“Have you ever been there?”
“No.” Westford was as far from East Boston as he had ever been; forty miles, according to a map on the wall in the dining hall.
“So how do you know what I’m supposed to look like?”
He shrugged.
“Well, you happen to be correct. I’m Jewish, so I don’t look like a lot of other Cubans.”
He didn’t know any Jews, though he knew a lot of them died during the war. “Sorry about that.”
“About what?”
“About … being Jewish. The war and all.”
She shrugged. “My family has been in Cuba for almost fifty years.” She pulled a pack of gum from her shorts pocket. “Want a piece of Juicy Fruit?”
They sailed together every day that week, alone in a Sailfish, talking and laughing and jumping into the pond to cool off. One night, sitting by the fire, she sat beside him on a log, laced her fingers into his and fed him a golden brown toasted marshmallow with her free hand. To this day nothing had ever tasted so good.
“What do you think about Communism?” she asked as they floated on a windless day in the middle of the pond.
He shrugged. “I don’t trust the Ruskies.” It wasn’t the sort of thing they talked about in East Boston.
“Well,” she continued, “there are other kinds of Communism. In Cuba, my parents are friends with a man named Fidel Castro. He is fighting to make life better for the poor. As it stands now, only the rich can go to school or get proper medical care. Castro wants to change that.”
He knew he should care about this—Consuela was going back to Cuba, and he must have cousins there even though he’d never met them. “Well, if it helps the people it must be a good thing.” She had smiled and kissed him, which made him realize he would have agreed that letting leeches crawl over his body was a good thing if she had suggested it.
The six weeks flew by. At fifteen, he was content to just hold hands and steal an occasional Juicy Fruit-flavored kiss. But on their last night she snuck into his cabin, took his hand and led him to the beach. “Take off your clothes,” she whispered. Naked, they swam out to the raft, staying underwater to evade both the other counselors and the mosquitoes. On the far side of the raft she wrapped her legs around his hips, opened his mouth gently with her tongue and introduced him to the wonders of love-making.
An hour later, their bodies wrinkled and blue, they swam ashore, dressed and huddled together under a beach towel. “Are you coming back next summer?” he asked.
She frowned. “I doubt it. Your government doesn’t like Castro, and since we support him my parents almost didn’t let me come this summer.” She turned to him. “Will you come visit me?”
He was fifteen—the most money he ever had was when he told some high-roller at the track that Princess Polly had a bum leg; the guy won big on a long-shot and gave Randall a five dollar bill. He had bought a new bike with it, but he couldn’t very well ride it to Cuba. “I’ll try.”
“No. You have to promise.”
“Okay. I promise.”
“And I promise to write.”
And she had written, off and on, for the next couple of years. Then their lives moved on and Consuela slowly faded to a distant but cherished memory. Until six years later, a few days after his twenty-first birthday. A letter arrived in his mailbox, unstamped. On the inside a piece of Juicy Fruit gum was taped to a short note on lavender-scented paper. “You promised to come to Cuba,” was all it said. The dot above the ‘i’ was in the shape of a heart.
“I’m sorry, you did what?” Cam ran his hand through his hair, unable to stop pacing around the living room while Amanda sat on the couch.
Amanda did her best to downplay the incident, her voice flat and calm. “There were plenty of people out there. So I went out to snap a photo. When one of them confronted me, I knocked him on his arse.”
“Amanda, that’s crazy! You could have been hurt.”
“Cam, look, I appreciate your concern. And maybe it was a bit careless. But the ice fishermen were there to help if necessary. And I’m fine. Plus I’ve got the pictures. It’s not as if you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”
Cam stared out at the dark lake, his eyes on the area he imagined the altercation occurred. “I don’t mean to be sexist, but—”
She cut him off. “Just stop, Cam. Yes, you do mean to be sexist. If one of your hockey player friends had done what I did you’d high-five him and buy him a pint.”
