The Secret of the Stones

by Ernest Dempsey

  “So, what do we do? Take the vase?” Ulrich took a step closer to the glass case, removing the gun from his jacket.

  “No, no, no! Hold on a second,” Tommy got in his way and put his hands up to hold the blond man back, a move his captor did not seem to appreciate as evidenced by the warning scowl on his face. Backing off a foot, he continued cautiously, “Look. We don’t need to take it. Just give me a minute.” Ulrich reholstered his weapon, seemingly willing to wait and see what the archaeologist was going to do next.

  Tommy took a step back from the exhibit and looked around. Immediately, he noticed that there was no history placard or name plate identifying where the pottery had come from or why it was there. He retraced their steps through the corridor, looking to see if there was anything that contained information about the vessel, but he found nothing.

  Finally, he said, “I need to get the guy from the information desk in here.”

  Ulrich looked at him suspiciously, deliberating over the request. Then he nodded his approval.

  Tommy strode back over to the giant exit doors and gently pushed one of them open. The hinges obviously needed some kind of lubricant as the portal creaked loudly. He poked his head out and noticed the park ranger looking directly at him. The squeaking must have got the man’s attention.

  “Done already?” he inquired cheerfully.

  “Actually, no. We had a question about something in here. Would you mind?” Tommy made a motion with his hand for the man to come over.

  The ranger looked around. For whom, Tommy had no idea. Then he said, “Sure. What would you like to know?” He walked over to the doors and pulled them open to find the three men standing around the corner exhibit.

  It seemed that the sight of the huddled group startled the ranger for a moment, but he recovered and continued into the museum. “So, how can I help you?”

  The three captors remained silent. Again, it seemed Tommy would do all the talking. “We were wondering about this piece right here.” He gestured to the vase. “How come there isn’t any information about it? We thought that was strange. Sure is a spectacular piece though.”

  An odd look crossed onto the Indian’s face. “What is it, exactly, that you want to know?’

  The tone of the man’s voice had changed from helpful to almost sinister. Maybe it was just Tommy’s imagination, but the smile that had accompanied his jovial attitude had disappeared as well.

  Stumbling through his words, Tommy said, “Well…where did it come from? How old is it? Who made it? You know, stuff like that?”

  The smile returned to the weathered face, but there was something different about it. He eyed the other three men with a look that seemed like disdain. When his gaze returned to Tommy, it held a look of warning, though his voice had become pleasant again. “It is a ceremonial jar that was kept here in the Cherokee capital for a very long time. As to who made it, no one really knows. But it is an excellent example of early nineteenth-century Native artwork.”

  Tommy looked skeptical; something didn’t seem right. “I’m sorry,” he paused slightly. “Did you say that it was early nineteenth century?”

  “Yes. That is correct. The Cherokee were a very artistic people. There was an entire caste of artisans, sculptors, painters. Creativity was encouraged by the Cherokee culture.”

  Tommy interrupted him, “Yeah, but I don’t think that this is actually nineteenth century. That can’t be right.”

  An annoyed look passed across the man’s face. “I assure you, we have had the best experts in the region examine this, and they have all agreed to the same timeframe.”

  “Well, I don’t know who these experts are, but I can tell you one thing: that vase predates the nineteenth century by at least, oh, I’d say a thousand years.”

  For a moment, the ranger’s eyes squinted. Tommy’s comments seemed insulting rather than inquisitive. “Really? And what makes you think such a thing, if I may ask,” he responded, crossing thick, tanned arms.

  “Well, first of all, as I was explaining to these gentlemen, this is an example of Weeden Island pottery. It’s from the early Mississippian Age, at the youngest. But from the expression of the lines and the type of clay that appears to have been used, I’d say this thing is way older. In fact, it resembles some items that I have seen at a dig site in Lebanon. Phoenicians made some containers that look very similar to this one. And those were about three thousand years old.” He tried not to appear too much like he was correcting the man, but this was an area in which Tommy considered himself to be a foremost expert.

  Again, the look on the Indian’s face changed. This time, though, it was an acknowledgement. “Impressive, sir.”

  Tommy was not sure how to react. Before he could, the ranger continued.

  “It is, indeed, much older than the nineteenth century. Although, exactly how old, I do not know. Since you seem to know much more about our history than the average person, surely you know this vase has a twin.”

  The last comment urged an answer. Nodding, Tommy replied, “Vessel Number One. Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  Apparently pleased, the man continued while the two flattops and the blond looked at each other, bemused. “This particular piece of work has an interesting history. Originally, it was brought here by the oldest of the Cherokee. It was said that they kept the bones of a great tribal leader within it. As the legend goes, this man was more a king than a chief. He ruled vast lands and was a great warrior. When he died, those who took over for him believed that if they kept his remains, the kingdom would be blessed for all eternity and that he would watch over it from his place in the afterlife.”

  The ranger stopped talking for a moment and looked at the unassuming display, lost in thoughts that drifted through time. “This land we stand upon was considered holy by the Cherokee for thousands of years. Then, in 1838, the American government took it all away. Their lust for Native treasures and land pushed the tribe west to Oklahoma.”

