The Secret of the Stones

by Ernest Dempsey

  “And this Indian we are chasing is carrying something that could do all of that?” The young officer was still unsure.

  A nod of the head was his only reply.

  “What is it?”

  The older man paused. He had probably already told the kid too much as it was. But one more little bit of information would only help intensify their search.

  “Gold,” he said simply.

  It was difficult for the young man to comprehend for a moment. He leaned back, obviously disappointed with the answer.

  “That’s it?”

  “It is.”

  “Please forgive me, sir, but I seriously doubt that one Indian can carry enough gold to unite all the tribes as well as bring in reinforcements from England, Spain, or France.”

  “It isn’t the gold he has with him, Charles, though he surely has a sample. No, what he has is the knowledge of where the rest of it is. That is what we are after.”

  “A map?” The young man’s interest was piqued again.

  “Exactly.”

  1

  Atlanta

  Frank Borringer stared hard at the ancient script. It just didn’t make sense. If what his associate had told him was true about where this item had come from, the implications would be enormous. He leaned back in his chair, removing the reading glasses from his face. With the other hand, he wiped his eyes and pinched his nose. Inside his brown tweed blazer, his body perspired from the mental exertion. His fingers struggled against the constriction of the light-blue bow tie around his neck.

  He wondered how long he’d been in there. It was easy to lose track of time when your brain was in overdrive from extensive research on a particularly interesting project.

  The library was dark save for a few lamps spilling tiny pools of light here and there. He usually visited after hours, though he doubted this near-anachronism of a place was in demand these days. With the advent of the Internet, it was possible to do nearly all of one’s research from home. Still, Frank enjoyed the feel of a library: surrounded by books, works from thousands of years, and all in a material, concrete presence. With a computer, sure, the information was there, but there was no feeling.

  He’d let himself get distracted by the thoughts and shook his head in frustration. Frank had been a professor of world and ancient history at Kennesaw State University for fifteen years now. During that time, he had been blessed with the opportunity to travel to many different countries as a special guest of numerous IAA excavations.

  The IAA, or International Archaeology Agency, traveled the globe in search of ancient artifacts, most of which modern historians didn‘t believe existed. Fortunately for him, the IAA headquarters was near his home in Atlanta. The proximity, and his expertise on so many ancient cultures and languages, often guaranteed him as the first choice for many of the agency’s research expeditions.

  Over the last decade he had been to the Far East, Europe several times, Central and South America, and the most fascinating of all to him, the Middle East. In recent years, he had turned his attention from foreign countries to his own. Growing up in Northwest Georgia, he had a special interest in the history of the country now called the United States. Frank began concentrating most of his efforts on the history of the Native Americans, where they came from, how they got there, and what they left behind.

  Sitting there at a work table in the Kennesaw State library, he stared at something that both puzzled him and aroused the childlike wonder inside of him.

  Forcing himself back to task, he propped the spectacles back onto his nose and started reading again. “The chambers shall light your way.”

  Borringer sat alone at the table, staring at a small, circular stone etched with a script from a time long forgotten, and a place far from the Southern United States. The engraved disc arrived a week ago. Frank had promised the friend who’d sent it that he would analyze the piece as soon as there was a moment to spare. Until yesterday, he had yet to open the box in which it had been delivered. Frustrated with himself now for not looking at this miraculous piece sooner, a chill went up his spine at the implications of both its existence and message as he turned it over carefully, inspecting the smooth surface with the greatest of attention.

  Mesmerized, he could hardly believe what he was reading. Impossible. Could the four chambers really exist? He’d thought them to be a legend from ancient tribes, something they talked about, much like the stories of a fountain of youth or El Dorado. But just like with those famous legends, the Golden Chambers had so far never been found. Yet here was a piece of evidence that suggested they were out there, somewhere.

  Thinking back, he remembered the first time that he had heard of the four mystical rooms. One of his good friends had told him a story about Native gold in Northern Georgia.

  There were several stories, actually. As kids, he had even witnessed some things that made him believe there might be a huge repository of the precious metal somewhere nearby. But nothing was ever found— simply rumors, stories. Notions of an ancient Native treasure had been abandoned long ago.

  The stone was shaped like an inch-thick coin, about the diameter of the average human palm. On one side of it was an odd picture of what appeared to be two birds. The opposite face contained some kind of writing in a very odd script. At first glance, the inscriptions had been confusing. There were marks that looked like hieroglyphs, but there were others that appeared to be ancient Hebrew. Still more of the engraved characters appeared to be cuneiform.

  It had been an astounding epiphany when he realized that what he was looking at were four ancient languages combined into a singular code. Once he had come to that conclusion, the translation of the phrases had been much easier. But how had these ancient languages come to be on something so obviously Native American? These writings should only be found in ancient parts of the Middle East, and certainly not together on one piece.

  Perhaps even more unsettling was the riddle the words spelled out.