Cam sighed. “Yeah, but I’m not engaged to any of my hockey buddies. How would you feel if Astarte went out there to confront those guys?”
He had a point. Sort of. “I’d bloody freak. But Astarte is a child.”
He plopped onto the couch next to her. “You sure you’re okay?”
She smiled and kissed him lightly. “Never better. I may try out for one of those roller derby teams.”
“Let me see the pictures.”
She scrolled through them on her phone.
“That’s them. Chung and his son.”
“You mean Chung and his son knocked on their asses.”
“Yes. But I have a feeling that’s not for good.”
“I already gave the pictures to the police. In the morning I’m going to court to get a restraining order. The police think the judge might even revoke their bail.” They had been charged with abducting and assaulting Cam.
“Okay. And I’ll call Pugh and tell him what happened.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t have much control over his son.”
“Not much. But he does have a decent inheritance he could threaten to withhold.”
She bit her lip. “I think they see this bracelet as a jackpot. So they’re willing to risk the inheritance. Do you really think it’s valuable?”
“I don’t know. It might be worthless. On the other hand if it really does prove ancient explorers were here, it’d be worth a fortune.”
“Even with the whole question of provenance?”
Cam thought about it. “The Burrows Cave artifacts sell for big bucks and most of the world thinks they’re fakes. Plus there are thousands of them, not just one. Assuming Pugh’s story holds together, and the bracelet tests out, there would be hundreds of collectors who’d love to get their hands on it. Hell, some baseball card just sold for two million. What would you rather have?”
She smiled. “A beach house, if you want the truth.”
“Well, in the end it doesn’t really matter what its worth. They think it’s valuable, and that’s what motivates their behavior.”
“By the way, I found a lab in Lexington that will do metal-testing for us.”
“Okay,” Cam said. “I’ll drive the bracelet in tomorrow after court. Randall thinks we should get it tested right away.”
“There’s no reason for you to come to court. The detective will be with me. You go to the lab first thing.”
“Okay.” Cam recounted his day. “Turns out that guy I heard lecture last week was a fake, a creation of Randall Sid.”
“The reptilian alien guy? Why?”
Cam shrugged. “It was part of a plan to discredit some British researcher named Laurence Gardner. And it worked. Gardner did some good work, but because of all of Autier’s lectures and publicity everyone now just thinks of him as the kook who thinks Prince Charles is half-crocodile. That’s what MK-Ultra does. More than brain-washing, it changes reality. Or at least the perception of reality.”
“I’ve read some of Gardner’s stuff. He’s a good researcher. But why would the CIA care about some Brit’s research on the Jesus Bloodline?”
“It must tie into something here, something they want to control.”
“Yes, probably the Templars and our Prince Henry research. Maybe we should take a closer look at Gardner’s work.”
“Speaking of controlling things, it also turns out there is one rich family, the Mellons, who are connected to both the Vinland Map at Yale and the Narragansett Rune Stone.”
�
��Coincidence?”
Cam shook his head. “Randall doesn’t think so.”
But there was something about the Mellon name that rang a bell. She stabbed at her smart phone for a few seconds. “There,” she said. “Bunny Mellon was her name.”
“Who?”
“Remember the whole John Edwards scandal? Some rich socialite gave him over a half million dollars to pay off his mistress when he was running for President. Bunny Mellon was her name. Used to be friends with Jackie Kennedy.”
“Isn’t she a bit old for John Edwards?”
“Exactly. Apparently he charmed her. Used to call to sing to her on her birthday.” She punched a few more keys. “Born in 1910, she just died at 103.”
“Well, I guess you can’t take it with you. How is she related to Paul Mellon? He’s the guy who bought the Vinland Map for a million bucks and donated it to Yale.”
“Bunny is his second wife.”
“So she’s the mother, or maybe stepmother, to the Mellon who stole the Narragansett Rune Stone.”
“Interesting family. Sounds like they have unlimited money to throw around.”