  “But the vase remained here?” Tommy slipped the question in during a moment of reflection.

  “No,” the reply was vacant. “It was taken to a safe place near here.”

  “A safe place?”

  “Yes. The nation’s leader, John Ross,” he said, motioning at the wooden representation of the old tribal chief. “Ross knew that the people had been betrayed by some of their own and that soon the United States government would force them to leave their land. So, he took their most sacred relic to the only place he thought it would be safe…a church.”

  Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed at the revelation. “A church? I don’t understand. Why didn’t they just take it to Oklahoma?”

  The dark-skinned man chuckled under his breath. To him, the answer was obvious. “This vase is as much a part of this land as the trees and the dirt beneath them. It was brought here by a great tribal leader, and here it must stay for all eternity. Even though many traditions were lost through the years and several Euro-American ones were adopted, there are still others that remain and will remain until the end of time.”

  “But if the white settlers could not be trusted with this, how did Ross know that he could trust a church full of white people?” It was a good question, assuming it had been a church full of white people.

  “There were many people in the United States government as well as average, everyday citizens, who wanted the relocation to happen. No doubt, those people were in the majority. However, there were some who believed it to be a great evil and fought the forced removal with every resource they had. Davy Crockett was one of the most famous to fight against the government removal. It ended up costing him his political career. “But there were also local people who rallied for the Cherokee cause. One of those was the pastor of a nearby church. That place of worship still exists today. It’s called the Beacon Tabernacle. Ross developed a friendship with this preacher over time and grew to trust the man as if they were brothers. In fact, there was a rumor that the reverend had even gone through the blood ceremony
to become forever united with his new friend.” The Indian stopped again and looked out through the double doors to make sure no one was waiting at the desk, a move that startled the two Russians momentarily.

  Ignoring their jumpiness, he began again while Tommy listened eagerly. “A few days before the federal troops moved in, Ross went to the church. He walked in during a service and presented the jar to his friend. There it was kept for over a century until this park was established. Knowledge of this vase’s importance to the Cherokee was passed down from pastor to pastor. When it was announced that Red Clay would become a protected state park, the then-leader of the church graciously returned the vessel to where he believed to be its proper resting place.”

  “So, what happened to the bones of this ruler?”

  “The great king’s remains were rumored to have been buried somewhere safe, but the location remains a mystery much like the story itself.”

  As fascinating as the whole tale had been, none of it really helped them with the bigger picture of finding the chambers. Tommy couldn’t help but feel like this simple park ranger knew more than he was letting on. But how to get it out of him?

  The Indian disrupted his thoughts with a whisper, just loud enough for Tommy’s ear alone to hear, “You shall not find what it is you seek. Though you have come farther than any before, the chamber will remain a secret.”

  “What? Why?” He was confused by the sudden confirmation and denial all in one breath.

  Ulrich leaned in to hear the exchange between the two men.

  The ranger stepped back, resolution in his face. “You are not the one the prophecy foretold would lead us home.” His finger extended toward the now-angry-looking blond man. “You will not find the chamber. Only death awaits you and your allies.”

  Pulling his gun from his jacket, Ulrich stood in front of the man and pressed the Glock to his forehead. He’d heard enough. “Tell me where the chamber is, fool, and perhaps I will spare your life.”

  A sick grin came upon the reddish-brown face. It was followed by a deep, slow laugh, becoming faster and louder until the entire hall was filled with the eerie sound. “Death is no threat to me. The location of the chamber will only be revealed to the pure of heart. Your heart is black as the night. I can see it in your eyes. It cannot be yours.”

  Tommy tried to intervene and stepped toward Ulrich. “Jens, don’t do this! He’s the only one that can help us. If you kill him, then we will never find the chamber. We need him.”

  The blond cocked his head slightly. “Hmm. Really?” Then, with a matter-of-fact look, he turned his attention back to the park ranger. “Well, if dying doesn’t change your mind, perhaps pain will.” A split second later, he had lowered the weapon to the ranger’s leg. The loud recoil rang throughout the museum walls.

  What had been a look of resolve on the man’s face instantly contorted to agony and shock as he collapsed to the floor.

  Ulrich’s voice became louder, more commanding. “Tell me where the chamber is, and I will end your misery!”

  The man said nothing, he just grasped his leg, trying to slow the bleeding from the bullet wound.

  “Say it!” Ulrich yelled again. He aimed the weapon at the other knee and pulled the trigger again.

  The kneecap erupted in a splash of blood and bone. Still, the man did not cry out, though his face betrayed a new surge of pain as he clenched his jaw tighter.

  A small pool of red liquid was forming around where he was propped on the floor.

  All Tommy could do was watch in horror, helpless to do anything, wrapped in the arms of the two guards. “Are you crazy? Stop it! We need him!” he screamed.

  The blond’s eyes turned for a moment to Tommy before another shot resonated through the building. This bullet went through the ranger’s shoulder, directly into the joint. Blood trickled from the wound down the tan sleeve of the man’s uniform.

  Both of the guards looked visibly uneasy as they watched from a few feet away. They were busily looking around to make sure no one else was going to enter the room, paranoia on their faces.

