Shadows of the Stone Benders (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 1)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  SHADOWS

  of the

  STONE

  BENDERS

  K. PATRICK DONOGHUE

  Leaping Leopard Enterprises, LLC

  DEDICATION

  To my wife and best friend Bryson

  Sparkle in your eyes,

  Open arms and soothing soul;

  Your love ever bright.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As the main character in this novel, Anlon Cully, knows all too well, great feats are best accomplished with excellent teamwork. The process to create Shadows of the Stone Benders was no exception. While the story may have originated in my own imagination, it certainly didn’t arrive in your hands without the assistance of some special people I would like to acknowledge here.

  First, I’d like to thank my wife, Bryson, and my two sons, Michael and Stephen, for their encouragement and support throughout the process to write, edit and publish my first novel. You guys were amazing sources of inspiration, even though it may not have seemed like it while I was sequestered writing!

  Second, I’d like to offer my gratitude to the team of people who helped turn my original manuscript into the finished work before your eyes. To Kimberly Day and Cheryl Hollenbeck: thank you for your insightful and meticulous editing skills. Your contributions helped make Shadows of the Stone Benders a better story. To Asha Hossain: thank you for investing your creativity to translate the essence of my story into an excellent cover design. To Amber Colleran: thank you for your contributions to the design concepts that influenced the ultimate cover and web site designs. To Sekayi Stephens: thank you for your prowess in designing an easy-to-read interior layout of the book. To James Lee and Kevin Maines: thank you for your elegant and streamlined design of my author website. To Donna Owens: thank you for capturing an author photo that makes me look better than I really do. Last, but not least by any measure, thank you to best-selling mystery/suspense author, MJ Rose, for offering your wisdom, guidance and assistance in the commercial introduction of Shadows of the Stone Benders.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE INTO THE SHADOWS

  I A SIMPLE LIFE

  II FIRESIDE TALE

  III RUDE AWAKENING

  IV REACHING OUT

  V BACK PORCH DETENTE

  VI BEES TO THE HONEY

  VII WAITING ON PACAL

  VIII THE STORY STONE

  IX THE SOUND STONE

  X CHASING SHADOWS

  XI ASSESSING DAMAGES

  XII FUNERAL PROCESSION

  XIII LOST IN THE DIG

  XIV ANABEL SIMPSON

  XV DAY OF DISCOVERY

  XVI MOUNTING TENSIONS

  XVII THE MASTER STONE

  XVIII HISTORY DEMYSTIFIED

  XIX DOBSON UNVEILED

  XX REVELATIONS

  XXI THICK AS THIEVES

  XXII TIPPING POINT

  XXIII CRESCENDO

  XIV BITTER JUSTICE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  INTO THE SHADOWS

  Halting to rest, Devlin Wilson, PhD, leaned back against the cold boulder and drew in several extended gulps of air. He was struggling with the change in altitude, combined with the exertion required to scramble over and between the sharp-edged slabs along the trail.

  Wiping perspiration from his brow, Devlin squinted into the bright rays of sunrise beginning to peak over the ridgeline and fished for the water bottle holstered to his belt. He swallowed greedily before dragging the fleecy sleeve of his jacket across his mouth and restoring the bottle.

  Focusing attention on the GPS tracking device he now held in his left hand, Devlin peered at the screen to judge how much farther he needed to climb. The flashing red ping of his target destination was roughly a mile ahead and another 600 feet higher in elevation.

  Gathering his energy, Devlin stepped forward to resume his ascent, disappearing into the shadow of the mountain’s jagged profile. As he trudged on, his anger grew more pronounced.

  “Why bring it here?” Devlin fumed.

  From the tree line below, a hooded figure mirrored Devlin’s climb, careful to avoid the trail as much as possible. Far enough away to remain hidden from Devlin’s view but close enough to stay in range, the figure followed the wizened archaeologist with intense focus.

  Spying the terrain ahead, the figure searched for an opening in the trees from which to attack Devlin. With cat-like quickness, the dark-clothed shape bounded over rocks to reach the gap between the thick pine trees.

