded and handed it over. “Diane lied straight to my face. She had someone go into Alex’s apartment and get this.”
“She is his wife and, I assume, sole heir?”
“Then why lie?”
“Because she doesn’t like you? And considers it none of your business?”
“I wish it were that simple. No. They’re about to do something big. So big that she was warning Vance about the effects of power.”
“What can you or I do about it?”
“I have an idea.”
The governor stared at him, waiting.
“Alex had two years left. You’re the one who appoints someone to serve out that Senate term. We both know the score. The person has to be totally uninterested in keeping the job two years from now. He or she is a caretaker. Nothing more. A seat warmer. But the person also has to be competent.” He saw the dots were already connecting. “I know this appointment could be a minefield for you. People from everywhere will call in favors to get it, even for only two years just to keep the seat warm. No matter what you do, you’re goin’ to piss somebody off. So screw ’em all and give me the job.”
The governor grinned. “It does have a ring of sentimentality.”
That it did. Only one other man had ever served as president then been chosen for the U.S. Senate.
Andrew Johnson.
Who hailed from just up the road in Greene County, Tennessee.
“You’ll be the second.”
“And it’s a good play for you,” he said. “I’ll keep things quiet until the voters can pick who they want to be their next senator in two years. You can’t get in trouble for that.”
“Except you’ve never kept anything quiet in your life.”
“I do plan to snoop around. I’m going to find out what the hell’s goin’ on here. But I promise, I’ll be a good boy.”
“You do realize that ex-presidents are supposed to go away.”
“I never liked that prefix. It has an awful ring to it. But I’m doing this for Alex.” He paused, realizing he shouldn’t kid a kidder. “And for me.”
“I knew there was no way you were just going to sit around and write your memoirs.”
A fierce, predatory concern had enveloped him. One that had never left him during eight years in the White House, but had quelled four months ago as he’d watched a new president take the oath.
“I need this,” he admitted again. “I really do.”
“I remember a time when I needed things. And you made sure I got them. So no problem, Danny. I’ll do it. For Alex—and you.”
In an instant the fear and isolation he’d been feeling of late transformed into a focused desire for action.
And a realization.
He was back in the game.
Plan your work and work your plan.
His mantra.
He knew his eyes held both a brassy glint of mischief and a touch of relief, so he told his old friend, “There’s somethin’ dead up this creek. I can feel it. So I’m gonna paddle up and see what we find.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cotton stared across the table at Terry Morse, his patience at an end. They sat in the kitchen, Morse’s gaze out toward the open windows. A few of the bees hovered with a murmur just outside the screen, beneath the eaves.
“They’ll head back to the hive soon,” Morse said. “After they calm.”
Morse had uprighted and repaired the shattered boxes, then used smokers to herd most of the insects back to their homes.
“Bees live by order,” the older man said. “They like things organized. There are rules in the hive.”
Cassiopeia and Lea sat at the table with them. Cassiopeia kept a watch out the windows, too, holding her gun, which the men had left behind.
“What did they tell you?” Cotton asked, his Beretta on the table before him. “That you’d be doing your duty by leading us on?”
Morse nodded. “They showed up right before you came. Parked out back, out of sight. They knew the handshake and the right words. My pa told me to always respect men who knew those things. When you appeared with Lea, they waited in the bedroom and listened. I was plannin’ on showin’ them the stone, so I just led you out there, too.”
“Your father lived in another time,” Cotton said. “Things have changed. Those men don’t give a damn about the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
“I see that now. I made a mistake.” Morse stared at his granddaughter. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Tell me about that stone,” Cotton said to Morse. “And for your own sake, give it to me straight.”
“You realize I’ve kept this secret a long time.”
“Like I said, different time. A lot of crimes have been committed here, and it’s judgment day.”
A look of defeat swept across Morse’s face. He felt for the old man, but he had a job to do.
“It’s one of five,” Morse said. “My pa told me that his father was specially chosen to guard this one. That was an honor he was really proud of, and he passed it on to me.”
“So how did the stone end up in your bee house?” Cassiopeia asked.
He wanted to know the answer to that question, too.
“It goes back a long time, when I wasn’t much younger than Lea.”
Morse followed his father through the forest of oak, beech, hickory, and pine, careful to keep a watch for rattlesnakes and hogs. He loved the woods. The streams yielded not only fresh water but also fish. The woods had deer, walnuts, berries, and—his personal favorite—cherries. The Ozark and Ouachita Mountains were his home, and he imagined that would be the case for his entire life.
His father was a powerful man other men treated with great respect. He raised pigs and trapped furs. When people were starving during the Depression he brought many of them game and made sure no one went hungry. His moonshine was legendary with both the locals and the revenuers. People came to him for both help and advice.
“Where we goin’?’” he asked his father.
“Huntin’ cows.”
He’d heard the term before and, when younger, actually thought that’s what his father meant. But he’d come to know that the term had another meaning. Usually, his father had saddled up his horse and headed into the woods alone, huntin’ cows. Today he’d been brought along, riding his own horse, toting his own rifle.
His father stopped and he came up beside him.
“Take a look at that twisty beech tree, there by the stream?”
He followed his father’s pointed finger.
“We call ’em treasure trees. They’re loaded with carvin’s. Read ’em right they lead you to gold.”
His father had never spoken of this before.
“You’re the firstborn. That mean
s you’re the next sentinel. I’m goin’ to teach you all you have to know, but that’s only if you want to learn.”
A thrill rushed through him, like water down the stream, connecting him to his father like never before. Was there any better feeling?
“I want to learn,” he said.
“I thought you might. See that hollow, beyond the creek?”
He did.
“Someone’s buried up there. He was in places he shouldn’t be and ended up dead. It was a long time ago. But that’s what it takes sometimes. You have to hunt the cows.”
And he suddenly realized what the term meant. “Did you shoot him?”
“My father did. But I was there. Just like you’re here today.”
The connection became stronger, back another generation. “I can do whatever I have to.”
His father smiled. “I believe you can.”
They kept riding, deeper into the woods, heading south, away from their cabin, following the stream. He’d explored this region of the woods many times and had seen the carved animal figures, the cryptic letters, the dates notched into trees and rocks. But he’d never understood their significance. He’d thought they were just graffiti. He wanted to ask more questions but knew that was not a good idea. His father would tell him what he wanted him to know when ready.
But he realized what was happening.
His education had begun.
“My pa was a tough man,” Morse said. “I learned later that he killed three people while huntin’ cows.”
“That’s not what you said earlier,” Cassiopeia noted.
“I lied.”
Lea seemed surprised by the revelation. “You never told me anything about people dyin’.”
“’Cause I never expected you to ever kill anybody. So you didn’t need to know.”
“Did you kill anyone?” she asked her grandfather.
Morse shook his head. “I never could. I just scare ’em away.”
“What happened with your father?” Cotton asked. “That day by the creek.”
“We went somewhere.”
He kept riding up the narrow trail, the horses’ footing sure, but kept a wary eye out just in case.
