The Secret of the Stones

by Ernest Dempsey

“You guys play football when you were in high school?” He tried to crack their stone exterior. They simply stared at him, cold and direct. “No?” Tommy continued, “Well, you should have. Couple of big rascals like yourselves, I know a lot of coaches that would have loved to had you guys playin’ O-line or D-line.”

  Still no response.

  After a few moments of awkward silence and thought, Tommy chirped up again, “You guys even speak English?” They still didn’t respond. “Well, could one of you at least grab me a glass of water? I am freakin’ thirsty.”

  Finally, something he said got a reaction. One of the large men turned his head slightly to the shorter one on his left and gave a quick nod in the direction of the sink. The neck-less behemoth resumed his stare at the prisoner while the other guy stalked over to the kitchen sink, grabbing a glass out of one of the overhead cabinets. After filling the glass, he clomped back to the table and set it in front of Tommy.

  “Thanks. Much obliged.” He truly was grateful and tried to act as natural as possible. The shorter giant had resumed his spot where he’d been standing previously.

  Tommy took a big swallow of the water and set the glass back on the table. “So, you boys from around here?”

  Apparently, he’d got all the interaction he was going to receive from the two guards.

  “Yeah,” he went on, as if they were listening, “I grew up just outside of Atlanta. Lived in these parts my whole life. Love it. Not a place on earth I would rather be.” His friendly demeanor seemed to do nothing to crack the frozen exterior of the two suits. “Some people complain about the humidity, but I don’t mind it. I always tell ‘em at least it’s a wet heat…”

  Silence.

  “So…you guys listen to music? Wait, let me guess. Techno? ‘Cause you look like you would be into that. Me? I pretty much like it all. Rock, bluegrass, even some of that Euro-electronic stuff.”

  Tommy looked from one guard to the other, waiting. Then, finally, he said, “You boys heard of Jimmy Buffet?”

  This time, the non-response was accompanied by the double doors at the end of the kitchen bursting open. Ulrich had returned. He carried a letter in his hand. “I believe this is what you needed, Herr Schultz.” The statement was calculated but not sinister.

  Tommy’s reply was sarcastically defiant. “Oh, good. You found it. I wasn’t sure if it would still be where I left it, pesky police searching the premises and such after the kidnapping.”

  “The police were quite accommodating.” The evil smile from earlier returned to the pale face.

  Tommy wasn’t sure what would happen when Ulrich went to recover the document. Part of him had hoped the police would detain the blond foreigner. Of course, if that happened, his own chances of survival might actually go down.

  These two brutes in the black Secret Service outfits probably had a set amount of time to wait for their boss to return, at which point, they more than likely had execution orders. It was certainly a mixture of relief and disappointment as Ulrich stepped over to the table and laid the envelope upon it.

  “Are you surprised that I returned?” His voice was sarcastic.

  “No,” Tommy’s reply was quick. “I was just wondering what was taking you so long.” He motioned to the two henchmen, “We were just talking about Jimmy Buffet when you came barging through the door.

  Ulrich stood up straight and cast a quick glance at his employees, who were staring straight ahead. The shorter one had a somewhat dumbfounded look on his face.

  “The time for your little wisecracks and games is over, Mr. Schultz.” Ulrich leaned in close to Tommy’s ear then added. “You have twenty-four hours to figure out this riddle. If you have not come up with the answer by then, I will remove one of your thumbs and will continue removing appendages once every two hours until all you have left is a torso with a head on it.”

  That old feeling of fear crept into Tommy. “How am I supposed to do that? People have been trying to figure this out for centuries, and you want me to do it in a day? I haven’t even slept.”

  “That is not my problem. I have given you what you need. Just get it done.” He turned and said something in another language to the guards. Tommy couldn’t make out what it was. Then Ulrich strode back through the double doors whence he’d come a few moments earlier, dramatically extending his arms as he pushed them both open at the same time.

  Under his breath Tommy whispered, “So, I’ll just go ahead and take care of this then.” His panic was masked by his characteristic dry cynicism. “Either of you guys experts in three-thousand-year-old dead languages?”

  They looked at each other then both shook their heads simultaneously.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  20

  Atlanta

  Trent Morris stood erect, disturbed by the scene before him. One arm across his chest, the other elbow resting upon it while he held his chin with a fist, he watched as the crime scene investigators snapped pictures and searched for evidence with gloved hands.

  The call had come at 10:30, right after he’d got home for the night. He’d been so exhausted that a stop by a coffee shop drive-through had been necessary on the way over. The case that had started off as a kidnapping had taken a turn for the grim with three bodies lying in the wake.

  Now, he stared at the carnage in disbelief. The portly body of one police officer lay bent against the sliding glass door amid a pool of thick, red liquid. Outside, an investigative crew was busy taking photos of the crime scene and searching meticulously for some kind of a clue.

  Frustrated and angry, Trent rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. “Anyone here know how this happened?”

  The CSIs stopped what they were doing for a second to look at him with blank eyes that said, “Nope.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” At this point, they had no leads and no suspects. He turned and slowly walked toward the kitchen, careful not to touch anything. Weaving his way past more evidence collectors, he moved up the stairs. Upon entering the study, he found Will standing in the center of the room with a notepad in hand, busily jotting down notes. Another investigator was scanning the walls with a UV light, looking for heaven knew what.