  Devlin paused again and placed both hands on his hips, bending forward to assist his breathing. He exclaimed, “I’m getting too old for this nonsense.”

  He checked the GPS device again in exasperation as he craned his neck up at the near-vertical section of stone he was meant to climb next. Grasping the device in one hand, he used his free hand to steady himself as he mounted the stair-like gap cut between the rocks. Panting heavily, he urged himself upward, “Only 20 feet more until the next plateau. Come on you slacker!”

  He was within five feet when he felt the sickeningly familiar tickling sensation rumble in his midsection. Within seconds, the vibration shuddered throughout his entire body, causing nearby smaller rocks to tremble. Devlin’s eyes widened as he shot wild disbelieving looks in every direction. But it was too late.

  Devlin was lifted 100 feet up in the air, twisting and writhing his arms and legs in panic. He tried to cry out but no words would form in his quivering throat. Suddenly his catapulting rise stopped as he passed briefly into the sunlight. He dangled, suspended in the crisp mountain air for only a second or two, before his body shot down in a violent arc back into the shadows.

  Devlin crashed into a pine tree with bone-crushing force, tearing his aorta. He bounced off rocks and tree limbs as his fall continued, snapping his leg bones and shattering his skull. By the time he tumbled onto the sanctity of a pine needle-covered outcrop close to the blazed trail, Devlin was already dead.

  The hooded figure watched Devlin’s plunge with fascination before thrusting the weapon deep into a backpack and heading back down the path. The plan they discussed had been clear: “Make sure he’s dead, but don’t get close enough to the body to leave tracks. Make sure it looks like an accident, and above all else, make sure no one sees you.”

  The dark shape clambered down the ledges of stone and settled in the underbrush 100 yards below where Devlin’s crushed and bleeding body lay motionless. Other hikers would be scaling the trail soon, the figure knew, and Devlin’s body was close enough to the trail that they would surely see it.

  A half hour later, the wait paid off. A single hiker emerged on the trail astride the outcrop and immediately spotted Devlin. Shortly afterwards, another two hikers joined him. They briefly looked Devlin over and realized he was dead. One of them pulled out a cell phone and made a call while the other two stood with hands on their heads, stunned by the unexpected discovery.

  Removing the hooded jacket and stuffing it also into the backpack, the killer silently resumed a clandestine descent. Mission accomplished.

  I

  A SIMPLE LIFE

  With a faint hiss and then a sudden rush, the fire pit sprang to life. Anlon Cully sat back and absorbed the chill of dusk while awaiting the halo of the fire’s warmth to reach him. Glancing at his watch, he closed his eyes and listened for the sound of Pebbles’ scooter approaching from the village.

  At this time of year, it was easy for Anlon to detect the whining putter of the m
oped as it wound down the mountainside streets of Incline Village, a sleepy enclave ringing the north shore of Lake Tahoe. The deluge of summer visitors and their attendant clamor would not overtake the otherwise tranquil community for another month or so, and Anlon reveled in the comparable peace of this early May evening.

  Opening his eyes again, he scanned the horizon beyond the stone patio of his lakefront lodge. Between towering pine trees to his right, he could still see the trailing edge of the sun dipping below the western ridge of the mountains cupping the lake. In front of him, the lake itself was placid with the purple-blue reflection of the mountains waxing as the golden shimmer of sunset waned. And to Anlon’s left, a wooden pier extended its lonely reach into the frigid waters, his boat ebbing against its mooring.

  Anlon sipped on chilled tequila and sighed in relaxation. His simple life these days was much different than it used to be and that suited him just fine. In the span of 15 years, he’d gone from obscure academic to celebrated inventor to wealthy recluse.

  At 42, Anlon was active and in decent shape. He was of average height and build and maintained a summer tan through winter — not from a salon or bottle, but from frequent sojourns to his Los Cabos casita to escape the winter blues. With tiger-like green eyes and short cropped greying, sandy hair, he carried himself with an aura of understated, carefree confidence.