“And what they can’t buy, they steal. I’m going to keep digging. So far the Mellon family is like Where’s Waldo—every time I turn the page I see them.” He asked about her giants research.
“I’ll get to the specifics in a minute, but the big thing I learned is that John Emmert was involved in documenting many of the giant skeleton finds.”
“Emmert, the guy who found the Bat Creek Stone?”
She nodded.
“So if the Bat Creek Stone was a fake, then it follows the giant skeletons could all be fakes also.”
“Since when do you think the Bat Creek find is a fake?”
“I don’t. I’m just making the connection.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it. And no doubt the skeptics will make that argument. But you won’t believe what I found, Cam. This is too vast to be a hoax or a ruse.” She took a deep breath. “There are fifteen hundred different accounts of giant skeletons found in America. The giants are written about in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Scientific America, dozens of reputable newspapers.” She handed a printout to Cam. “Here’s the New York Times from 1902.” Cam scanned it. “Not much wiggle room with a headline that reads, ‘Giant Skeletons Found.’”
New York Times, 1902
“And this is the New York Tribune, from 1897.”
New York Tribune, 1897
Cam scanned this as well. “Nine feet, six inches.”
“The thing is, most of the articles quote Smithsonian officials who have come to verify the discoveries.”
“Officials like John Emmert.”
“Yes, but not just him, many others. Again, we’re talking well over a thousand reports.” She showed him an image on her computer. “Someone plotted all the giant skeletons on a map. Every pin is a different discovery.”
Giant Skeletons Mapped
“Wow. That’s pretty widespread.”
“There’s got to be something to this. You don’t find reports of mermaids or unicorns in the New York Times. Just giants.”
“Any beanstalks?”
She cuffed him. “Jerk.”
Cam continued to peer at the map. “So what happened to them all?”
“That’s the bloody mystery. Many of the bones were put on display back in the 1800s and, over the years, turned to dust. Many were given to the Smithsonian and disappeared. And until recently there were still a number on display in museums across the country. But in 1990 Congress passed NAGPRA, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, that required the bones be given back to the tribes for reburial.” She shrugged. “There may be a few skeletons still in private collections, but whatever was in the museums has been reburied.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. But if there are so many of these giants, how come nobody has found any recently?”
“Well, actually, they have. A farmer in Minnesota just found a giant skeleton. But no archeologist will touch it because of NAGPRA, so it’s just sitting there.”
“But what about, say, in the 1980s, before NAGPRA? You said most of these were found over a hundred years ago.”
“The giants were almost all found in burial mounds, not regular graves. In the 1800s people used to dig up the mounds, hoping to find artifacts buried with the bodies. But most of the mounds have all been dug up. You’re not likely to find a giant in a regular grave.”
Cam nodded. “And if you do find one you’d be breaking the law if you disturbed it.”
“Yes. It’s a bit of a Catch-22. You can’t prove the giants existed unless you have bones, but it’s against the law to touch the skeletons.”
“So it’s like they never existed.”
“Well, I’m sure the Smithsonian has plenty of records.”
Cam sniffed. “Like I said. It’s as if they never existed.”
CHAPTER 4
Vito rolled out of bed, threw on some sweatpants and logged on to his computer. He checked the time: 10:51 AM. He had been up late watching a documentary about the Oak Island Money Pit in Nova Scotia.
“Vito,” his mother called up the stairs. “You awake?”
“Yup, Mom.”
“Honey, you going to take a shower? I want to run the dishwasher.”
Her way of reminding him to bathe. “Go ahead. I’ll shower later.” He pulled down his t-shirt collar and smelled his armpits. Today was Wednesday; he was pretty sure he had showered Saturday afternoon. And in the winter he didn’t sweat much. “Can you bring me up a Mountain Dew?” He didn’t like coffee but Mountain Dew had a ton of caffeine in it.
He went right to his blog. Seventeen new entries. One of them was from a researcher who took issue with being labeled ‘either a racist or an idiot,’ but the others were all supportive. “Thanks for debunking the crap on television,” was a common refrain.