  He pored over the two sheets of paper on which he’d written the translations. One was a letter to his friend who’d sent the artifact. The other was to a colleague from the IAA.

  Glancing down at his watch, Frank realized how late it was getting. He placed a call from his cell phone to his wife at home so she wouldn’t be worried and started packing up his things. After storing sheets of paper, pens, and other items into his laptop case, he returned to his computer. Better to print the stuff off, make some copies, and come back to it tomorrow. The thrill of discovery made him want to stay and work further, but he knew there would already be hell to pay at home for his tardiness.

  He slid the laptop into its bag with his other research materials and casually walked over to the librarians’ desk. The library had closed about an hour ago, but being a professor had its privileges. All of the staff workers were very kind about letting him lock up for the night. Stepping around the corner of the front counter, he pulled out the papers onto which he had just finished the translations of the stone disc. After making copies and a brief notation, he put one set into envelopes and addressed them. Slipping the letters into a special basket for outgoing mail, he then walked hastily around the front desk and out the door to the sidewalk.

  A brisk autumn breeze greeted him as he strode down the promenade toward his car. There was a renewed feeling in his mind as he deeply breathed in the crisp air. Maybe it was the weather or the fact that he felt like this new discovery was going to be something that was talked about for generations? Perhaps it was both. Frank smiled and turned the corner around the library building that led to the parking lot.

  The university was situated on the north side of Atlanta in an area outside the sprawling ring of the I-285 bypass. Kennesaw was largely a suburban community. Safety while walking around at night had never even been a concern. For some reason, though, tonight he found himself glancing around, uncertain as to what would make him paranoid. Frank had never had any problems working with the IAA, though he had heard stories abo
ut some of their agents, one in particular.

  Shrugging off the brief moment of worry, he walked over to his car and put the key in the door. Why should he worry about anything? No one knew what he was working on except his friend. Besides, he had only been researching this new find for the last couple of days.

  Frank smiled, thinking about some small amount of accolades. Maybe, after more information came to light, he would receive an award for his assistance in the unraveling of the ancient mystery. Opening the back door of his car, he plopped the laptop case into the backseat. After slamming it shut, he moved to the front door and started to pull the handle when suddenly he heard a footstep behind him followed by a sharp pain in his lower back.

  His initial thought was to turn and face his attacker, but there was no feeling or control in his legs, and his body crumpled to the ground a moment later. He tried to move his arms back to feel the wound, but he couldn’t control them either. They just lay limply at his side. Panic set in with the realization that he was paralyzed.

  Borringer saw a pair of black shoes stepping over him and the back door of his sedan being opened as he stared, helplessly, from the pavement. He struggled to move his head just enough to see the assailant, but all he could make out was a silhouette in the back of his car, searching through his laptop case.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the shoes and black pants stood over him. Then the attacker’s face came into view. A blond man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, looked down at him angrily.

  “Where is it, old man?” A cold German voice demanded.

  The world was spinning now, and Frank’s vision had begun to blur. Haze crept into the corners of his eyes, overshadowing the numbness of his body.

  The voice grew louder. “Tell me where the stone is, Professor.”

  “You will never find what you seek,” Borringer gasped, desperately fighting unconsciousness.

  Grabbing the professor’s shirt, the blond man lifted him off the ground a few inches, sending new waves of pain through Frank’s body.

  “I need the stone.” The attacker shook him violently, clenching his teeth. “Tell me where it is.”

  “If you couldn’t find it before now,” he gasped, “you were never meant to have it.”

  The firm grip on the shirt released, and Frank’s limp body fell to the ground. Borringer’s head smacked against the pavement, jarring any coherent thoughts he may have still had.

  The menacing voice sounded distant. “I will find the stone. And when I do, nothing will stand in our way.”

  Frank barely heard the last words before surrendering to the darkness.

  2

  Atlanta

  Tommy Schultz sipped a white coffee while sitting in the breakfast nook of his kitchen. He’d learned of the drink while visiting Spain one summer. It was similar to a latte, except that it was made with regular coffee instead of espresso. It had more milk than a café con leche, so the flavor was less bitter. There was a paused look of satisfaction on his face as he savored the warm, toasty flavor. He had a lot to do today, but no matter how busy his morning might look, there was always time for good coffee. That was something he felt the Europeans had right. They always made time for coffee or tea, especially in the afternoons. Most Americans viewed it more as an energy drink, something to be gulped and discarded. Terrible waste.

  These and other frivolous thoughts played through Schultz’s head as he finished up the last bit of java in his cup. He looked at the empty vessel with a small amount of disappointment, wishing there were a little more.

  Tommy stood and sauntered into the kitchen, straightening his red-and-white striped necktie as he moved. The tie didn’t have to be perfect since the rest of his outfit was fairly casual: tan chinos with a textured white button-up and a pair of brown Skechers.