  Tonight, he was eager to see Pebbles for their standing Friday starlight cocktails and takeout food. Since their inaugural lakeside happy hour a little less than a year ago, the weekly gathering had become a satisfying ritual for Anlon. And given the stunning call he received earlier from Matthew Dobson, he yearned for tonight’s get-together more than usual.

  It was Pebbles’ turn to bring their meal this evening. She most often chose an assortment of appetizers, chips and dips from the village Mexican restaurant, partially because the restaurant was in the same shopping strip as the bistro where she tended bar on occasion, and partially because Mexican food fit easily in the saddle bags straddling the seat of her aging, pale pink scooter. She was, after all, a very practical young woman.

  They were an odd pair when you got right down to it, Anlon considered, but the chemistry of friendship between them worked and that was all he cared about. Yes, they attracted a lot of curious attention when together in public given the gap in their ages and their decidedly different styles, but it was obvious to even the most casual of observers that they shared a warm camaraderie.

  Everyone noticed Pebbles first. Partly because she was stunningly attractive but more so because she was extraordinarily eclectic. Tall and lithe with porcelain skin, penetrating ice-blue eyes and aquiline facial features, she could command the focus of any room she strutted through.

  But combine that with her black lip ring, a diamond stud adorning her right nostril, shaggy purple hair (at present), dangling silver bracelets and necklaces, black nails, tattoos and a leather buckle-and-zipper dominated wardrobe, the 27-year-old Pebbles McCarver brought new meaning to the phrase “jaw dropping” no matter where she went.

  It was a stark contrast to Anlon’s simple, laid-back appearance. During the peak of summer, he usually donned shorts, t-shirts and sandals. The rest of the year he was most often arrayed as he was tonight — jeans, sweatshirt and hiking boots. A typical Tahoe wardrobe that blended in with tourists and residents alike.

  Just then Anlon’s ears picked up the faint whir of Pebbles’ scooter and he uttered, “Finally!”

  As he sat anxiously awaiting for Pebbles to appear along the slate path leading from the driveway, he still found it hard to imagine she’d ever been anything but the clash of beauty and personality she was today.

  She had been born Eleanor Marie McCarver outside Atlanta, Georgia, and raised in the bosom of a prominent Deep South political family.

  A family with four older brothers whom she fought, kicked and fiercely competed with in every way imaginable. The same brothers who indelibly branded her with the nickname “Pebbles” at the tender age of 10 — an homage to her failed attempt to body surf on a dare during a family beach vacation that resulted in a vicious tumbling through the Daytona Beach breakers.

  The brothers callously howled with laughter when she staggered up out of the chilly surf with a bikini bottom full of sand and pebbles, and a missing bikini top.

  Many girls would have trembled with shock and cried in embarrassment, but not Eleanor. Instead, with a scowl of determination, she slicked back the matted jet black hair splattered across her face, fished her bikini top out of the surf and dove back into the water. Wading out beyond the breakers, she glared at her older brothers as they continued to tease her. Beneath the comparative privacy of greyish-blue water, she reattached her top, slung off her bikini bottom temporarily to unload the deposit of sand and pebbles from her bum and then swam to position herself for the next good wave to ride in.

  When she chose her wave, she glided across the surface somewhat awkwardly but came all the way into the beach without a repeat tumble. Stepping triumphantly from the ocean, she briefly adjusted her top, placed both hands on her hips and stuck her tongue out at each of her brothers in succession. They applauded uproariously and one of them (the brothers still fought over who should receive the credit for it) shouted out, mocking her failure while praising her toughness, “Way to go Pebbles!”

  The nickname stuck within the family and Eleanor, aka Pebbles, grew to like it, adopting its use informally among her close friends as she passed through high school, college and law school.

  As a first-year associate in the Manhattan office of a global law firm though, “Eleanor” had dropped the nickname and been as buttoned down and prim as all the other freshly minted attorneys beginning the partner climb. Her path seemed clear, her future bright…and in a heartbeat it all fell apart.