  “Hey, buddy,” he greeted his partner with a half smile in an attempt to hide the emotional surge from the scene downstairs. “What a mess, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Trent sighed and ran his hand across his short hair. “Got anything in here?”

  “Not really. But I do think whoever did our boys downstairs came in this room for something.”

  “Any idea what they were looking for?”

  “No. But it looks like someone has been in here recently due to the shoe prints in the carpet. Seems like whatever they were looking for was on that desk over there. At least they thought it was anyway. Not sure what it could have been or if they even found it. All I know is that the footprints don’t stray anywhere else away from the desk or the path to the door.” Will motioned with his pencil and traced a line from the door to the workstation at the opposite wall.

  “They didn’t look through any of the books or in the closet?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “That means whoever came in here knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.” Trent’s mind raced.

  Will finished his thought for him, “The guys who took Schultz?”

  “Exactly.” He turned his head back to the front of the study, analyzing the imprinted steps from the door to the desk.

  “But why risk coming here? Surely, they had to know we would have somebody here watching the house.”

  “That can mean only one thing, Will. We’re dealing with either someone very desperate or someone very dangerous. I’m inclined to believe it’s the latter.”

  “So what are we looking at? Ex-military? Foreign?”

  “Don’t know. But my guess is they’re pros. And they got no issues with killing.”

  “You think the same dude that did that professor over at KSU did this?�
��

  Trent nodded. “Probably. Knife attacks in both instances. And Schultz and Borringer knew each other. Doubt it’s just a coincidence.”

  He switched gears, “Neighbors see anything?” Trent knew what the answer would be. This killer would not let himself be seen by even the most innocent passersby.

  “Nope. Most of the people around here were already asleep.”

  Not at all surprised, Morris took a couple of steps over to the workstation. A stack of envelopes and other unimportant-looking junk mail lay in a pile near a blank computer screen. Trent reached down and picked up the stack of letters, unconcerned about tampering with any possible evidence. He flipped through the correspondence without finding anything of interest and laid the papers back down where he found them.

  No witnesses. No fingerprints. No weapon. No motive. The killer was a ghost. Suddenly, Trent twisted and took a step toward the wall opposite of the bookshelf. A few picture frames dotted the mocha-colored paint. One, in particular, caught his attention. It was a picture of Tommy and his friend, Sean Wyatt. The scene was of the two men at some archaeological dig in which they were each holding a statue of some kind. There was no date on the picture, but from the looks of it, it was probably five or six years old. Carefully, Morris lifted the picture off of its hook to get a closer examination. He flipped it over to check the back. There was a notation on the back that read, Mobile Bay, AL. 2003. Mississippian-Era Statues.

  Will interrupted his thoughts. “You got something?”

  Entranced for a moment, Trent snapped back to the present. “I don’t know. But I think we need to talk to this Sean Wyatt.”

  “You think he’s the one behind this?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. But think about it. Who else would have known what Schultz was working on, much less have understood it? The person who broke in here sure seemed to know where to look for what they needed. And Sean Wyatt is former special ops. It’s the only explanation we got at the moment.”

  Pondering the theory for a moment, Will added, “We gotta find Wyatt.”

  “Exactly.” Morris moved quicker now, dropping the picture carelessly on the desk. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket as he and his partner swiftly went down the stairs and outside. Finding the number he’d saved earlier, he pressed the send button. The two men stepped out the front door and down onto the sidewalk as the phone on the other end went straight to Wyatt’s voicemail.

  “Sean, this is Detective Morris,” he tried to maintain a calm tone. “Give me a call back when you get a chance. We just got some new information concerning Schultz’s kidnapping, and we need you to come in to help us out. Thanks.” Sliding the phone shut, he slipped it back into his pants pocket while he opened the door to his police-issue Dodge Charger.

  “What you want me to do?” Will stood on the sidewalk, notepad still in hand.

  “Make sure everything gets finished up here. I doubt the CSIs will find anything, but stick around for a couple of minutes just in case. Call me if they find anything, and if not, call me anyway.”

  “What about Wyatt?”

  “I’m going to keep calling him. Doubt he’ll answer.” Then he added, “Get home, and get some rest. I’m afraid tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

  21

  Cartersville

  Sean and Allyson stood on the front porch of what appeared to be a rather large log cabin. The drive had only taken about fifteen minutes from the interstate to the wooden home, but it seemed like they were out in the middle of nowhere. Above them, the black sky glittered with more stars than Allyson had seen in a long time. Sounds of nature filled the night: cricket songs with croaking frogs and the melodies of nocturnal birds. The air was scented with a mixture of hardwood and pine.

  She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs and mind with the nature around her, melting away the stress of the day’s bizarre events.

  Lights were on in the house, but Sean had to knock a few times before they heard footsteps drawing closer to the door. Within the confines of the cabin, a dog barked and howled vigorously, announcing the visitors.