His mother knocked lightly on his door before opening it. “Here’s your soda, Vito.” She walked over and put it on his desk.
“Thanks, Mom.” She had aged since he went to college. She used to be a bit of a local beauty, which is how she first attracted Rusty after the divorce, but within a year of them getting married she had gained twenty pounds. And lately her skin had turned a yellowish hue. “You need to cut back on the Jack and Coke, Mom.” Rusty was a putz, but at least he treated her okay. For now.
She ignored him. “How is work going?”
“Good. I got sixteen more posts today from people. Listen to this one: ‘Great work, Vito. I love your blog. We need more people like you to keep the so-called experts honest!’ Pretty cool, huh?”
She smiled. “I’m sorry, Honey, but I still don’t get what it is exactly you do.”
He turned to look at her. Even the whites of her eyes had yellowed. “I’m a debunker, Mom. People say stuff on TV or in books that is wrong, and I correct them.” He lifted his chin. “It’s like what Mahatma Gandhi said: ‘Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth.’”
“Oh.” Their Siamese cat rubbed against her leg. “But why do they pay you for that? Not that I’m complaining. Me and Rusty appreciate the money. And it sure is nice to have cable again.”
He lifted his chin. “Because they value the truth, Mom. Because they love America.” He turned back to the computer. “Make sure the cat goes with you. Last time she peed on my clothes.”
She nodded and bent over to lift the animal. “Okay. Let me know if you want a sandwich.”
Vito turned back to his computer and checked his email. That girl Tammy had sent him more racy pictures—she wasn’t great looking, but it’s not like he had a harem down the hall. Maybe he’d take a road trip to Buffalo some weekend.
He saved the pictures and kept reading: A message from Mrs. Conrad instructed him to check out some articles and interviews featuring a Massachusetts researcher named Cameron Thorne. “Don’t post anything yet,” she wrote, “but prepare two se
parate blogs, both of which should be in the 300-word range. I will let you know which to publish.” Odd, but whatever. “The first should compliment Thorne’s research and declare him the preeminent scholar in the field of pre-Columbian research. And the second should blast him out of the water.”
While Amanda went to the county courthouse in Lowell with one of the Westford policeman to get a restraining order against Chung and sons, Cam swung by the bank and removed the bracelet from the safe deposit box, carrying the artifact in a maroon velvet bag with a drawstring that originally housed a bottle of private stock Captain Morgan spiced rum. Once back to his vehicle he placed the bracelet in a Ziploc bag and nestled the bag inside a cardboard box filled with Styrofoam worms. It seemed like an artifact that might change American history should be handled with more care, but short of putting the seatbelt around the box he wasn’t sure what else he should do.
The lab in Lexington was a half hour drive away. To avoid the last of the morning rush hour traffic, Cam navigated his Chevy Equinox through some back roads to Route 225, a country highway which would take him through the idyllic towns of Carlisle and Concord before dumping him onto Route 2 for the final leg into Lexington. During the battles of Lexington and Concord, Minutemen from Westford had walked the same route, arriving too late to take part in the history-changing skirmish. Cam hoped to avoid any hostilities today as well.
Randall had called the night before to tell him the CIA might be tailing him.
“What should I do?” Cam had asked.
“Just ignore it.”
It was like telling someone not to think about a pink polar bear. Cam’s eyes darted from the rear view mirror to the side view mirror, only occasionally surveying the road ahead. But it turned out the trouble was in front of Cam, not behind.
As he crossed into Carlisle, traffic ahead of him slowed. A box truck sat disabled on an uphill curve, its bearded, burly driver standing in the street directing alternating lanes of traffic around it. He waved the cars ahead of Cam past, motioned Cam to stop and walked back to his truck. But instead of dealing with the oncoming traffic he jumped into his cab, spun the wheel and angled the presumably-disabled truck across both lanes of the road.
The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series) Page 11