  Standing by the little bistro table, he gazed for a moment at the figure in the mirror. He didn’t think he looked old. After all, he was only thirty-three. But inside he felt much too tired for someone his age.

  There were only a few lines underneath his dark-brown eyes, probably from the years of being on digs in sunny, hot places. The sun always made him squint. It was rare that he found a gray hair in the tussle of chocolate coloring on his head. Tommy smiled at his vanity and grabbed his keys off the table.

  Tommy Schultz had founded the International Archaeological Agency a few years before. His parents had been fairly wealthy, and when they died suddenly, Tommy had inherited everything. His career in archaeology had barely begun when the accident happened. For a short time, he’d moped around, trying to find his life’s direction. Then the idea for the agency had come to him one night while sitting alone at a bar. A news story about treasure hunters played on the television. He began to wonder what it might be like if he started an agency that recovered ancient artifacts and returned them to the rightful governments. At that moment, he began planning the IAA.

  He took a deep breath and suppressed the tear that was trying to sneak out of his right eye. It had been more than a decade since Tommy’s parents had died in the accident, but from time to time, memories crept into his mind.

  Reaching over a chair, he grabbed his computer case from the table and headed for the door that led into the garage. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed through the dining room window that there was a car sitting in his driveway. Curious, he stopped and walked toward the glass to see what the vehicle was doing there. It wasn’t one that he recognized.

  The auto was a gigantic Hummer, larger than most he’d seen. He wondered how anyone could drive such a large truck and still afford the gas prices. Odd, though. No one was inside it.

  He frowned in confusion and walked back toward the front door of the house, half expecting to find the driver of the vehicle about to ring the doorbell. Suddenly, an arm wrapped around his neck from behind and squeezed tight.

  From the shadows of the hallway, a tall blond man appeared wearing an English-style trench coat. “Hello, Mr. Schultz.” The voice sounded German.

  “What the…” Tommy started to respond, but the arm around his neck pulled tighter, cutting off the air he needed to breathe and speak.

  “It will all be explained to you later. For now, you must come with us.”

  The tall man nodded, and again the arm squeezed harder. Lights and scenery started blending together in a blur. He felt a small prick of pain in his arm as a syringe injected something into his bloodstream. A cool feeling eased up his arm; it was only a few seconds before Tommy was unconscious.

  Due to the odd morning hours that he went in to work, no one noticed the three men carrying Tommy’s limp body out to the truck and stuffing it in the back of the SUV.

  3

  Midtown Atlanta

  “So, how does it affect your personal relationships to be gone so often? Must be difficult to make anything last with friends or romantic interests. Or maybe you prefer it that way.”

  She looked at her victim in the khaki pants and olive green button-up jacket with a genuinely curious glance, even though the tone of her comment had been lathered in sarcasm. Her head was cocked to the side, a playful shimmer in her hazel eyes. The sounds of coffee grinders and cappuccino machines humming loudly in the background afforded no awkward silence.

  Sean Wyatt sat, somewhat uncomfortably, across from Allyson Webster, journalist for the Atlanta Sentinel. He scratched his messy blond hair for a moment while considering her line of questioning. The noises and the people bustling about enjoying their morning java did nothing to ease his mind. She’d requested to meet with Wyatt to ask a few questions about the International Archaeological Agency, the driving force behind the construction of the Georgia Historical Center. In fact, most of the artifacts on display were pieces recovered by IAA agents, one of whom in particular had been involved on more of the recovery missions than most.

  Sean was that agent, and Allyson wanted to speak to him regarding some of the inner workings of the IAA. After ordering two lattes
, the two had sat down in a couple of large cushioned chairs in the corner of the coffee shop, preferring their interview remain at least a little private.

  Sean had been hesitant about answering questions regarding his job. He didn’t feel like it was something glamorous the public wanted or needed to know about. There had been a few dramatic incidents, but nothing he felt the need to reveal to the readers of the Sentinel.

  For a moment, he looked out the wall-sized window, lost in thought. Downtown Buckhead was busy with pedestrians and commuters hurriedly heading to work or other appointments. Across Peachtree Street, a woman in a cream-colored dress stood staring at a storefront window, oblivious to the morning pandemonium.

  He sipped his drink, drawing out the seconds before answering. “Well, if you really want to know, I prefer it that way,” he replied with a wry smile.

  “Really?” Her eyes squinted in suspicion.

  “Yeah.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because in my line of work, attachment is not a good thing. I’m hardly ever home. And when I am, it isn’t usually for very long; maybe a few weeks at a time. But I most definitely like it that way.”

  “So you’re a loner?” she asked with a lifted eyebrow.

  A slight snort came out of his nose to accompany the grin. “I guess I am.” He set the cup onto a small end table that was positioned between the two sofa chairs.

  She returned the smirk with one of her own. “Fair enough. So, how about you tell me the details of your escapades down in Peru? What exactly went on down there? I’ve heard some pretty interesting bits and pieces from that little adventure.”