  A moment later, the doorknob twisted, and the heavy wooden entrance creaked open. On the other side, a short man with beady eyes and a scruffy beard stared out at them. His brown hair laid in casual disorder atop his round face and head. Infrequent streaks of gray patched his facial hair. The man’s flannel shirt and jeans completed the lumberjack look. He appeared to be in his midforties.

  No more than three seconds after realizing who was standing in front of him, Sean and the smaller man were embraced in a friendly, back-slapping hug.

  “Sean Wyatt. Where the heck have you been?” The voice was cheerful, accented by a heavy Southern drawl.

  “I’ve been busy,” Sean answered with a smile, releasing his friend. “Mind if we come in?”

  “Mind? Get in here, wild man.” He stepped aside to let the pair in, closing the door. “And who is your friend here?”

  “Joe McElroy, this is Allyson Webster. She’s a journalist for the Atlanta Sentinel.”

  She removed her hand from her pocket and offered it. “Pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely home here.” Her eyes roamed the living room they had just entered.

  “Thank you.” Joe looked around at the timber-enclosed area. The cabin was rustic, with the exception of the flatscreen television near the fireplace and a computer workstation near one window.

  “The floor is much older than the rest of the house,” he said. “It came from an old knitting mill in Chattanooga, Tennessee. They were going to destroy the building, so I asked the city if I could take all of the flooring out before they did.” His hands spread out across the breadth of the room. “I didn’t have a place to install it at that time. I just knew I had always wanted to have a cabin like this, so I took the wood and put it in storage until construction began.”

  “Very cool.” She seemed to be very impressed.

  The bearded face beamed a big smile. “And this here is Roger.” He pointed to a blue tick hound that had just plopped down on the floor next to the entryway.

  Apparently, the dog was no longer interested in the visitors and lowered his head to the hardwood.

  Sean interrupted, “Joe, I don’t mean to ruin your HGTV moment here, but we need your help.”

  The smile never left the man’s face. He just said, “Help? Sean Wyatt needs my help?” A chuckle escaped the grin.

  “Yeah.” Sean’s serious tone sobered the moment.

  Apparently, Joe understood and motioned to the couches, “Sit down, and tell me what’s goin’ on. You can always count on me for anything, Sean. Ya’ll want anything to drink? Coffee? Water? A Coke?”

  “Coffee would be good,” Sean replied.

  Allyson nodded in agreement.

  While the two of them sat down on the voluminous brown couch, their host made his way into the kitchen adjacent to the living room. Inside, they could hear him turn on some water, presumably filling a coffee pot. A minute later, he reappeared in the doorway to the kitchen and joined them in the sitting area on a smaller tan couch.

  “Coffee will be ready in a minute.” Spreading his arms out across the back of the sofa, Joe continued, “So tell me what I can do for ya.”

  “Tommy’s been kidnapped.” Sean felt no sense in beating around the bush. “We don’t know who took him, but we’re pretty sure it has to do with something he found last week.”

  The grin disappeared from Joe’s face, and the kind blue eyes went from relaxed to concerned in a matter of seconds. His arms dropped from the back of the couch, and he folded them, elbows on his knees as he leaned forward in thought. “Kidnapped? Why would…? Have they made any demands?”

  “I don’t think it’s about money. The cops haven’t received any contact. No,” he stopped in midsentence and reached into his jacket. He produced the letter they had found at the Borringer home. “We think they are trying to find the Golden Chambers.” As he finished the statement, Sea
n handed the letter to his friend, who reached out, curiosity covering his face.

  “The Golden Chambers?” His eyes grew wide, and one eyebrow raised slightly. “I had my suspicions Tommy was still looking for that. But you say he found something?” Joe began scanning the letter while Sean responded.

  “Yeah. That letter is from Dr. Frank Borringer down at KSU. Apparently, Tommy needed Frank’s help with deciphering whatever it was he found.”

  “Oh? I haven’t seen Frank in a long time. How’s he doin'?”

  “He’s dead.” Sean’s tone was direct, almost cold.

  Joe stopped reading the correspondence and looked up. “Dead? What happened?”

  “Dr. Borringer was murdered a few days ago outside the library at Kennesaw State.” He continued, “Nobody seems to know who did it. Apparently, whoever killed him was looking for something. We think it had to do with the information in that letter.”

  “Where did you find this?” Joe asked, holding up the paper.

  Allyson chimed in, feeling like she needed to contribute, “In Frank’s office. It was sitting on his desk.”

  “And the police didn’t see it?”

  “No,” she said, glad to be included in the conversation. “It was in plain sight, but it was disguised as a letter from a financial company. If anyone searched through Dr. Borringer’s desk, they would have just assumed that it was nothing important.”

  “Ahhh. Like a purloined letter, eh?”

  She cocked her head sideways, impressed by Joe’s literary knowledge.

  “What? A country boy can’t read Poe?” He cast her a playful glance to which she responded with a smile.

  Joe went on, “That’s a shame about Frank. He was a good man. I’ll have to pay Gretchen a visit soon.” He finished reading the letter as a reverent silence settled on the room.

  After a few minutes, he set the note on the hickory coffee table. “Interesting.” His face was thoughtful.

  Sean had waited as long as he could. “So, what do you think?”