  Anlon had not yet made an effort to coax from Pebbles the story behind her transformation, but he knew for certain something traumatic happened that caused her to pitch it all, including burying the use of the name Eleanor, and go on walkabout.

  Rising now to meet her, Anlon reached to relieve her of one of the two large bags stuffed with their dinner. Pebbles’ smile cut through the grey veil of nightfall and she blurted, “Pour me a margarita AC. I need a drink bad!”

  She was the only one who called him AC and he chuckled in response, “Amen to that! But you’ll have to settle for straight tequila for the moment. The margarita pitcher is still inside.”

  Pebbles placed the remaining bag down on the patio next to the fire pit and plunked down onto one of the wide, thick cushioned wood chairs next to Anlon. Propping her black, knee-high-length, buckle-laden boots on the stone ledge encircling the fire pit, she tossed back her head and peered upward through the pine trees at the darkening sky.

  “I can work with that,” she answered.

  Without further prompting, Anlon withdrew the bottle from its chiller and poured Pebbles a shot. She whisked it from his hand and threw back the curious mix of cold liquor that burned hot as she swallowed. “Ah,” she sighed, “that will do nicely. Another please.”

  “Now, now, young lady, pace yourself,” Anlon playfully admonished as he refilled her shot glass. “I’m going to need your full attention while we’re eating to tell you about the strange call I received today.”

  Pebbles snickered at his use of “young lady,” demurely winked at him and dramatically placed the full tumbler on the table between their chairs in a gesture of feigned obedience. In silence, they both absently stared at the flames licking the air before them.

  Aroused from her reverie by the sound of Anlon unwrapping a burrito, Pebbles giggled.

  “What?” Anlon asked as he handed her the partially unwrapped burrito and then reached in the bag for another one for himself, “What’s so funny? You looked like you were a million miles away.”

  She blushed ever so lightly and said, “I love when you call me young lady like you just did. It reminded me of the first time we met. I was so crushed when
you left without saying goodbye! I don’t know why I just thought of it, but it was a fun memory.”

  “I see,” Anlon nodded. “Believe me, I would have loved to talk with you until closing time that night. I was very taken by you, even though we barely got a chance to chat. But you were very busy as I recall and I knew I’d be back again.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did come back! If you hadn’t, what would I do on Friday nights? And where in the world would I be living now?” Pebbles snickered as she bit heartily into her burrito.

  As her friendship, bordering on relationship, with Anlon blossomed, she had discarded her plan to move on at the end of last summer. It wasn’t about strings she assured herself, she just enjoyed being around him and wasn’t ready to pack up just yet.

  “So what about this phone call you mentioned? Sounded kind of spooky.”

  “Do you remember meeting my Uncle Devlin around Christmas when he visited on his way back from Pakistan?” he asked in reply.

  “Yes, of course. He’s the archaeologist, right?” she responded, already halfway through her burrito. She ate remarkably fast (when you’re the youngest child in the family with four older brothers you learn to eat quick or not at all).

  “That’s right. Well, it’s sad news. His research partner, Matthew Dobson, called to say Devlin died a few days ago. Apparently he fell off a cliff in New Hampshire. Dobson was so upset during the call he could barely talk,” Anlon shared.

  Wiping her lips after swallowing the last bite of her first burrito, Pebbles said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. He led such a fascinating life. Every time I was around him it felt like disappearing into an adventure,” he mulled, placing his barely touched burrito back on the table.

  “Hold that thought,” Pebbles replied. “We need the margaritas before you go any further.”

  Vaulting up, she dashed up the stone stairs to the back door of Anlon’s stone and beam home. Less than a minute later she returned down the stairs, her tall boots clip clopping on the slate as she descended, with two glasses and the pitcher in hand. She poured them each a drink, rooted in the takeout bag for another burrito, flopped back down on her chair and announced, “Okay, continue AC.”