  Ulrich squatted down and put his nose close to the grimacing face of the Indian and pressed the gun against the man’s temple. “Tell me where the chamber is, and I will end all of this for you right now. This is your last chance.”

  The agony on the ranger’s face turned once again to a look of defiance. “I am already dead,” he spat through gritted teeth. “My ancestors await me. And you shall never have the treasure you seek. My purpose is fulfilled.”

  “Have it your way then,” the gun lowered to the ranger’s abdomen. Another pop burst through the silence.

  Bloody hands first grasped at the arms of the European jacket of the man that had certainly ended his life. Then, releasing the sleeves, he reached down with his hands and felt the warm, thick liquid seeping from the bullet hole in his stomach. His voice came in a gasp now, “The chamber will not be found.”

  A moment passed, and the Indian just lay there silently, looking at the ceiling with his hands on his belly, covered in the oozing crimson.

  “Nooo!” Tommy yelled. Adrenaline took over as he broke the grasp of the guards and rushed toward the kneeling Ulrich.

  The move seemed to catch the killer off guard for a moment as the crazed prisoner’s shoulder plowed squarely into the man’s right arm, jarring the gun from his hand. It clacked onto the hard carpet floor and tumbled a few feet away. Startled into action, the two guards pried the wildly swinging Tommy off of the blond before he could strike back.

  One of the flattops bear hugged him into submission while the shorter one proceeded to punch him viciously in the midsection. Tommy lost his breath, and his body’s natural reaction was to double over, but with the far stronger arms holding him up, his body couldn’t reach the position it desired for relief. Another fist slammed into his jaw, causing the world to spin recklessly out of control. The guard released his grip, and unconsciousness teased him for a moment as he lay sprawled out on the floor.

  Ulrich had recovered from the attack and was now standing over him. Through his captor’s legs, he could see the huddled mass of the park ranger leaning against the wall. The man’s chest still moved up and down, but a considerable pool of blood was collecting around his body. He held something in his right hand, unseen by the attackers. It looked like a cell phone.

  “That was an unwise move, Thomas.” Ulrich said, still standing over Tommy. “Why should I not do to you the same as I did to him?” His arm gestured carelessly toward the heaped Indian in the corner.

  Tommy coughed, his breath returning. A thin line of blood streamed from his lip as he rose to his knees. He wiped the blood with the top of his hand. “You know why. I’m the only one that can help you find the chambers.” Another cough racked his body and kept him on one knee.

  During the punching session, Ulrich had recovered the gun from the floor and was now holding it level with Tommy’s chest. “For now, Thomas, for now.” He glanced over at the bloody mass by the doors. “Let’s move.”

  Ulrich stopped by the body on the floor and turned around. “We will go to the church. Perhaps we will find a clue there.”

  “Maybe we should look some more here,” Tommy tried to stall, hoping the Indian had got through to the police on the phone.

  “And wait around for the authorities to find us? I don’t think so. Move.” He flicked the gun toward the door in a commanding motion.

  Standing at the exit, Ulrich poked his head out to make sure the path was clear. No one stood in the lobby. The only movement in the open room was the slow revolution of a ceiling fan that hung from the exposed wooden ceiling. They slipped out of the doorway, careful to make sure there were no other visitors to the museum that might suddenly pop out of a restroom or some other area. The last thing they needed at this point was to be careless.

  43

  Blue Ridge Mountains

  “I got nothin’ over here,” Will stood, looking at the caged rocks with a beleague
red look on his face.

  Fifteen feet away, Morris, too, was deeply studying the soapstone paintings, unsure at what he was looking and even less certain what he was looking for. “Yeah, me either,” he replied.

  The two detectives had arrived shortly after leaving the site where the car had gone off the side of the mountain. Upon arriving, they had gone to the park ranger’s office up the road and asked him a few questions.

  The ranger had been less than helpful. After being asked if he had seen anyone in the area that morning, the ranger had said, “No. I ain’t seen anybody up here today, but I didn’t get to the office ‘til an hour or so ago. Ain’t like I gotta clock in.” The old ranger’s saggy skin shook as he let out a hearty laugh at his last comment. He then pinched a wad of snuff and carefully placed it in the pouch of his bottom lip. Both cops had looked at each other with a disgusted glance.

  Now they were standing in the shadow of the highest summit in the state and didn’t have a clue why. The ranger had begrudgingly told them the history and a few of the theories concerning the large boulders, but nothing had been much more informative than what the people in the diner had told them.

  “Do you think that maybe this is just an ancient prank by a bunch of Indian teenagers from three hundred years ago? You know. They were sitting around getting high off some wacky tobacky one day and decided to do a little graffiti on some big rocks? Thought it would be a hoot and voila, here we have it.” Will’s theory was more humorous than insightful, which actually helped, considering they were finding more dead ends everywhere they turned.

  Save for their cars, the parking lot across the field was empty. “Guess they don’t get a lot of traffic up here on the weekdays.” Trent’s comment was as pointless as it was true.

  Will didn’t respond. He just continued looking at the rocks with an odd fascination.